The one thing that kind of sucks about DelGrosso’s (if you’re a motion sickness-susceptible grown-up, which I am finding that I apparently am) is that every single ride—with the exception of the Crazy Mouse, Wacky Worm and the lame-o train—is set up to spin-cycle the shit out of your stomach contents. In fact, the first time we went to DelGrosso’s two years ago, I got so sick after riding three spinny rides in a row that I had to lay down on a bench while everyone else went about their day. It was a pretty ugly blow to my ego.
So my new strategy is to ride one or two rides, eat food, stand around, mock people, and then give myself up to the g-force gods and pray for vertigo asylum.
Chooch does not like this strategy, but luckily, Chooch is now at the age/height where he can ride some of this shit himself. So while I rode the Super Spiral with him once, I was all, “Be my guest” when he decided he was going to ride it three more times in a row later that day.
Even the Pirate Ship makes me sick these days. What is wrong with me!? Dramamine doesn’t help — I tried that at Waldameer last summer and it literally ruined my day.
Chooch was adamant about riding Tilt-a-Whirl car #9, so we ran all the way around looking for it, but it apparently it only goes up to 7. So then of course we were the only assholes not in a car, totally holding up the ride and I was so pissed at him because everyone was giving us the stink eye. THANKS A LOT CHOOCH.
Meanwhile, check out the kid in Car #3 up there, totally asleep.
I would ride the Tilt-a-Whirl 8 times in a row if I didn’t think my esophagus would make it rain with my potato salad luncheon.
Judy and I were watching this broad in line for the Paratrooper. She was holding a really small child and Judy scoffed, “I know she’s not taking that baby on that ride. There’s no way.”
But she did and Judy was PISSED OFF you guys. “Oh, this is ridiculous!” she kept yelling. “What a horrible mother!”
To be fair, the sign only restricts “hand-held infants” from riding. Which is still pretty fucked up if you ask me, because even when I ride it with my 7-year-old lump of child-flesh, I’m thinking he’s going to fall out the whole time.
Not this mom! She was taking carefree photos of the kid in flight like it was no big thing while Judy had mom-steam blowing out of her ears.
She also hated some grandma who was miserable and yanking her small granddaughter around by the arm. I think she was actually the mom of the negligent Paratrooper rider. We kept seeing the grandma everywhere we turned for the rest of the day and Judy would loudly announce, “Watch, see if she yanks the kid’s arm again. OH LOOK SHE JUST DID IT! UNBELIEVABLE!” Now I kind of want Judy to have her own Child Protective Services TV show.
Later, I had my own uncharacteristic Maternal Moment in line for the Crazy Mouse.
A small group of young boys of Middle Eastern descent stood in front of Chooch and me. The way the Crazy Mouse is set up, four people can sit in each car, two on each side. However, if a kid is under a certain height, they HAVE to have an adult sitting with them. All but one of the kids in front of us passed the height requirement and they were literally going to leave this little boy (presumably their brother) behind. I did a quick once-over of the benches near the ride and there were definitely no adults that matched this little boy.
He looked like he was about to cry and his group looked like they were probably going to ditch him without a single fuck given.
I sighed and engaged Chooch in a quick side-bar. He shrugged and nodded.
“You can ride with us if you want,” I offered and his stupid little kid face lit up. I had the girl with the yard stick measure Chooch and he was tall enough to sit alone in the seat across from us, so it was decided.
Someone really needs to teach that kid about Stranger Danger.
Anyway, it was the most awkward ride ever, like the time Alisha and I were at the Big Butler Fair and some random child boarded the same unit as us on the Tornado and then smiled at us through the duration of the ride. There were empty seats all over the place! But I guess I would want to ride with me, too.
This kid kept talking to us and I was like, “Fuck, goddammit. Can’t you just let me enjoy the stupid ride without reminding me that I just wasted 2 minutes of my day being nice to a human?”
[UGH. What is happening to me? The very next day I was walking to the trolley when I saw some old man trying to shut his car door by hooking his cane onto the inside door handle. I helped him shut it because I’m a sucker for an old man (I loved my Pappap, you guys), and now I’m positive Satan is going to send a Mac truck straight into my fucking goody two shoed grill.]
Then his little dickhead brothers RAN AWAY before our Crazy Mouse car pulled back up to the boarding area and this little boy was so frantic to get the fuck off the ride and find them. Fuckers!
Meanwhile, Henry and Judy had been watching us curiously. I thought for sure I was going to walk right into a conversation about how awesome and Samaritan-like I am, but instead all this succeeded in doing was open the floor for Another Judy Racial Rant.
It’s not what you’d think though. She wasn’t casting 9/11-heavy aspersions or lambasting their religion. No. She was just PISSED because some Muslims live in her building and burn incense and it stinks.
Don’t fuck with Judy’s sinuses, you guys.
I usually have to ride every ride in a park at least once, and I realized that we had been to DelGrosso’s three times and I had not ever gone on the XScream (Chooch kept calling it the “Xtreme” in his post because he refused to believe me when I told him the correct name). Chooch was like, “Hell no, I don’t want to go on that” but I wheedled on his masculinity until he finally conceded. And then as soon as we were strapped in, I turned to him and said, “I don’t know why I made you ride this with me. I hate these kinds of rides” and then we started to ascend so it was too late. Game over.
I swore the entire way up. Why do these rides look not-so-high when you’re on the ground but when you’re on it, it just keeps going up and up and up and what the fuck just get it over with! And then it dropped and in that split second, where your attempted scream is nothing more than a strangulated charade of horrific anguish, I suddenly remembered why I had only ridden Kennywood’s Pitfall in all of the years of its existence. (It’s gone now—good riddance.) And then I also remembered the urban legend of the girl who got scalped on one of those rides when her hair got caught in something on the way down. (Though this apparently did happen on a different ride, thanks Snopes. Now I never want to go to an amusement park again.)
My arms and legs shook for the next 30 minutes. Henry thought this was hilarious, as were the faces that Chooch and I apparently made on the drop down.
This is how they always look at me. :(
And then I decided that I wanted to have a Mother’s Day ice cream cone, so I told Henry, “I want to have a Mother’s Day ice cream cone” at which point he stopped the world and bought a Mother’s Day ice cream cone to melt with me.
MY MOM WOULD NEVER EAT AN ICE CREAM WITH ME ON MOTHER’S DAY.
Near the end of the day, Chooch and I were in line for the Scrambler when he vocalized his desire to sit in car #1.
“WE’RE getting #1,” sneered the little mother fucker in front of us. Really? Seriously? You were honestly standing here in line thinking that? Fucking douche bag.
Ugh, and he was such a little jock-looking cuntpunter, too. Rage quickly filled up my skin vessle and I began hissing disparaging remarks about him to Chooch. I was STILL bitching about that asshole when we were fastening the seat belt of car #4. “That’s why you should never say stuff like that in line, because there’s always going to be some dickhead who decides he needs to Hoover someone’s joy.”
“OK, just drop it!” Chooch snapped, clearly having moved on from the situation. Probably right after it happened, too. Meanwhile, two days later and I was still spitting slurs and talking about trading him to the gypsies for beads and a jar of pickles. I hate that Chooch is always trying to make me be a better person.
Sorry for being a MOM, Chooch. Jesus!
While this was happening, Henry was royally fucking up the simple task of ordering a funnel cake. I am going to pay him monies (blow jobs, obviously) to get him to write about that himself, though.
And then Henry won Chooch two stuffed animals which I think is pretty fucked up considering it was Mother’s Day, not Kids Who Have Mothers Day.