My mother reads this blog.

Not only does she read it, but she sends me charming emails now and then, telling me how much she liked a certain entry. She said once that she didn't want to comment, for fear that my coolth factor would be lowered by her leaving messages.

Mom, it's okay. I have no coolth. Comment away if you'd like to.

In other news, the New Car saved Chef Boy and me from dying horribly yesterday. No, there was no wreck; we were on our way from Smalltown to Bigtown for the county fair and I suddenly found myself forced to merge over to the right three lanes and exit. Thanks to 144 hp at redline in fourth gear (about eighty-five miles an hour), we made it unscathed. If we'd been in my old car or Chef Boy's car, we would've been in Atlanta by now, stuck under a double-tandem eighteen-wheeler.

County fairs are always fun. There's a plethora of Food on a Stick and critters like Cashmere goats who want to nibble your fingers and pigs that make pleasant grunting sounds when you scratch their ears. We had all three, combined with enough cheap beer to make us crave Mexican food afterwards, and enough sunshine that I got vaguely pink and extremely headachy once we got home. The skin on my hands was tenting, but several gallons of water, a whole lot of salty food, and some potassium took care of that.

It's a shame pigs are so damned tasty. There was one half-grown red one who smiled at me and pushed his schnozz up under my hand, begging like a dog for scratches.

Speaking of dogs, the rescue folks had their usual array of adorable canines out for display. One half-Husky, half-shepherd male put his paw on my hand, stared up at The Boy with melting brown eyes, and whined softly at both of us. We nearly ended up with two rescued Dachshunds (already at home), a big halfbreed named Hans, two Cashmere goats, and a pig. It's probably a good thing that Boy is more hard-hearted than I am; I'm not sure all that livestock would have been good for the back seat of the car.

But even so, the mammals are better than the chickens. No matter how fancy a chicken is, it still has that weird crazy look that makes you think it might decide to try to kill you in your sleep. Plus, I think they can move their eyes independently, like seahorses can, but only when they're sure you're not looking.

And the chickens, mean as they are, are better than the carnies. After three or four glasses of Bud, I began a dissertation to The Boy about how the lifestyle the carnies lead is very much like that of the travelling mummer in Elizabethan England, and how the Giant Live Boa Constrictor trailers are a lot like travelling patent-medicine shows. He was unimpressed, pointing out that Elizabethan mummers probably had both more teeth and fewer tattoos than the carnies and small county fairs. He passed over the snake/snake oil comparison.

I could use some more pico de gallo and another pound or so of cheese enchiladas with guacamole. Meanwhile, I'm going to take a nap. Recovering from the fair is going to take the rest of the day.