A Lid For Every Pot

I have a theory, that receives some rather substantial proof every August when the fireman's fair erupts just beyond my back fence. This theory may seem hopelessly optimistic, but I believe wholeheartedly that there is a lid for every pot.

As the smells of funnel cake and pizza, french fries and horse manure fill the air, a sweltering mix of humanity flocks to the rides and food. A wondrous mixture of lids and pots.

Some pots have found their lids and display their tandem-ness with pride. The elderly couple who shuffle along, carrying their aluminum lawn chairs to reserve their spot on the grass for the gospel singers who perform the first night. The vinyl webbing for the chairs has been removed, and in their place are matching woven yarn patterns. His and hers. They sit together and chat with everyone around them. He cheekily pats her knee with a gnarled hand which earns him a girlish smile that rearranges her wrinkles and a playful smack on his arm.

You look around and there's the middle-aged couple advertising their fit by strolling arm in arm as they wear matching outfits. Dressed alike, you can't miss that he's her lid.

Then there's the odd couple. A gigantic man with natural orange hair, pencil drawn eyebrows, tattooed eye liner, and a lavender shirt covering his substantial bulk loudly expounds on the golden era of Hollywood. A thin young man, in black from the tips of his spiked hair to the tips of his combat boots hangs on his every word as tightly as he hangs onto his arm.

Lids and pots. Everywhere you look. Some matched up; others on the hunt. Flocks of teenage girls giggle and scream, sounding the availability call to the gaggles of teenage boys, who laugh and shove and bullshit their way around the midway. The flashing neon lights of the rides and games draw them just like clouds of moths, looking to try on a lid for the night to see if it fits.

As I wait in line for the umpteenth time to put my youngest urchin on her favorite ride, the operator strikes up a conversation that doesn't require much on my part.

"How old is she?"

"Three."

"Oh, that's almost as old as my twins. They're four." He bares his twisted teeth at me in a friendly way. "I got a seven year old and another'n on the way."

He nods his head across the midway to a surly looking young woman with a severe ponytail; pregnant out to here. She glares at me as she slumps in her decrepit metal folding chair, and I smile the smile of someone caught staring, before she returns to taking the tickets for her ride.

"They gave her a chair so's she c'n sit down."

I nod, and he flashes those teeth again, as I try to decide if he's seventeen or thirty. All I can discern for sure is he looks like life has already ridden him hard and put him up wet.

"Yup," he continues undaunted as he takes in the midway with awe, "They gave us both jobs, 'n they've been good to work for. Just look at that chair they gave her." His chest swells with pride as he gazes over at her again.

And I can almost hear the metallic clunk of a lid falling into place.

Why? Just . . . Why?

I've been sick for several days. I've kinda lost count, so here's what I've dug up for you in my spare time.

Watch only if you have a strong constitution.





Don't hate me. I'm just the messenger.

Things That Suck

1. Crappy new neighbors.
2. Having to cook again after four glorious days of surviving on carny food.
3. Having no ooomph to write.
4. Dealing with the disposal of a dog crap encrusted rug.
5. A severe lack of chocolate in the house when I desperately need it.
6. Being attacked and slightly maimed by a maliciously evil humidifier.
7. Still not having a reliable source of minions to deliver my wrath.
7. a. Stalled negotiations with the Sea Monkeys.
7. b. A messy and smelly end to the tentative cease fire between myself and said Sea Monkeys.

All of the above and more is giving me a big shove towards more serious steps for villainy.

I Love Me Some Rummage

Ok, I guess this should be secret confession number four. I love rummage sales. Usually at a church, but not necessarily. Some place where blue haired old ladies sort and price items with skewed logic. You know, a bundle of half used spiral notebooks for four dollars and Muppet Show Colorforms in their original box are ten cents. An ancient Avon perfume bottle shaped like an owl is fourteen dollars, but books are ten cents for paperbacks, twenty five for hard cover.

I was at one of these last weekend. Unfortunately I wasn't a doorbuster. It started at seven and I was there at seven thirty. So in my mind, since I didn't find much, all the good rummage was taken before I got there. Damn those other doorbusters!

Still, I rubbed my hands together with gleeful anticipation and asked the retired guy at the door handing out paper bags where he kept the rummage. He passed me a grocery bag, and informed me I could fill it with clothes for a dollar.

If that statement doesn't get a rummage junky's heart racing, I don't know what will. Crazy, subjective pricing. Ahh, gotta love it.

So I found a few books, and a Fisher Price Woodsey the Squirrel log house with Uncle Fletcher squirrel inside. That was the extent of my purchased rummage. Five books for a dollar and an eighties toy for fifty cents. But the thrill of the rummage hunt?

Priceless.

Re- Runs Again?

Yes. Re-runs again. Here's an early post from October 2008. In it you will find out about my small motorcycle crash and my exercise program for outrunning weapon wielding psychopaths. Enjoy!

Two Kinds of Riders