The Legendary Globe of Death

Last weekend, my husband and I went on our annual venture to the state fair. Dan and I are not overly eager fair aficionados. One of our first dates took place at the Idaho State Fair. We listened to an a cappella boy band croon cover songs, shared our first Pronto Pup strawberry lemonade, and watched the amusing antics at the late night hypnotist show.

It was also on that outing that Dan introduced me to the heavenly gooeyness of the Ice Cream Potato – not a true potato in the root vegetable sense of the word, but ice cream shaped as a potato, doused in cocoa, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup. With the invention of the Ice Cream Potato, Idaho has truly lived up to its reputation as the cultivator of famous potatoes.

So it’s out of a sappy sentimentality rather than a love for genuine western tradition that Dan and I visit the fair every year.

This year, Dan persuaded me to watch the circus act that the fair advertises as a thrilling daredevil spectacle. I’m not much of an advocate of thrilling daredevil spectacles. But I’m not much of a fair ride enthusiast either, and my choices were either watch a thrilling daredevil spectacle or get stuck with my husband in a metal cage that spun on its side, ascended to a vertical 50 feet above the ground before turning its passengers upside down and plummeting into oblivion.

This thrilling daredevil spectacle was no Cirque du Soleil. According to my keen observations that evening, a fair circus act consists of a human size hamster wheel that swings like a pendulum between two rickety metal posts and a steel sphere that the performers proudly call “The Legendary Globe of Death.”

A male and female, clad in shimmering spandex jumpsuits, who gravitate toward feats of psychosis rather than the daring bravery the fair brochure advertises, spent thirty nail biting minutes performing acts of insanity inside this hamster wheel and Globe of Death.

At one point, the male performer covered his head with an executioner’s hood and balanced himself on top of the wheel while it was suspended above the ground. As the crowd cheered in amazement, I looked on in horror, covering my mouth to prevent myself from shouting a not-so-amazed exclamation at the man.

“They don’t even use safety nets!” Dan said, sounding much too enthusiastic about this realization.

Indeed they did not. A fair circus act does not need safety nets. Instead the performers stand below the apparatus so that they may catch one another if mishap ensues.

Before the performers entered The Legendary Globe of Death, they told the audience that insurance companies refuse to cover them so if we would kindly have our photos taken in the steel globe after the performance, all proceeds would cover their emergency medical costs.

Then they entered the legendary globe on motorcycles.

I watched the motorcycles zoom around, upside down, vertically, horizontally, diagonally . . . through my fingers.

"You can't see what they're doing if you cover your eyes." My husband has a knack for pointing out the obvious.

Once the dolorous spectacle ended, the crowd ruptured into applause, and I allowed my face muscles to finally relax after a half-hour of being frozen in fright.

"So, you want to get your picture taken in the Globe of Death?" Dan said.

I responded with a dirty look.

"It's fun to watch these sorts of things with you. It's kind of cute."

Another dirty look, "I'm glad I could be so entertaining."

Then we finished off our evening with an Ice Cream Potato. And the nightmarish visions of The Legendary Globe of Death faded into obscurity.

Adventures in Rollerblading

I am not what you would call a risk-taker. I reprimand my husband and my father for not wearing safety goggles when working with power tools. I refuse to set foot outdoors without slathering on sunscreen. Once upon a time, a friend convinced me to go downhill skiing. "This is a ski lift. This is how we get up the mountain," my friend said, pointing to a cluster of rickety chairs swinging like windchimes in the breeze approximately twenty feet above my head. Needless to say, that experience marked the end of whatever desire I might have possessed to conform to the Idaho skier lifestyle.

I have arrived at the conclusion that risk-takers (ie. base jumpers, hang gliders, parasailers, and people who cut the "Under the Penalty of Law" tags off of their pillows) have special genes that make them more willing than someone such as myself to endanger their lives. Those genes are called "crazy genes." And since my DNA only consists of "sane genes," it came as a tremendous surprise to all who were acquainted with my overly cautious genetic structure when I took up rollerblading.

I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I am in no way an expert rollerblader. I have yet to master the art of stopping. Even slowing down has proven to be a challenging feat.

During the summer, my husband and I frequent the city greenbelt on our rollerblades. Whenever I roll down the hills that always seem to accompany the bridges along the trail, I make an audible sound to announce my presence to other greenbelt users . This is one of the guidelines listed on the "Greenbelt Safety" signs along the trail. Typically my audible sound goes something like, "Watch out!" or "I can't stop! Get out of the way!"

One day, when I was announcing my presence with an especially urgent audible sound, the fifth grade teacher at my school rode by on his bicycle. At school the next week, he described his encounter with me in this way, "I don't know if I'd call it rollerblading. It's more like she rolls by, screaming at the top of her lungs." Ever since then, I have been known as the psycho rollerblading music teacher.

About three years ago, I rolled down a hill by the Visitor's Center in Twin Falls. The hill was steeper than I had anticipated, and it veered off into two different and equally narrow directions. One path followed the length of the parking lot while the other adorned the side of the Snake River Canyon. The canyon path was blocked by tourists who seemed deaf to the audible announcements of my presence.

Rather than risk being hit by a car in the parking lot or roll like a bowling ball into the happy, deaf tourists, I belly-flopped into a large gravel pit that separated the paths from one another. By that time, the tourists had finally noticed me and provided me with a generous supply of napkins from the glove compartments of their cars. I attempted to stop the blood from gushing out of my elbows and knees while my husband frantically zigzagged our car into the parking lot.

I didn't let that experience stop me, however. I dusted myself off and got right back on my rollerblades the next week. During the summer, I'm still blading on the greenbelt, making my presence known with audible sounds. And if you ever happen to be taking a leisurely stroll on the greenbelt, and you hear one of my audible sounds, my advice to you would be, "Get out of the way!"

Bigger is Better?

In the world of technological toys, size does matter. At least, that's what I've learned from my husband.

Because of the romantic oblivion we all experience before marriage - that blissful oblivion which prevents us from noticing when our future spouses chew with their mouths open or belch without saying "excuse me" - I didn't pay much attention to my future husband's preoccupation with size. Even after two and a half years of marriage, I still think his affinity for "super-sizing" our electronics collection is kind of cute. "Honeymoon phase" is a term that often comes up when my older, wiser, matrimonially experienced friends describe my marriage.

There were warning signs. Aren't there always warning signs?

Dan took me computer shopping on one of our early dates. I had finally saved up enough money from my meager teacher's salary to purchase my first computer. Dan, a software engineer with an eye for bargains and rebates, seemed like the obvious choice to help propel me into the world of technology. He knew about gigabytes and processing speeds, and I knew whether or not the computer would look cute in my one-bedroom apartment.

"Are you sure you want a 15-inch monitor?" he asked me, steering me toward a 21-inch flat screen.

I looked at the stark, gargantuan 21-inch monitor.

"I don't think that would even fit on my computer desk. Besides, I like the rounded corners and silver and gray frame on the 15-inch."

After we got married, my electronic equipment was gradually and magically replaced by larger, technologically superior equipment. First, there was my portable CD player. It became a stereo with a five-disc changer that could play MP3s.

Then, my dainty white desk with stenciled blue and yellow flowers was relegated to the guest room while Dan's 5-foot wide oak desk took over the ranks in our office.

The 13-inch television, that had been permanently tuned into Nick-at-Nite during my dateless pre-Dan evenings, became the master bedroom T.V. A 25-inch now serves as the source of entertainment in the living room. Of course, I'm waiting to see how long that will last. Lately, Dan's been talking about surround sound 37-inch digital somethings.

My deskjet color printer metamorphosed into an all-in-one printer-scanner-copier. And our computer speakers now look as if they could be subwoofers.

The other day, I came home from the grocery to find my husband unloading his car.

"I got some goodies on home-loan today!" he said, grinning impishly, holding a new . . . bigger laser printer. "There's more. Look in the office."

I made my way toward the office with a wifely skepticism.

"What are we supposed to do with that?" I exclaimed. A 21-inch monitor with its sharp edges and silver frame stared vacantly at me. "That thing will take up the whole desk. Our office will be one huge computer monitor!"

I'm growing accustomed to my new monitor even though our DSL modem is now propped up on its side since desk space is a rare commodity these days. Of course, there has been some mention of 24-inch widescreens.

Oh well. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Isn't that what marriage is all about - accepting the whole, for lack of a better word, package?