Sandwich Mom in the Sky With(out) Diamonds

Yesterday I made my annual trip to the happiest place in the midwest – the Iowa State Fair. Other state fairs may come close, but I agree with the marketing geniuses who declared “Nothing Compares to the Iowa State Fair.” Nothing compares to the food (deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate dipped, and on a stick), the fun (outhouse races), the culture (balloon sculptures), the spectacle (the gargantuan bull, boar and ram), the long lines (for the butter cow), the butter cow (at the end of the line), or the traditions (all of the above).

And for me, nothing compares to the terror of The Sky Glider.

I've had my moments of unbridled emotion before, but nothing compares to the near-hysteria of The Sky Glider this year – not even the time my Billy Joel concert ticket was so close I could see the stage with my bare eyes!

After a full day of fair fun my fair-going friends and I decided to wrap things up with a round-trip Sky Glider ride. Twice the ride, twice the terror.

The ride got off to an rocky start when it stopped – briefly – just after we reached cruising altitude (far enough off the ground to make my palms sweat). The ride restarted and I resumed my white-knuckle grip on the safety bar just before The Princess – my daughter, rock of bravery and gondola partner – said “Oh.”

“Oh?” I asked, WITHOUT turning my head OR MOVING in any manner.

“I can't do this.”

“Oh.”

I realized I would have to dig down deep into my Super Mom Power reserves to keep it together and set a good example. I had no choice but to suck it up and my assume my resp-Mom-sibilities. I relaxed my grip a little, forced a smile, and began chatting about all the ways this ride WAS NOT ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIYING. I even managed to LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR WITH ONE HAND long enough to point out the lovely architectural details adorning the roof line of the historic agriculture building. I pointed out the happy people in the gondolas on the return side, the lovely breeze, the dense foliage BENEATH US AND OHMYGODLOOKUP! Look UP, UP! at those fluffy, white clouds.

All the while I was mentally cataloging the things that TERRIFIED ME:

What happened to those riders?

• Looking DOWN at the roof line of the ag building.
• The riders on the return side who were smiling and laughing as if UNAWARE OF THE DANGER WE WERE IN.
• The riders who looked AS TERRIFIED AS ME BECAUSE THEY REALIZED WE COULD PLUMMET TO OUR DEATH AT ANY MOMENT.
• The gondolas which were empty BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY THE PASSENGERS ALREADY FELL TO THEIR DEATHS.
• The dense foliage BENEATH US that would IMPALE US BEFORE WE CRASHED TO THE GROUND.
• The asphalt roads BENEATH US which we would SOON BE SPLATTERED UPON.
• And the fluffy clouds WHICH SHOULD BE MUCH FARTHER ABOVE US.

By that time we were NEARLY three-quarters of the way up the hill – or nearly three-quarters of the way to the HALFWAY point if you have forgotten AND HOW COULD YOU FORGET? that we were making a round trip – and I had begun to giggle nervously, and maybe cry a little . . . because that's just what happens when I start to giggle uncontrollably/hysterically.

It was at precisely this moment The Third Musketeer – who was riding solo in the gondola behind us – announced that she WOULD NOT BE MAKING THE ROUND TRIP ON THE SKY GLIDER OF TERROR. And I started to giggle/cry a little harder because I HAD JUST BEEN THINKING THE SAME THING! I gave her a thumbs up over my shoulder BECAUSE I COULD NOT TURN MY HEAD AND LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR AT THE SAME TIME.

That was when we FINALLY began our descent, and I was able to take an actual breath and look around me and that stubborn, pig-headed, go-big-or-go-home, warrior-princess within me said AWWW HELL NO! I WILL NOT BE BEATEN BY AN IRRATIONAL FEAR! I WILL NOT BACK DOWN!

And in a quieter but no less convincing voice, the cheapskate in me said I will not waste a return ticket. I MAY BE A CHICKEN BUT I AM A CHEAP CHICKEN AND BY GOD I PRE-PAID FOR A ROUND TRIP RIDE SO I'M DAMN WELL GOING TO MAKE A ROUND TRIP RIDE.

So I TURNED to face The Princess and I asked her if she wanted to get off or if she wanted to ride back down the hill WITH me. She looked at me with admiration – or as if I had sprouted a horn on my forehead – and considered her answer carefully before answering.

“I will ride back with you. Because I don't think we can pry your hands off the safety bar.”

I would love to say that we bravely continued our ride and we lived happily ever after.

But the truth is I had just dried my cheeks and started to realize I HAD MADE A HORRENDOUS MISTAKE when our gondola came around the end point to begin the return ride and the nice young man checked the safety bar and smiled at us.

“Enjoy the ride,” he said.

And I started laughing so hard I SNORTED and the look of surprise on his face was so funny that I laughed HARDER and when we reached cruising altitude and the RIDE STOPPED AGAIN DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN my eyes filled with tears. And for the entire two-and-a-half hour (or five minute) return trip The Princess and I laughed and “ooohed” and “awwwed” as we watched the lights of the midway, and talked about the breeze and the architecture and the foliage and the smell of deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate-dipped fun on a stick.

And made plans for doing it ALL again next year.

If you're not afraid of heights, or if you want to experience them vicariously, check out this video (not shot by me, obviously because there is no screaming): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcSwm-5V5Zs

Hawkeye Cauci: Vote Early, Get It Over With

Dear Rest of the United States,

I know your undies are all in a bundle over the potential outcome of the upcoming Iowa caucus and future-present-and-past results of the approximately ba-zillion-and-one polls out there that show MarBenEb FiariChrisTrumCruz leading/lagging in the race for the GOP nomination, and speculation on whether or not BernIllary and the DNC can defeat him/her/them in November.

Relax.

It's not like we're going to determine the next leader of the free world.

Oh, wait, yes.

Yes, we are.

Eh. Calm down.

We got this.

But are Iowans really qualified to predict the presidential nominees?

Pffft.

You think Iowa has any more/less psycho-wacko-wingnut-jobs than any other state?

In a word? Puh-Leeze.

Let's look at this from the candidates perspective, shall we? Iowa is a nice “warm-up” state, figuratively speaking, in February. If a candidate can transition from the heat and humidity of the Iowa State Fair in August to the freeze and frost-bite of the Hawkeye Cauci in February and still keep their wits about them I'd say... well, I'd say they need their heads examined, but that's just because they're running for President in the first place.

But in terms of campaigning, Iowa has its share of (soft-ball, warm and fuzzy, play-it-safe) attractions to qualify for First In The Nation status:

We're nice. Except for that one guy who threw a tomato at Donald Trump. Tomatoes are out of season in Iowa, so I question that man's status as a true Iowa native. I think a real Iowan would have thrown a snowball, or an ear of dried feed corn, or a cow pie. Maybe a comb, or a can of Aqua Net (one can only resist such a tempting target for so long). Actually, I don't think a real Iowan would be so rude (and I apologize for the Aqua Net comment – sort of).

We'll go to your rally, sit and listen quietly-ish, nod politely, smile and applaud. We'll even laugh at your lame jokes and pretend you don't look uncomfortable wearing a seed corn cap and rolling up the sleeves on your (recently purchased) plaid work shirt. We'll let you shake our hands, kiss our babies and knock on our doors. We'll even pretend to listen to what you have to say.

Iowa is a cheap date. You don't have to lavish us with champagne and caviar. We'll take a pork chop on a stick or maybe a barbecue (we prefer our steaks to be Iowa, corn-fed beef). The cost of living in Iowa is below the national average, so you get more bang for your buck here. You can campaign in Iowa and still have money left over to woo the other states. Please don't be offended when we ask you to pay in advance and figure in the gratuity for you.

Iowa is picturesque. Iowa is just one big, friggin' photo op for candidates. Four seasons (frequently all in one day), acres and acres of fields (don't worry, we don't know what's growing in there either), a variety of farm animals (and farmers) that are not camera shy, clear(ish) lakes, along with rural, urban and suburban vistas (all accessible from one spot)... we're a little slice of photography heaven (yes, we have ball fields, too). Nary a single M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank in sight. (Take that, Michigan! I'm surprised Mr. Dukakis didn't see to it that your primary got moved to... never.)

Iowa is average. I say this as a proud, life-long (so far) Iowan, you don't get much more white-bread, normal(ish), ordinary, cross-generational, cross-cultural, everyday, average 'Merica than Iowa. If it plays well in Iowa, it should be successful anywhere(ish).

True, our census data points don't plot out very far and wide, but we are not all 75-year-old retired, angry, white, male, farmers. Some of us are 74-years-old. But by the time the February caucuses roll around, most of us are just cold. And angry.

And anxious for our phones to stop ringing.

Which brings me back to why no one should worry too much about pre-caucus poll results (with a +/- 100% margin of error, depending on which candidate paid for it) predicting the potential caucus outcome, because...

Iowans love a good phone prank. Iowans take their caucus responsibilities seriously. The endless and repeated phone calls from poll-sters? Not so much.

There is a possibility that I, myself,  have completed more than one automated phone survey in a less than honest fashion, (“Do you plan to attend the upcoming Iowa Caucus? If yes, press 1” 1. “If the cau..” 1. “If you...” 1. “If...” 1. “I...” 1.) only to find that while I was (mis)taking the survey I received automated calls from five other poll-sters.

Not to worry. They'll call back.

They always do.

I'm read... 1...y.

Fo... 1...r.

Th...1...em.

1.

Parking Fair at the Fair

Ever wonder why big event venues have people to direct traffic in the parking lots? Because as drivers left to our own devices, we're stupid.

When allowed to make decisions about parking in a huge lot (unmarked, specifically, but it doesn't matter much), we are incapable of making rational decisions. It's total chaos. A breakdown of the moral fiber of society, a four-wheeler free-for-all, a motorized melee, a scrum of sedans.

In other words, the parking lots at the Iowa State Fair the day before the fair begins.

In the rush of final preparations by fair staff, vendors and exhibitors, parking on the fairgrounds (not in the lots outside the gate) becomes a no-man's land. I experienced this first hand when I tried to drop off The Princess and her friend (Princess E) at the Youth Inn.

In some places cars were parked three-deep, bumpertobumpertobumper, or even bumpertobumper with one wedged in perpendicular behind. This guaranteed that at least one car was trapped, two if the aisle between parked cars was narrow. Which is always was.

In other places the vehicles were parked only one deep, but the entire row was parked full – fence to fence – with no way to get around to the other side, wasting the parking potential of that ever-tempting, greener grass.

There seemed to be only two schools of spacial reasoning: park so close to the car next to you that you can barely get out; or park far enough away that someone else might possibly, but not quite, be able to park between you.

The same reasoning was applied to parallel parking along the streets, too. The vehicles were either parked so close you couldn't slip a sheet of paper between the bumpers; or far enough away to guarantee an easy escape but not quite far enough away to park even a Fiat or Mini Cooper. (I'd like to point out that this is just another reason why I should get one of these cars -- then I could just pick it up and take it with me where ever I went, like a purse puppy. But I'd use a backpack because a Mini Cooper in a handbag would just look silly.)

The last time I saw parking this bad was at a softball tournament.

Which brings me to my next point. I'm not sure if this crap parking-style is linked to the venue, the event or the audience. Traffic flow was heavier at the 5SOS concert at Tinley Park, but with the help of the parking lot attendants (very little help, they just looked bored and pointed), Mom-mobiles filled the parking lot at a steady pace with a choreographed precision. It was like watching couples ice skating... but with mini-vans and compact SUVs.

Attendant-less parking at the fair was a manic free-for-all. Extended-cab trucks struggled to perform three point turns at the end of parked-full rows. Diesel-powered dualies inched down the narrow aisles, dodging extra-long vehicles overhanging their parking spaces. Many a hope for an empty spot was dashed by a compact car hidden between two long-bed, lifted pickups.

To demonstrate my objectivity, I will point out that by Monday – day 5 of the fair – parking was much more organized. Ish.

On my second trip, I circled the fairgrounds pleading with the stone-faced parking tyrants for admitance. At each gate they pointed to the “Lot Closed” signs. I pointed at the line of cars streaming out of the parking lot. They pointed at the “Lot Closed” signs and waved their cone-tipped traffic wand/lightsabers menacingly. I drove on.

I was finally granted entrance in the newly opened Northeast Parking Lot, located roughly .5 miles west of Iowa City. The parking lot attendants on border patrol were friendly and briskly efficient, directing us into neat, straight lines, two cars deep, with ample aisle space. This gave them plenty of room to check our passports and provide us with the necessary vaccinations for leaving the country.

As I and the other NEPL nomads hiked to the fairgrounds proper, we left a trail of breadcrumbs for our return trip and tried to ignore the vultures circling overhead. Many snide comments were made about the countless empty parking spots we passed in what were once considered the outlying lots, but which we now looked upon as “rock star” parking. There was talk of mutiny or of at least moving our cars, but we're all “Iowa Nice,” so nothing came of it. We're also “Iowa Stubborn,” so we'll all go back to the State Fair again, regardless of parking hassles.

But next time I'll drive a Fiat. And carry a big backpack.