Above is a photo of Laura loving life as she rode the Turtles at Kennywood, which is evidently her most favorite ride ever. There was probably a Carpenters track playing in her head,  even. Too bad her life was about to change FOREVER a little bit later when she became involuntarily AMPUTATED on the PHANTOM’S REVENGE.

 Shit, now I’m getting my parables mixed up.

Anyway, what happened was Laura, Chooch and I were walking toward the Exterminator (Henry was there somewhere) when Laura (this was all LAURA’S idea), threw a wrench into our well thought-out plan by saying, “Or we could just go on this…since we’re here…” and did a lazy Vanna White with her hands toward the entrance of the Phantom’s Revenge.

We had already went on this twice earlier in the day. The first time, we absolutely, postively walked right onto the platform and right the fuck onto the ride, that is how empty Kennywood was that day. Even on not-too-crowded, there is still usually some sort of a line for this ride, because it’s the Big Shot Steel Coaster up in that piece, and everyone wants to take their turn on it, like the roofied guy at the sorority party. Oh wait. I’m sorry. I’m confusing genders.

The second time was actually a continuation of the first time, because when the coaster came back to the station, there was no one in line still, so the Kennywood peeps were all, “Hey, you guys can stay on if you want” so we did and it turns out that’s not so fun afterward, riding it with no break in between, when you’re in your thirties and not a seven-year-old like Chooch who was like, “THAT WAS AWESOME LET’S STAY ON THIS FOR THE REST OF THE DAY OMFG!!” as he pushed his eyeball back into  its socket.

You should have seen Henry afterward, all clammy and green around the gills, wherever the hell his gills are, like he had just suffered through a particularly traumatizing Ludovico Technique featuring footage of all nine years of his loveless past marriage. (Past marriage.  Like there’s a present marriage. Hmph!)

So after Laura suggested riding it for the third time, Henry obviously was like, “Thank you sir, but I will NOT have another,” and proceeded to walk toward the exit of the Phantom’s Revenge, where he waited like an obedient puppy with his master’s purse. The rest of us ridiculed him for being a pussy and ran through the empty queue to the platform, where we saw there was a small line. We chose the seats that had the fewest number of people waiting and made sure that it was lined up evenly so that the three of us could get on at the same time.

Meanwhile, there was some sort of seat belt malfunction going on. The coaster was sitting there idly, full of passengers, but the ride attendants couldn’t send it off because of whatever was going on.

“We need someone to sit in this seat!” one of the teenaged boys in a Kennywood polo shouted. “There’s nothing wrong, but we can’t send this on with this car empty! It’s not a mechanical problem, just this one seatbelt!” And he was holding the seatbelt, too, as if that was going to reassure people.

And who wouldn’t be OK with putting their safety into the hands of a college kid on summer break?

Everyone started murmuring to each other about not wanting to ride in a car with a broken seat belt, even though it was only one of the seats in the car– the other one was apparently functioning properly, so only one person could sit in that seat. Some dumbass single rider was all, “Whatever, yeah, I’ll do it,” sparking a collective outcry regarding his stupidity. Some older woman in the line next to us was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT about this and her kids (her KIDS) were trying to calm her down. “They’re not going to let people ride it still if it’s actually broken, Mom!” one of the kids cried in frustration.

“But they’re using A REAL PERSON as a dummy!” she countered.

They sent the coaster up the hill, and we all turned and watched as it raced down the hill a minute later.

“No, he’s still on it. I saw him,” Laura assured me and Chooch. I wanted everyone to clap when the coaster returned to the platform with the idiot Single Rider still fastened into his seat, but everyone seemed to have lost interest by then.

However, that became the temporary designated single rider seat for the time being while the attendants waited for the maintenance guys to arrive with a new seatbelt. “Shit, they’re going to make me sit there!” Laura cried when it dawned on her what was going on. Chooch and I, of course, nearly gave up our asshole ghosts from laughing so hard at her future misfortune.

Just then, I looked forward and noticed that the girl who was in front of us had moved over to the Broken Seat Belt Line, which meant that Chooch and I were next. We kind of half-heartedly tried to find someone to go ahead of us so that we could ride at the same time as Laura, but everyone behind us was perfectly lined up with their respective groups as well and didn’t want to give up their spots. So we shrugged a disgenuine “sorry” in Laura’s general direction, and then climbed into the car, leaving her alone on the platform. The guy behind her was laughing at our mock-sorrow, which made the whole situation even funnier to me.

When we came back to the station, we gave her a quick wave and then ran away to find Henry, who looked confused that we were short one person. So Chooch and I hysterically recounted the broken seatbelt situation (“I know, I saw the maintenance men go over there so I figured something was wrong,” Henry interrupted, fulfilling his inherent need to speak of any sort of man in uniform) and then started laughing even harder when we got to the part about ditching Laura.

“AND NOW SHE HAS TO SIT IN THE BROKEN SEAT!” we cried, doubling over in laughter.

“You two are both assholes,” Henry yelled at us, but that was the same time we realized that the coaster was ascending the inaugural hill, so Chooch and I ran closer to take a picture of what we were lovingly referring to as “Laura’s Last Ride.”

(Time out. I am going to pause here for a second so I can walk off this ridiculous laughter before I start alarming people at work again.)

ENJOY YOUR LAST RIDE, LAURA!

We ran back to Henry, who was scowling and trying to shrug away from his hyena-brood. At this point, I was on the pee-precipice and it wasn’t looking too good. Passers-by were starting to flash Chooch and I the “I wonder what they’re on” looks, which yes, I DO get a lot, now that you mention it.

And then finally, Laura came padding down the exit trail, looking disheveled and not very pleased.

We immediately started laughing harder. Oh, schadenfreude! My old friend!

“That was the most awkward ride ever!” Laura cried. Apparently, the maintence crew had fixed the seatbelt situation after Chooch and I got off the ride, so Laura wasn’t relegated to sitting in the Single Rider Death Seat. However, when she stepped across the seat to put her purse in one of the cubby holes, she turned around to discover that people had taken her seat. So she ended up sitting with some single dad. At this point in the story, Chooch and I raced over to look at the picture on the screen and then promptly lost our shit all the fuck over again. Even Henry mosied on over to take a gander at the photographical evidence of Laura’s misfortune.

The kid running the photo booth was kind of fake-laughing along with us, but it was clear he wasn’t sure what was so funny. Also unclear to him was whether or not he was going to make a sale on this one.

“Henry, PLEASE give me money to buy this!” I begged in my signature mouthful of laughs / Bobcat Goldthwaite voice. It’s Henry’s favorite part about me. Especially when it happens during sex.

“No!” he yelled. “I’m not paying $15 for that! That’s outrageous.”

“BUT IT’S WORTH IT TO ME!” I cried harder. I have got to stop leaving my wallet in the car when we go to amusement parks. This is bullshit.

And then something incredible happened! LAURA BOUGHT IT FOR ME! She didn’t seem too pleased about spending money on such an uncomfortable memory, but she did it anyway because she is a GOOD FRIEND. (Apparently, the OPPOSITE of what I am, according to Henry.)

The guy behind the photo counter was partially bemused, but mostly confused at this point, as Laura handed over her credit card with a sigh while Chooch and I flanked her in hysterical laughter. It’s like we’re drunk all of the time without actually consuming any alcohol. This is normal public behavior for us. Laughing so hard we need to lean on walls and people for support. Sometimes I lean on people I don’t even know because I can’t help myself, the laughter makes me walk on a slant, you guys.

When Laura handed me the photo, I blurted out, “You don’t have to get me a birthday present now!”

“I already did,” she sighed, with just a tinge of bitterness and regret.

Henry pointed out that Laura’s Temporary Husband also purchased one of the photos, which wound me up all over again. I wonder if it’s as funny to him?!!?

HAHAHAHAHA BUT THIS PICTURE, THOUGH! Baby Mama Laura! Oh shit, I have to pee — BRB.

I have been actually crying about it at work, it is THAT funny to me, but everyone here is like, “It is not that funny, if at all” and “You’re so mean to your friends.”  And Henry is like, “No really, it’s not that funny” and “I can’t figure out how you have any friends at all.”   But Chooch and me? WE HAVE FIGURATIVELY BURIED OURSELVES from all of the laughing we’ve been doing. Team Dickhead FTW!

These past two days, Barb has basically been searching her desk for her imaginary OUT TO LUNCH sign every time she saw me approaching  because she knows I’m going to just stand there and have uncontrollable giggle usurp my ability to speak like a regular human being. However, at least she can appreciate the fact that it’s more of the backstory surrounding the photo that has legitimately cracked my sanity. Everyone else is just looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Just today, I was walking to the trolley and I started laughing all over again, and I mean LAUGHING. So I called Henry and said, “You have to stay on the phone with me because I’m walking down the street and laughing uncontrollably.” (Which actually isn’t anything out of the ordinary in my neighborhood.)

“What are you laughing about—-” Henry started. And then, “Oh. Never mind.”

But it was too late. My laughter upchucked out of my mouth like a galloping horse and I had to pause in a doorway of a store because I almost peed my pants in the middle of the sidewalk. I AM OUT OF CONTROL. This is what happens to me at amusement parks! I turn into a hyper dickhead and then suffer from residual giddiness for days afterward and you know who suffers? Henry! My co-workers! YOU! THE INTERNET!

And then that motherfucker Henry waited until I was on the trolley to text me the picture, which caught me off guard and I had to cover my face with my hair and laugh at my reflection in the stupid trolley window and then I started crying and people were looking and some asshole probably wrote a blog post about ME, can you imagine.

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Today is Thursday. Here is a throwback from 2011, because I’m having too much fun using my spare time to compile a list of things I want to do when we go on our New England road trip that has almost been canceled three times now.

You’re welcome, Janna.

******************

I don’t normally buy those exorbitantly-priced photos taken at the most inopportune times on roller coasters because they can make even Jennifer Aniston look like her fourth chin is giving birth to an alien flesh-sac with crossed eyes. But after I saw the one of Janna and me on the Sky Rocket, I started laughing so hard that I had to use my thighs as bladder-tourniquets. Janna had this intense look of “Please don’t buy this” in her eyes, almost as if she just knew what was going through my mind.

“I have to have it,” I blurted out to the guy working the photo booth. Suddenly, $10 seemed cheap for a memory that will last a lifetime. I couldn’t stop laughing the whole time we waited for it be printed. Janna seemed considerably less amused, but every so often I’d get a nervous laugh out of her.

I couldn’t wait to show Henry when we met back up with him and Chooch. I began laughing all over again, that insane staccato chuckle I’m notorious for when things have reached the Apex of Giddy. I even cried a little; people were looking at this point.

Henry looked at the picture and just frowned. He was probably angry that I had the audacity to spend my own hard-earned money on such frivolties instead of Desitin for his sweaty summer balls.

This picture is so fucking bad, it’s amazing.

1. If I look like this on a ride that isn’t even scary, I can only imagine how I’ll look if I ever find myself hunted in an Alaskan* forest by Michael Myers carrying a boom box that’s a’blast with Katy Perry’s Worst Misses. Coincidentally, this is also what I look like when Henry makes me have sex with him. :(
2. This was taken .002 seconds after Janna cupped Josh Groban’s ballsack and then died of happiness. What a peaceful corpse she makes.
3. Someone once told the guy in the front seat to treat every moment in life like it’s a deodorant commercial.

I have more pictures and shit to say, but this was the definite highlight of my day. I hope that when I’m on my death bed, someone shows me this, because that’s really how I’d like to peace out.

(*Alaska scares the shit out of me.)

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It doesn’t feel like summer in Pittsburgh until the annual Three Rivers Arts Festival commences and we find ourselves in the middle of a herd of sweaty, directionless Yinzers, half-assedly looking at art and thinking about buying pierogies to eat.

Suddenly summer!

We made Janna meet us at South Hills Village, which is the first trolley stop, and the first trolley stop equals EMPTY TROLLEY. We used to make the mistake of just walking to the trolley stop near our house, but by the time it arrives, it is jam-packed with undulating, rowdy Yinzers, biting at the chomp to get dahntahn and buy up some paintings of their fucking skyline n’at, and then I scream, “I CANNOT RIDE A TROLLEY WITH ALL THOSE PEOPLE!” and then Henry calls me a fucking princess-bitch and we end up either driving down or not going at all because NOW MY DAY IS RUINED.

So, the last couple of years, we have managed to avoid this brouhaha altogether by just getting on the trolley at a crowd-controlled location.

It was all fun and games on the way down to the Arts Festival. Henry was still being super-affectionate to me because I had just given him his Father’s Day gift a week early (more on that later, and no — it wasn’t porn) and Janna and Chooch were playing a rousing game of I Spy:

“I spy something black,” Janna mused.

“Oh, Daddy’s dingaling!” Chooch exclaimed.

I don’t know where he learned that word. In my house, we call it “weener.”

The rest of the ride was pretty uneventful, although I was pretty fixated with hating the young, cuddling, eyelash-plucking couple in front of me. Got, get over yourselves.

Meanwhile, Henry kept trying to hold my hand and I was all but tasering him with my eyes. This was approximately 8 minutes after I was whining about how he’s not affectionate enough. It’s a lonely tapdance down Hypocrisy Highway at times.

Maybe I just don’t know what affection is.

  

The first order of business, after making sure we didn’t lose Chooch when we got off the trolley, was to go see the fountain at the Point. Sitting by the fountain is REALLY FUN because it is loud and mimics the loud crash of the OCEAN, sort of. But then it was taken away from us for the last, I can’t remember, three years maybe? 25? Did it ever even really exist before now?

Henry told me a billion times what the city was doing to it and the park but as you might know, I don’t listen to Henry when he’s attempting to expand my mind. All I know is that it was there and then it wasn’t and now it is.

And judging by all of my Pittsburgh friends on Instagram, EVERYONE IS OMG SO HAPPY THAT THE FUCKING FOUNTAIN IS BACK THANK THE LORD! Seriously, I’m excited too. The fountain reminds me of hanging out downtown when I was in high school and selling pot.

Wait, that’s a different fountain.

We probably could have sat there for hours because we were flanked by gaggles of girls, which just happens to be Chooch’s favorite things to look at this side of Minecraft. But I can only ooh and aah over something non-Jonny Craig for so long before it’s time to get up and start roaming around aimlessly once more.

 

Henry: a fan not of art, nor fountains.

I kept hounding Chooch to care about the children’s area and to find some stupid craft that he was interested in making. Finally, he acquiesced with a disgusted sigh and set about making a sculpture out of junk, which reminded me of my FAVORITE living artist, Robert Villamagna, who used to be the only reason I ever even bothered going to the Arts Festival. Sadly, he hasn’t been there the last 3 or 4 years, much to Henry’s delight, because otherwise we would have had the “BUT WE NEED NEW TIRES FOR THE CAR, NOT A COFFEE TIN WITH DOLL PARTS GLUED TO IT!” argument in front of thousands of people.

Even sadlier, Chooch’s junk sculpture was decidely unVillagmagna-esque, as were the sculptures of every other child inside that  tent, even the bastard whose tatooed rockabilly parents were doing all the heavy lifting for him.

Chooch’s was basically an old CD on a metal rod with a piece of styrofoam at the top. It was so stupid. (What?! He agrees!)

There was some older girl at the same table as Chooch, struggling to turn two large pieces of trophies into some kind of assemblage tour de force, like motherfucking David constructed of hipster refuse, when she dropped the top part of a trophy that she was retardedly trying to balance on a much smaller trophy, because she’s a fucking moron, and faux-marble shattered all over the ground. I fucking laughed so hard.

Dumb bitch.

That was our queue to leave, and thank god, because I was HUNGRY and on the verge of resurrecting Hitler with my stomach growls.

Naturally, we all wanted different food-stuffs, and even more naturally, food-fetching is one of Henry’s jobs, so Chooch and I sat down by the stage and pretended to be fans of bluegrass while Henry scurried all over the park, trying to procure everyone’s lunch without fucking up because you KNOW we’d verbally emasculate his dick right on down between his legs like that the tail that it is.

“Why are we still here? This band sucks.”

Henry came back with my falafel sandwich and then set off again to get Chooch’s pizza, which caused Chooch to pitch a fit because “OMG WHY DOES MOMMY GET HER FOOD FIRST!?” so I had to share my stupid food with him, how fucking inconvenient. Meanwhile, Janna was next to us, eating pizza and telling us things like, “It is supposedly really hard to play the banjo” and I was just like, “OK, Mumford.”

Then Henry came back with Chooch’s pizza and set off for what he naively thought was the last time to get his own food.

While he was gone, Chooch and I decided that we wanted the Grecian delight known to all as Greek Honey Dough Balls or Balls of Dough In Greek Honey, I don’t know, something about balls and it sounded good. We let Henry eat his pretzel and calzone (jokes! we ate most of his pretzel) and then told him to go and get us some balls dunked in honey. He bristled his moustache a few times and grumbled, but then he eventually groaned as he forced his tired Old Man joints into a standing position and lumbered off to purchase a batch of sticky ball-gags.

“I don’t really want those,” Chooch admitted after Henry had firmly planted himself in line. “I’d actually rather have ice cream,” Chooch mused.

“Oh shit, daddy’s going to kill you!” I laughed.

And when Henry came back with a paper dish of honeyed Greek dough testicals, Chooch casually gave him the next food order and I literally thought Henry was going to combust into a mushroom cloud of moustache bristles, hemorrhoids and 12 years of murder fantasies.

But that motherfucker went and got Chooch an ice cream, still!

(Dude, we had just given him the ultimate Father’s Day gift, so he knew better than to say no to us, his masters.)

 

Some kind of vehicular art installation. I don’t know.

And then we watched some strange breakdancing show, of which Chooch was pulled out of the crowd to assist in one of their stunts. I have it on video, but it’s like 8 minutes of the breakdancers collecting money from all the white people and approximately 7 seconds of actual stunting, so that bitch needs the fuck edited out of it.

They gave Chooch a dollar for his efforts, at least.

 

Before leaving, we decided to walk a couple of streets over to check out the Jazz festival that was also going on. Approximately 2 minutes after I was bragging about being a professional pedestrian now that I work downtown and take the trolley and can practically cross streets blindfolded, we were standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street, when the people next to us began to walk. I mindlessly followed them, and Janna and Chooch followed suit, but then, halfway into the street, I realized that the Do Not Cross signal was still lit and a car was coming. Granted, this car was still a block away, but my inner Manic Mom engaged and I grabbed Chooch’s hand and gave him a little yank so that he would hurry up and finish crossing.

And then I heard the unmistakable splat of flesh meeting pavement.

I turned around and saw sprawled out across the road, crying. I KNOW that I didn’t tug Chooch with the aggressive force of an abusive mom, but the way he was carrying on (and I’m sure the way it looked to all of the by-standers), you would have thought I was in the habit of dislocating children’s arms for sport.

I helped him up and quickly ushered him onto the sidewalk. I made eye contact with Henry, who was still across the street waiting for the proper moment to cross. He jsut shook his head at me.

“WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!?” Chooch cried. “YOU’RE THE WORST!”

At first I felt really bad, and tried to assuage him by hugging him and apologizing, but he just kept mouthing off and carrying on like a basic drama queen, totally milking the situation.

I promise that I didn’t use that much force and that I was only trying to be a Mom by making sure that my young child didn’t get creamed by a goddamn car.  The horrible, judging sensation I felt was similar to the time we had to take Chooch to the emergency room after he face-planted on the hardwood floor at home and busted his nose up and everyone else in the waiting room glared at us, silently accusing us of being Monster Parents not worthy of having custody over a sea monkey let alone a human being.

After the electronic sign alerted Mr. Boy Scout that it was the proper, legal moment to cross the street, he joined us on the other side of the sidewalk and promptly exacerbated the situation by telling us we were both being idiots, at which point I declared, “THEN LET’S JUST FUCKING GO HOME” and then marched off quickly without them, which I can do now  that I kind of know my way around downtown. (This was mostly because we were close to The Law Firm, so I sort of knew where I was.)

They caught up to me at one point, and Chooch was still trying to make me feel like an asshole so I shouted, “FINE! NEXT TIME I’LL JUST LET YOU GET HIT BY A CAR!” to which he cried, “OH MY GOD WHY WOULD YOU SAAAAAAYYYYY THAAAAAT!?” at which point Pazuza crawled up through my throat and bellowed, “YOU CAN ALL GO AND GET FUCKED BY SATAN’S TRIDENT” and then commanded my legs to power-walk back to the trolley station without them.

When I was walking down the steps to the trolley platform, I heard the distinct pitter-patter of Chooch’s size 1′s clamoring down the steps behind me. When he caught up with me, we made eye contact and then busted out in laughter. We psychically agreed to be on the same side and hate Henry and Janna instead of each other. This was an easy task to undertake because apparently Janna had pissed off Chooch by telling him to “just drop it” and I don’t ever need a reason to hate Henry. So by the time they caught up with us, we ass-fucked them with our sinister glares of ire.

“You two are the same. Exactly the same. I can’t stand it,” Henry muttered, and then we almost got on the wrong trolley.

Everyone had made up by the time we boarded the correct trolley, until Henry mentioned that he took off the WRONG WEEK for our upcoming road trip and then we started fighting all over again.

(Don’t worry, conflict resolved.)

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