~ There is something about the smell of walking tacos wafting through fall air that has the power to draw Scrunchie wearing, cigarette smoking women in kitty cat sweatshirts from the four corners of the Earth in record numbers.
~ Little can make me want to strangle a person with an autumn colored grapevine swag more than a 900 year old woman obliviously and repeatedly hitting me in the back of the legs with the tapestry covered craft-hauling device she bought on the Home Shopping Channel.
~ Provided it is bagged and tied with raffia, I will buy anything that smells like cinnamon buns, even if it is an unknown brown substance scraped from the floor of a barn.
~ Similarly, so long as it can be personalized with paint markers, has lights inside it or on it and weighs in excess of 47 pounds, the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou will buy anything, although she prefers to buy it from the craft merchant who is farthest from our vehicle.
~ People from your town who you know and who know you who pretend they don't really know you at all at a craft fair only an hour from your city should not be on your Christmas card list.
~ People from your town who you know and who know you who act like your best friend even though you haven't seen them since last year at this same craft fair should be on your Christmas card list.
~ While waiting in line for your chance to pee in a germ covered plastic phone booth, if you hear one person say to another, “that BBQ sandwich really tore her stomach up”, hold it. A little advise from me to you.
~ Things made out of kitchen towels, whether they be angels, pillows or Bible covers, are over. Please stop it.
~ Squares of glass upon which someone has squirted blobs of orange, purple and pink paint is not a hot seller at a craft fair, no matter how much one shouts out to passersby, "Hey! I take Visa and Mastercard!" (Unless of course it smells like cinnamon buns.)
~ Turtle Cheesecake on a stick is better than sex. (Assuming that is, that a cinnamon bun is not somehow incorporated into love making.)
~ Just because seven years ago Mr. Man once mentioned in passing that he sort of liked Kettle Corn does not mean I should stand in line for twenty-two minutes and spend four dollars for a bag of kettle corn large enough to insulate our home.
And just because I stood in line for the aforementioned twenty-two minutes and somehow managed to get the gigantic bag of steaming popcorn safely back to the car… while at the same time carrying a large and oddly shaped piece of welded iron I just had to have, along with two bags full of cinnamon bun scented rat droppings and various other assorted gingham tied crafty things PLUS the Evil BL's giant, wooden, personalized margarita glass still wet with paint pen… does not mean I can legally beat him within an inch of his life with a pumpkin shaped candle holder when he says, “This kettle corn tastes old”.
Although ethically, I am fine with it.
Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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