Actually it felt like the fourth time.  In a row.  I love our county fair, but there is only so much deep fried Oreos and kettle corn I can eat without needing a truckload of Metamucil.  Still, there  I was again on a Saturday evening after spending all day handing out beer samples, and selling my book.  Foreigner was playing at our local county fair, and there was no way I was going to miss this one.  I was just as excited last year when REO Speedwagon played.  If they somehow manage to get Journey to sign on, then I’ll just explode with joy.

I latched on to my in-laws and their posse, and ate the obligatory fried goodness while I waited for my brother and his wife to arrive.  Then I did the one thing I’d done every evening at the fair.  The one thing I had been doing for years.  I went to the display of recreational vehicles and indulged in my fantasy.

This particular vendor has tiny campers, barely bigger than the back of my Tahoe, a variety of pop-ups, and the usual square aluminum tow-behinds.  The big RV’s, the ones that cost more than my house, were not on display this year.  No matter, because my fantasy revolves around the cheapest, smallest, aluminum box I can find.  There it was, in the back of their display area, white with brown stripes, a dining area that converted into a bed, a tiny bathroom, and miniscule kitchen.  It could be mine for only $10,000.  A special price for the fair.

I stared longingly at the camper and let my imagination go off leash.  I had my Tahoe in the parking lot.  I could drain the savings account, hitch this bad boy up, and be gone before anyone was the wiser.  I’d go off grid in Arizona, waitressing for cash under the table and living in my little camper.  I’d eat Ramen noodles, and maybe put duct-taped plastic chairs under the roll out awning.  They’d never find me.  Three kids, work, nobody would find me.  I’d hide in my camper under the stars until my teeth fell out and I died of malnutrition from a diet of cheap vodka and pop tarts.

Sigh.  I didn’t want to miss the Foreigner concert, so I reluctantly left my trailer trash fantasy behind and headed into the grandstand area with my brother and sister-in-law.

Foreigner took the stage to applause and shouts, then proceeded to tear around like bunnies on crack.  I swear these guys had to have drank a gallon of Red Bull prior to the concert.  Mind you the average age at this concert was probably around 50.  So old that instead of shining cell phone lights for the slow songs, we used actual lighters.  We all stared in amazement at the sheer energy of this band.  The stage wasn’t even big enough to contain them.  Lead singer Kelly Hansen kept jumping over the potted mums into the audience bellow and racing through the seated crowd urging them to get up on their feet.  As if we didn’t feel enough like old, fat slobs, Hansen repeatedly entreated us to rise to our feet.  We’d comply for about ten minutes, then sink guiltily back into our hard plastic chairs.  We’re old.  We’re tired.  We just ate twenty pounds of fried food and paid a fortune for these tickets.  Stop making us stand up.  We’re gonna break a hip here, dude.

Chrissy, my sister-in-law leaned over at one point and confided that the woman behind her kept sticking her foot up Chrissy’s ass.  “I think she owes me dinner,