Chooch hounded us to get his caricature done at the Arts Festival last month but we kept saying no because we didn’t feel like being there any longer. (The Arts Festival always seems like such a grand idea until we get there and then we all get cranky & bored.)

But Henry for some reason was in an OK mood at the Big Butler Fair last week (correction: he was in a good mood after we let him eat) so he gave Chooch the greenlight. Even told the artist to go for the full-body color option. I couldn’t believe it. This was after Henry bought us a vacation, too! (More on that later.) So now I’m left to believe that Henry has a new side gig dealing drugs.

“You want me to draw you as Superman? Batman?” the artist who I immediately developed a crush on asked Chooch.

“A cat,” Chooch answered in his signature “Why are you asking me stupid questions?” tone.

I took the above picture right when this exchange happened and the artist turned around to laugh with us.

Of course he wanted to be a cat. We were cracking up the whole time, and then the OMG SO ADORABLE artist asked Chooch if he could take a picture of him with the finished drawing because he thought he was so funny.

We bought a frame for it today because it’s definitely a keeper. (Plus, it has the signature of my future husband on it.)

Continuing the theme of the day—Spin ’til We Barf—Chooch, Alyson and I were drawn to the Psychodrome, which is essentially a Scrambler cocooned within a geometrically-challenging steel dome. It was probably the longest line we stood in all day, which made me laugh because usually the Scrambler is one of those rides that people usually skip in favor of more extreme coasters and death traps, but I guess when you plant it beneath a strobe-lit octagonal (maybe? I didn’t do so well in Geometry) structure and blast pop music, people are more than happy to stand lifeless for 45 minutes listening to the faraway, tinny screams of each current round of Psychodrome riders.

There was a pre-teen girl in front of us and I noticed in my periphery her silently watching everything the three of us were doing: Chooch taking what he thought was clandestine videos of me (deleted in his sleep), Alyson and I speaking lovingly of our favorite TV workout hosts, Chooch doing everything in his power to bring he attention back to himself. I wanted to scold her for being nebby (Pittsburghese for “nosy” — there, I taught you something; rejoice), but that would entail me speaking to strangers and the only thing worse than speaking to strangers is when the stranger is a KID.

I shudder to think!

It seemed for awhile there that the line wasn’t moving.

“Do you think it’s closed?” Girl Stranger asked, breaking the small talk barrier.

I think I shrugged in response.

“Have you ever been on this before?” she asked.

We all mumbled no.

And then she would go quiet, searching the line for friendlier park patrons.

Girl Stranger looms in the background, and yes, she is watching me take this picture, the sole purpose of which was to capture her for posterity anyway, so look on, Girl Stranger. Look on.

“She’s alone and totally doesn’t know how to be by herself,” Alyson observed, which made me feel bad for my original judgments of “holy shit is this mini-broad annoying.”

Eventually, she found other people to interrogate, who told her that the ride lasted seven minutes and that’s why the line was moving so slow (and I know this because it was my turn to be nebby), so then I was starting to panic internally — I wasn’t sure exactly how stoked I was to be whipped around in a bevy of changing directions while strobe lights struggled to turn me into a temporary epileptic.

Meanwhile, Chooch was using the queue railings as makeshift monkey bars. I kept warning him that he was going to fall and die, but he’s a 7-year-old boy and knows everything, has published books on amusement park line gymnastics, what does some bitch mom know. Tiring of me nagging him, he moved from the top rail to the bottom, which I still wasn’t on board with but whatever — at least he was closer to the ground.

A few minutes passed and I saw it happen in veritable slo-mo: the slip of the hands, balance pulled out like a rug from beneath him, and then he was tilting back, back, back, until he had spun 180 degrees backward and kissing the asphalt with the back of his head.

Chooch, pre-head trauma. Also, I want that chair.

A 2 out of 10 as far as landings go.

Pretty sure the entire contents of the Psychodrome line ceased their conversations, put down their phones, turned off their One Direction daydreams in order to be ALL EYES ON CHOOCH.

Who, by the way, was red-faced and very openly weeping.

And that is when the lump in my throat informed me that I was going to have to….parent.

It’s so fucking awkward when your kid gets injured in public because no matter what, you’re going to feel like an asshole parent. Sure, I had put on the “You’re going to get hurt!” broken record, but no one else knew that. For all they knew, I had neglected him, forgot he was even there with me, or maybe I kicked him off the rail myself. WHO KNOWS?! You weren’t there! You don’t know!

There are several stages of emotions involved with being a parent seconds after your kid bites it:

1. Panic: OMG WILL I NEED TO DIAL 911?! ARE THERE BONES JUTTING FROM THE FLESH?!

2. Grief: MY KID IS CRYING AND I FEEL SO BAD!

3. Nausea: Usually only happens when blood is involved. Most commonly paired with Jello-legs.

4. Anger: I FUCKING TOLD THIS KID TO STOP [insert Jackassery here] BEFORE HE GETS HURT!

5. Fear: WE’RE THERE WITNESSES?! PLEASE DON’T CALL CHILD SERVICES.

6. Denial: NO I CAN’T DO THIS. SOMEONE ELSE HANDLE PLEASE. (Also known as “Worthlessness.”)

So he’s crying and burying his face into my stomach and I’m going through the “there there” motions, but I can FEEL THE EYES ON ME AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I felt for blood. None.

I looked at his pupils.

Seemed OK? I don’t know!

I couldn’t get him to calm down. Couldn’t find asshole Henry on any of the benches near the ride, further solidifying my hypothesis that he sneaks off to ride the helicopters in kiddie land every time we get in line for something too dangerous for his precious cargo. (I don’t know what that would be. His weener? Probably something he would consider precious.)

So I texted Henry “WHERE ARE YOU ASSHOLE” because god forbid I should be expected to handle something on my own. I was half-aware of Girl Stranger plucking some sort of tree dropping that Chooch had acquired during the grand finale of his klutz routine.

“Aw, that’s sweet of her,” I thought. But then she ruined the moment by asking me, “How many people do you think can ride this at one time?”

OH I DON’T KNOW, let me think about that after I make sure my kid remembers his name. God!

I asked Chooch if he wanted to go sit down, all the while praying that he says no, that he still wants to ride the Psychodrome, because lord knows we had invested enough time rotting away with all the other mouth-breathers in this motherfucking god forsaken line. And I briefly worried that people would judge me, like, “I can’t believe that woman is going to take her child on a ride like this when he clearly concussed according to the Google search I just performed because I have nothing better to do than criticize other parents instead of tending to the needs of my own children who I think I may have left in the car.”

But a cursory glance told me that most of the people in the line were other teenagers who had probably moved on to other things, like sexting, once they realized that no one was bleeding. And then I briefly made the situation bad again by telling Chooch that the bump on the back of his head was only going to get larger until it eventually hatched and he would probably feel much better once all the baby spiders exited.

And if he was concussed, I think a fling on the Psychodrome would have diagnosed it for us, and luckily he didn’t come staggering out of the other side vomiting up thick yellow digestive juices and wondering why everyone was suddenly speaking in ringing bells. (Although I was pretty close to it, so maybe I have a concussion? HENRY WHAT DID YOU DO?!)

A rare photo of the Oh Honestlys.

Pretty much my only memory of the ride was Chooch chastising me for not recognizing the Ke$ha song pinging off the steel dome, and then the lights went out and everyone screamed for an unlimited collection of minutes and then I was stumbling out into the sunlight. Amazing what dumping the Scrambler into a makeshift discoteque can do to ones nervous system. Never have I ridden a ride with such an apropos name. I later learned that this was Stephen King’s runner-up subject for “Under the Dome.” (Please don’t fact check that, thanks.)

And then just in case Chooch didn’t do enough damage during his tumble, I took him on the Turkish Twist, a quick-spinning cylindric room with a dropping floor, to further scramble his brains. That’s just being a good parent.

Creeps.

Canobie Po-Po!

Toward the end of the day, Alyson and I strong-armed Chooch into riding the Untamed (pictured above). That first 90 degree drop was right next to the line, so we had a good 30 minutes of listening to people scream like murder victims, which didn’t do much to reassure Chooch.

When it was our turn, the ride operator asked him if he was OK, because his face was blanched and his eyes were deadened. “He’s fine!” I lied with a nervous laugh.

I mean, that looks like the face of someone who’s fine, right?

When we pulled back into the ride platform, the ride operator asked Chooch if he liked it.

“NO!” he screamed, and that’s when I realized that not only was he scared, he was PISSED. “I kept hitting my head! And then HER purse hit me in the face!” he spat, pointing to Alyson.

Chooch right now just said to me, “Don’t even write anything about me crying because I never cried!!” even though he totally did.

Later, I asked him what his favorite ride was and he said the Untamed. Makes sense.

Metal, even on the Tea Cups.

We laughed our asses off on the Tea Cups, while Henry frowned from a distance.

And if I had to sum the day up in one picture, it would be this one. So stoked for Canobie. Thank you, Alyson, for taking us there! Give me a good, old-fashioned amusement park over Six Flags ANY day!

In line for the Yankee Cannonball, I noticed the sign on the ride operator’s podium and started imagining Henry as the ride operator and a line full of Erin Rachelle Kellys distracting him. And with that, I am going to turn this over to Henry and let him tell the tale of what he was feeling in each photo, as I’m sure his thoughts and feelings are riveting. And I’m sure he’ll need some coaxing so this will probably turn into a Q&A session.

Me = italics

Henry = not italics

Asian Man Moustache Ornament.

Waiting in another line to feed the kids again.

Erin: “How much does it annoy you when Chooch and I scream our food orders at you and then leave you to carry everything on your own?”

Henry, muttering: “Oh Jesus Christ. It’s like having two 10-year-olds.”

I believe everyone else was done by the time I got my food.

Erin: “When you were in the SERVICE, did you go to any amusement parks?”

Henry: “Magic Mountain. I don’t recall being anywhere else.”

Erin: “Did you have fun?”

Henry, seriously thinking about it: “Yeah.”

Erin: “What did you wear?”

Henry, appalled: “WHAT? I don’t KNOW. It was like 20* years ago! I’m going to guess jeans and a t-shirt.”

*(Try THIRTY years, buddy.)

Erin: “A TED NUGENT shirt??”

Henry: “No I don’t know what it was.”

Erin: “DID YOU RIDE STUFF?!”

Henry: “Yeah, whatever rides they had back in 1984.”

Erin: “So, you rode rides and had FUN. What happened since then  to make you hate amusement parks then?!”

Henry: “I don’t HATE amusement parks. I just can’t ride rides without getting sick now.”

[Finally. The truth comes out. Henry was molested by another SERVICEMAN on a ride at Magic Mountain and now gets sick every time he goes to an amusement park. How did it take me so long to uncover this?!

I bet it happened on the Tilt-a-Whirl.]

Getting ready to finish Chooch’s food, and also the rest of Erin’s.

Thanks for winning me a Strawberry Shortcake, assholes.

Chooch and I wasting another $5 on rings.

Contemplating finding a bar to go to.

Best time of the day!

Erin: “Did you try to fuck that lady in front of you?”

Henry: “Yes.”

He learned this fancy hand-clasp in PANAMA.

All my minions follow behind.

Erin: “Did the Sky Ride bring back memories of BASIC TRAINING EXERCISES in the SERVICE? Like JUMPING OUT OF A PLANE?!?!”

Henry: “I didn’t jump out of airplanes.”

Erin: “What would it take to get you to ride the Tea Cups? Fill them with FAYGO?”

Henry: You’re so dumb.”

“I have an idea: let’s leave.”

Erin: “Did you have any fun at all? Like on a scale of Sitting in Your Underwear Watching Criminal Minds to Remarrying Your Ex-Wife, how terrible was your day?”

Henry: “I never said I didn’t have fun. Just because I don’t ride anything, doesn’t mean I don’t have fun.”

Erin: “Wow. What an Old Person response.”

I had been studying Canobie Lake Park in the weeks prior to our trip. Already, I liked that it had rides that I hadn’t seen anywhere else, rides that are probably popular in gypsy-run carnivals in Eastern Europe that are probably not inspected but definitely have the best motherfucking pierogies you’re ever going to find this side of Hunky poker night in Pittsburgh. And it has three coasters and a darkride! Something for everyone and everything for me.

Canobie has the motherlode of spinny rides, the kinds with the brightly-colored flashing lights and German techno music and random murals of Marilyn Monroe standing on a beach. Alyson kept saying things like, “YES! LET’S RIDE THIS CENTRIFUGAL FORCE TORTURE DEVICE AND BARF ALL OVER OURSELVES!” to which I would cheer while silently hoping that no one actually barfed because HAVEN’T YOU SEEN PROBLEM CHILD!?

The Extreme Frisbee, are you fucking kidding me. When I first saw it, I gave it a million middle fingers with my eyes alone. Something has happened to me along the way where I’m less afraid of puking and more afraid of OMG THAT FUCKER GOES HIGH AS SHIT!! This is why I have refused to ride the SwingShot since my inaugural boarding in 2007, where I honestly though my bowels were going to liquify and seep out of my mouth. But this past trip to Kennywood, I had a change of heart, and ended up riding it THREE TIMES. And I LOVED it. I kept saying things like, “Why was I so afraid of it then?” and “I want to get married on this ride” and “TAKE ME TO PROM, SWINGSHOT! I’ll pretend to be a virgin!”

I applied this revelation to the case of Erin v. The Extreme Frisbee and asked Alyson if she’d ride it. (Chooch was so angry that he wasn’t tall enough, so he and Henry did lame stuff in the meantime.)

“Ohhh, this looks REAL barfy,” she said solemnly, and then headed straight for the entrance.

Alyson ain’t scared of shit, you guys. She is the model riding partner!

In line, I tried to distract myself by talking about Serious Things, like being stalked by CYS-reporting religious nuts and getting Single White Femaled once again, this time by a Married White Female. But soon it was our turn and I honestly almost ran of the ride. Especially when we were the last two to board and found that we weren’t even going to sit next to each other. I didn’t want to die alone!

But the nice ride assistant (they are so nice and super enthusiastic at Canobie, often times making all of the riders scream and cheer before sending them off to their uncertain death) made everyone next to me move down so that Alyson could take the seat next to me. What a gentleman. And then, in effort to mask my fear with humor, I pointed out that the ride was made in Germany.

Of course.

Germany! You motherfucker!

I actually am a 3 ring circus — how did they know!?

And then I just remember sheer terror, roaring gears, and SCREAMING. The kind of screaming that is usually followed shortly by a chainsaw in Texas.

Alyson laughed her ass off through the entire ride. I’m sitting next to her, eyelids clenched, fingers gripping the safety bar and chanting, “WHY WHY WHY WHY OMG OMH WHY WE’RE ALL GONNA DIEEEE” over and over while she’s laughing like she’s being tickled. And that made me laugh too.

But only for a second! Then it was back to motherfucking Germans and their sadistic carnival engineers.

SURPRISE! We didn’t die. And for some fucked up reason, about an hour later I admitted that I wanted to ride it again. And we did too, shortly before the park closed. And it was even scarier / more fun at night. THERE, I SAID IT. I like the stupid Frisbee.

I have found, though, that the secret to success of being a grown-up in an amusement park full of racing-light temptations is MODERATION. Ride a goddamn spinny ride, take a stroll, eat a fucking foodstuff. Then ride some more. And keep doing that.

This does not work for Henry or dummies. Sorry, suckers. Get a better sense of balance or something.

It’s tough when you’re at a place like this with a child though, because it seems that their least favorite things in the world are “taking a stroll and eating fucking foodstuff.” They want to have their brains scrambled and then get back in line to do it again.

Chooch was an impatient jerk when, after riding the Yankee Cannonball (a wooden coaster that may have truncated my spinal column a little bit but Alyson didn’t hear the sickening crack over top of her hysterical laughter), I vetoed his urgent pleas for moremoremore in favor of using the masticated dough of a personal pan pizza to weigh down my stomach lining like absorbant paperweights. A few days later, Chooch was looking at the map of Canobie we brought with us as a souvenir and said something about the Zero Gravity ride that he didn’t ride because of me.

“I didn’t even know they had one of those there!” I cried, because I totally would have rode it with him.

“Yeah, I asked you if you wanted to ride it but you said—” (and here he hires a nasal, whiny tone to mimic me) “—‘Not right now! I need to eat something and then ride something calm!'” And he also scrunched up his arms like a T-Rex and fluttered his fingers, because this is his Erin impression which is awesome to know.

At least he got to ride some spinny/bouncy ride by himself while the grown-ups were eating, god forbid.

Speaking of grand impersonators, a pseudo Justin Bieber took the stage next to us and treated us to a thrilling display of lip-synching and Martha’s Jazz Barn choreography. Alyson mentioned that she didn’t even know any Bieber songs, WELL NOW SHE DOES! And hopefully the next billion times she hears one in a grocery store, she will think of me!

Later, we were in line for another spinny ride called the Skater and were thoroughly entertained by this beefy sports fan who rejoiced in cries of “AWESOME!” and “YEAAAAH!” kind of like Lil Jon, which made Alyson and me crack up because he just did not seem like the kind of guy who would be so joyous on an oversized skateboard spinning up and down a ramp. But he was REALLY FUCKING FEELING IT and I looked over at Henry, who was standing off to the side of the Skater, eating a blue Italian ice, and thought, “Why can’t that asshole enjoy these rides too!?” Maybe if there was a SERVICE-themed amusement park.

When it was our turn, I wound up sitting next to a friendly but boundary-crossing guy and who was pretty much using the entire left side of my body as his afternoon nap apparatus. Dude was fucking heavy! Meanwhile, Alyson was teaching Chooch to hold up his hands, metal-style, and scream “Slayerrrrr!”

When we got off the ride, I started cracking up all over again because Skater’s #1 Fan & Afternoon Nap Guy belonged to each other!

(l to r) Skater’s #1 Fan & Afternoon Nap Guy.

SLAYERRRR!

****

I’m trying to keep this as condensed as possible, but the fact is, we never get to hang out with Alyson and I want to remember every thing that happened! I don’t want this to be all tl;dr (that means “too long; didn’t read,” BARB!) so I’m splitting it up into several parts. Sue me!

daddy didn’t go on the turtles because he’s such a cry baby. he also did not want to go on the arrow three 60 but I did and the swing shot. mommy said I was so scared to go on the arrow 3 60 but I wasn’t. I sat by a girl with red hair and mommy sat by a girl with black hair. [Ed.Note. And these are details that Chooch remembers because the girls were his type: TEENAGERS.]

mommys lying! its not true. it’s daddys type!! derp trolled

me and mommy went  on the whip and the guy said enjoy your ride and when the ride started mommy mocked the guy and on the whole ride mommy kept saying ENJOY YOUR WOOOOIDE IT was annoying.

{Ed. Note: OMG THAT LITTLE FUCKER, he was laughing so hard when I was doing that! Now he has to act all hard core for the Internet, WTF.]

fml

me and laura were talking about minecraft servers while mommy and daddy went on the thunderbolt.

I got to go on the swingshot and the aero360 [Ed.Note: I spelled it for him this time because I could stand it no longer.] and cosmic chaos and phantoms revenge for the first time  this year!  I feel sad and happy and mad. [Ed.Note. Perhaps we should get him some therapy.]

nuh uh I should not have a therapy!!!

I kept squishing mommy the first time we went on Musik Express.

Laura was squishing me on the Musik Express. I was not scared.

I won. [Ed.Note: NO HE DID NOT. HE ONLY WON AT WASTING OUR MONEY, THANK YOU, NICE TRY.]

enjoy your woooooooooide.

We made it somewhere right outside of Connecticut by the end of Driving: Day One*, and crashed at some sketchy hotel in New York.

*(There were videos in that post that I don’t think were working when I initially published it, but I just embedded them from YouTube so now everyone can run right on over to watch them. No really. RUN! RUN LIKE SNOOKIE IS CHASING YOU WITH HER KOOKA ALL A’THRUST!)

Woke up super early the next morning—after barely sleeping at all thanks to my log-sawing travel compatriots—in order to drive the remaining four hours and make it to Alyson’s house at a reasonable hour, because hello — we had an amusement park to go to! I really enjoy road trips. I like sitting my fat ass in the passenger seat, complaining about being bored, fidgeting with the music, and regaling tales of shit that no one in the car cares about. Mostly, I like not being home and the anticipation of arriving somewhere new. This all goes out the window once we hit traffice. Which we did, for what seemed like HOURS. (But was apparently only about 30 minutes.)

I was nervously excited about seeing Alyson again. We met on LiveJournal back in 2005, introduced by her shitty then-boyfriend, and hit it off immediately. On the outside, we seem very different: she’s metal, I’m a scene kid. But we LOVE THE CURE and share an inside joke regarding that. We have the same ridiculous humor and we find the simplest, most mundane things to be HILARIOUS. Things that make most people (see: Henry) raise their eyebrows. (Or, in Henry’s case, frown.) Music touches our souls in ways that seem confusing and strange to others because, you know, we’re not 16 anymore and it is apparently bizarre that we will travel great distances and go to such lengths to see our favorites perform live.

We also get fucked over in a myriad of astonishing ways by a virtual conveyor belt of “friends,” but are actually just people obsessed with their own unhappiness. Alyson and I first met in person back in 2006 when she traveled to Pittsburgh to attend my baby shower. And the last time I saw her was in 2008 when she returned for our mutual friend Kara’s wedding. It has been a long time between visits and I wondered if she would decide that I was more annoying than she remembered or that Chooch was a brat (very real possibilities!). YOU NEVER KNOW!

But no, we fell right into a groove, begging Henry to speak of the SERVICE and Ted Nugent; sharing stories of our favorite bands and the singers who have shat upon our hearts; and finding sheer delight in the small things all day at Canobie Lake Park, while having our stomachs churned and our brains scrambled. I have always felt that if we lived closer, we would be even better friends.

And I was so happy that she suggested we visit her local amusement park a few months ago in an email, because I’m always scouring the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiasts website for parks to go to so I’ve known about Canobie and their darkride called Mine of the Lost Souls and was really hoping it would be a possibility to go there on our trip. And Alyson even seemed excited when I replied to her suggested itinerary and said, “CANOBIE!”

What a perfect way to spend our first day together! Laughing like little kids at some old, charming amusement park. What a perfect way to catch up: while standing in line for spinny rides, pausing here and there to point out shitty tattoos and eavesdrop on other conversations while taking pictures of Henry looking exhausted and totally put-upon.

And what a great way for her to bond with Chooch, who took to her immediately and helped himself to a self-guided tour of her home as soon as he walked through the door. The last time he saw her, he was about 2 and a half years old and somehow he actually remembers this. A few weeks ago, I tried to show him her picture on Facebook so that he would know who we were going to see, and he said, “I know who she is. We went to Eat n Park when she was here. I sat on a motorcycle.”

TRUE STORY!

Anyway, we were only in her house for about a minute when I realized we had been pronouncing “Canobie” this whole time. It’s not actually like Obi Wan Kenobi! But CAN-uh-bee. Chooch and I kept catching ourselves beginning to say it wrong all weekend, but Henry flat out kept pronouncing it wrong, because when you’re a SERVICE veteran, you can get away with shit like that.

And then I pointed out that she has a Troy Polamalu bobblehead, to which she responded, “Yeah, YOU got it for me!” Even Henry remembered, but I completely drew a blank.

“Did I KNOW that I got it for you?” I asked jokingly, with a little bit of truth.

Yep, that’s me: That totally attentive friend whom everyone desires.

And we hadn’t even gone to the park yet so I couldn’t blame it on Canobie whiplash.

In typical Oh Honestly, Erin-form, this needs to be a multi-parter because I have a ton of photos to wade through and happy thoughts to sort out and hopefully an official Henry Interview to transcribe. Ciao for now!

(I actually never finished the 2013 Kennywood Chronicles, either. BLOGGING ANXIETY. Maybe I’ll make Chooch finish it for me.)

There is something about Kennywood, more than any other amusement park, that triggers something in my head and makes every single thing so fucking funny to me. I was talking to Barb about this at work the other day, and as an example I said, “Remember that one time I went to Kennywood and Janna hit her head on the train—-”

“—yeah, and you thought it was the funniest thing in the world,” Barb* finished for me with a sigh. Granted, Janna can injure herself anywhere—on a farm, on a boat, at Planned Parenthood—and it’s the funniest thing in the world to me, but when it happens at Kennywood? Bitch, you best hold up your splatter shield because I’m about to piss all over your shoes.

*(I have to namedrop Barb to get her to read my blog.)

Being at Kennywood is like being a kid again and having a parent nagging you to grow up (Henry) but not giving a single fuck because hello, you’re at motherfucking Kennywood, eating square ice cream cones and making people ride on things that they really truly don’t want to ride but you just keep whittling away at their resolve like it’s a piece of driftwood about to resemble their dejected face.

And I’ll tell you, I need to document every moment of it, because someday, maybe years from now, maybe next winter, I’m going to be depressed about something probably Jonny Craig-related and I’m going to want to have something to cheer me up, and since Henry probably will still be too cheap to buy me an engagement ring or a wheelchair from 1897, I’m going to start fishing around my blog archives, looking for happy memories that might make me LOL through the tears.

And then I’ll come across this picture that Laura took of Chooch and me on the Kangaroo, right after Chooch gave me a disgusted look because we had to switch sides so I wouldn’t turn my son into an adolescent pancake with the sheer force of my mammoth body against his, and we were sitting behind a picture perfect family who collectively cooed “WheeeEEEEEE!” every time their car went over the kangaroo jump, and Chooch and I mocked them openly and they probably definitely were aware of this, and my hair was all damp and kinky from the rain. And I will momentarily forget the bain of my sadness because now I’m reliving happy memories, and this is why true bloggers blog, people!

On the Whip, I kept screaming, “ENJOOOOOOOOY YOUR WWWWWIDE!!” in an obnoxious Elderly-Jewish-Lady-Talking-Like-A-Baby voice and it was making Chooch laugh so hard, so that made me do it even more obnoxiously, like every time we’d be about to be whipped around the bend, I would cry out, “Oh! Oh! Oh! ENJOOOOOOY IT!!!!!!!” So then we kept saying it to each other all day and Henry would just look at us quizzically and frown, because god forbid he’s not part of the inside joke. (Is he ever?)

Henry had to ride something with me, oh noes.

Thankfully, the Thunderbolt is one of two rollercoasters at Kennywood that doesn’t have a stupid camera waiting to take the World’s Worst Photo of you. I don’t know what it is about those things, but they make me look a million times worse than I thought I actually look. I mean, I feel as though I didn’t look too bad when I left the house that day; I brushed my hair, put on makeup, wore things that weren’t ill-fitting or made of Lycra from the Tila Tequila Collection, yet somehow I look like Throw Mama From the Train in every one of those photos, like my body is just a mound of fat and cellulite and pale, sweaty skin that was poured into a mold loosely based off of Honey Boo Boo’s mama, stuffed into a rollercoaster seat and then topped with the head of bulldog, the face of which will somehow managed to be pulled in three different directions while the mouth is opened in Ready-To-Receive-Penis-stance at the precise moment the flash goes off.

Ta-da, here’s your $15 proof that Weight Watchers ain’t doing jack shit!

Fuck it, let’s go have ice cream!

Laura is having the wrong ice cream.

Henry was very adamant about me not capturing a photo of him deep-throating his ice cream cone andkept making threats to post retaliation photos of me on Facebook. Oh, OK.

Meanwhile, Chooch is like, “Did someone say pictures? Bring it!” He’s ready with a pulled-face within seconds of me pointing the camera at him. It’s a wonder his school pictures don’t look like this, too.

HAHAHAHAHA. That’s some ferocious cone-sucking. It’s like he’s fishing for bone marrow. Get it, girl!

One of my Top 5 moments of the day was when Chooch, Laura and I were in line for the Auto Race, which was probably the only line we actually stood in all day, aside from the Phantom’s Revenge clusterfuck. The Auto Race is like a Kennywood institution at this point and all the parents want to ride on it with their kids while telling them about what Kennywood was like back in the day when bitches used to wear ball gowns and get down in the dance hall.

My earliest summation of Kennywood is that everyone used to wear fanny packs and neon everything, but unless it involves me taking out a line of credit so Chooch can play all of the games, he doesn’t give a shit about my Kennywood memories.

So instead, we spent the duration of the ride laughing our fucking asses off at Laura, who realized at the very last minute that not only was she going to have to ride alone, but she was going to have to sit in the back of the car, because the driver seats are designed to accommodate children and Ethiopian supermodel asses only, thanks, now please take the backseat.

Laura’s invisible chauffeur, also known as “air,” probably gave her a smoother ride than my driver, that’s for sure.

Seriously, I went to high school with a bitch who was modeled after Laffing Sal. Her parents should consider that a success.

The train ride was kind of like the “time out” of the day. It was good to sit down and decompress and make gagging noises when we passed the river.

I hate the fucking river.

Dum-dum Daddy didn’t want to go on the train because he’s such a crybaby and so scared to go on it so he decides to sit on the bench and hold mommy’s and my drinks but then he DRANK IT ALL. — Chooch

Henry sitting alone made Chooch and I crack the fuck up, but then the train ride started and Laura was all, “Shh! I’m trying to hear what the man is saying!” God, nothing important! Just historical facts about the park, Laura! Why don’t you just go to a library if you want to learn!

Anyway, Laura shushing us worked, because we spent the rest of the train ride moderately well-behaved.

MORE LATER! OH BOY!

Even more than amusement parks, county fairs, road trips and cemetery heat waves, my favorite thing about summer is WARPED TOUR. (Which you already know if you’ve known me for at least 15 days. I have framed pictures of the damn thing on my desk at work for fuck’s sake.)

The tour officially kicked off a few days ago and I have been salivating over all of the pictures they’ve been throwing up on Instagram. One more month until it’s here in Pittsburgh and I can hardly wait! Chiodos! Sleeping With Sirens! Hands Like Houses! The Wonder Years! letlive.! The Used! Man Overboard! BRING ME THE HORIZON! Plus all the bands I don’t even know that I like yet!  I can’t even. An entire day to be amongst my own people!

What’s notable about this year’s Warped Tour is that it will be Chooch’s first ever time attending!

We almost took him last year, but decided against it at the last minute. But ever since he went to the Pierce the Veil show (and found out his 8th grade cougar-girlfriend will be there), he has been expressing interest in going with us this summer and it’s not like I would ever try to discourage that! I really think he’s going to fucking love it. There’s so much going on there that if he needs a break from the music, he’ll be covered. And I’m sure Henry will be using him as his scapegoat.

“Oh, boy….uh, it looks like Chooch needs to….sit down. Under a tree. And take a nap. BBL KBYE.”

Maybe I’ll try to get them both to guest post about it afterward.

Anyway, I’m posting this not just because I’m excited but also because I needed a break from writing about Kennywood because the residual giggles are apt to get me fired from my job that is how obnoxious I’ve been here this week. Sorry, co-workers! I’m trying to get my psychotic, worrisome laughing fits confined to my desk but sometimes they slip out in the bathroom and the kitchen and every single hallway I’ve tread on today.

No Jonny Craig at Warped Tour this year, too bad so sad.

OK, I need to get back to penning my Kennywood prose so that my detractors can get ready to tell me how grammatically incorrect my “writing” is, at which point I will pause to remind everyone that all I do is post iPhone photos and YouTube videos of my favorite songs, so like…what writing?

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 days, 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 ahead 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 behind her had taken her seat. So she had to walk around, looking for a car with an empty seat, and that is how 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 puzzled 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 IN A GRAVE OF IDIOCY from all of the laughing we’ve been doing. Team Dickhead FTW!

These past two days at work, Barb has basically been searching her desk for her imaginary OUT TO LUNCH sign every time she sees me approaching  because she knows I’m going to just stand there and have uncontrollable giggles 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.

It’s tradition for us to go to Kennywood on Father’s Day. I can’t remember how it started. I think Henry randomly heard someone say that it’s one of the least crowded days of the years (all those deadbeat dads don’t wanna leave their couch and beer cases, I guess?) so we went when Chooch was a baby and it was pretty awesome. But for an amusement park like Kennywood, even the supposed “least crowded day” is going to have some lines in which  to wait and count prison tattoos.

Unless you go during a rainstorm!

But we almost didn’t go. It was raining so terribly hard when we woke up on Sunday morning that I almost made the decision to not go (because it is ALWAYS my decision). But deep down, I had a really good feeling that it would turn out to be OK. One of the best Kennywood experiences of my life was back in the late 90s when my friend Lisa and I went on a day that called for thunderstorms — everyone thought we were nuts, but we sure showed THEM. (I think?)

It stopped raining for about two hours before we got to the park, so we were all smug on our drive out there. Of course, rain began to drop in torrents right when Chooch got off the first ride of the day….

 …which was promptly shut down as soon as the ride ended.

I wasn’t about to let the rain get us down, so I led Henry and Chooch toward rides that are under cover, like the Musik Express and the Exterminator, which is kind of like an indoor Crazy Mouse but a million times better and usually has a long wait time.

But once we walked inside the building that houses the Exterminator, we discovered that there were only about 10 people in line in front of us. Smugness reactivated! I have NEVER been able to get on the Exterminator that fast before ever! The downside is that it eliminated the opportunity to get the inherent need for humanity mocking out of my system. But another upside was that we didn’t have to stand in an endless queue under a roof amid sweating Yinzers for an hour – like being in Hell with a lid on and having to endure the otherworldly stench of rotten underpits and nicotine breath.

Speaking of nicotine, the rain took a long enough smoke break to enable Chooch and I to ride the Jack Rabbit — another 0 minute wait in line — but then it started up right after Laura arrived so we took shelter in the arcade, which was coincidentally the first time in my 33 years of visiting Kennywood to ever give a shit about the arcade.

It was still pouring — the kind of rainstorm that comes down so hard it actually hurts — so we figured that would be a good time to eat….under a roof.

“I just spent $30 on food and all I got was a lousy soft pretzel and my dirty kid’s germ-fingered leftovers. And also, this sick Tom Selleck ‘stache. So…priceless, I guess.”

Chooch kept going on and on about wanting to on “God’s Boat Ride,” which was what he was calling Noah’s Ark all day long, without a single pelvic thrust of irony given. It was still raining kookas and albinos by  the time we finished our lunch that rivaled the price of park admission, so for once I was on Team Chooch and agreed that we should run for our lives to the nearest Noah’s Ark post haste. We were halfway there when I finally bothered to notice that Henry wasn’t with us.

“He was still eating,” Laura said in a sad tone, like she couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t notice something so significant as my life partner mid-lunch. But clearly the rain was affecting her tone, because duh — of course I wouldn’t care to notice something like that. Hahahaha. Hahaha. Hahahahah, oh god.

(I have residual Kennywood giddiness and it is ALL I CAN DO NOT TO WRITE THIS ENTIRE THING IN CAPSLOCK OK OMG.)

Noah’s Ark ended up being one of the only rides we stood in line for all day long, I guess because it was still raining at that point and Noah’s Ark screams SHELTER to all of us wet fucks at Kennywood. God, I’m so good at sleuthing.

My favorite part of Noah’s Ark was when they completely changed it from its original glory and made it into one of the crappiest, pointless rides in the park. J/K. My actual favorite part was when I hid behind a corner and scared the hemorrhoided SHIT out of Henry, he was looking in  the opposite direction at the time, making him even more startled, which he will deny but I saw the way his eyes bulged out behind his dumb black-rimmed glasses. That motherfucker be scared.

The best part of Noah’s Ark is the bouncing floor that makes everyone involuntarily twerk, two-by-two. Suck on that, Noah.

Even Henry’s hemorrhoids be twerkin’.

Too bad Chooch isn’t still in CATHOLIC SCHOOL. Maybe they’d let him wear street clothes for a day if he told them he twerked on down in God’s Boat Ride. Until they wiki’d “twerk” and find 40 ways to connect it to the Devil.

There was an old man in our group who only had a stump for a right hand and I prayed a little right there in God’s Floating Church that Chooch wouldn’t notice.

(He thankfully did not notice.)

(I really wish that guy would have been creative with his stump. If you’re not going to strap a bayonette on it, at least draw it a fucking Sharpie face, for Christ’s sake.)

(Christ’s face?)

And then I got REALLY giddy, you guys. We decided to go on the Racer….

OK, I know this going to be really hard to understand, but the Racer is a RACING rollercoaster with TWO TRAINS that RACE EACH OTHER OMG.

Chooch and I ran to the backseat of the red one, and Laura, fearing the outcome of being our opponent, opted to sit in the same train as us. She’s smart.

Henry, however, chose to sit ALONE in the blue train, which made Chooch and me die with evil laughter. You would have thought this was the funniest thing ever, the motherfucking Kings of Comedy tour on the goddamn Racer at Kennywood, with the extent of our Level 10 belly laughs. Everyone around us had undulating “STFU” thought bubbles above their rain-frizzed heads. Henry kept turning around to glare at us.

Then one of the guys working the ride made the mistake of getting on his microphone thingie to ask everyone if they were having fun, and of course Chooch and I were the only motherfuckers who responded obnoxiously.

RIDING ALONE AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Oh shit, we heckled the motherfuck out of Henry the entire way up the inaugural hill. It was the FUNNIEST THING IN THE WORLD to Chooch and me, you guys. HENRY! RIDING ALONE! ON FATHER’S DAY!

DON’T STAND UP, MOTHERFUCKERS.

From the very first hill and on, I proceeded to fake-scream as obnoxiously and blood-curdling as possible.

“My God! You sound like you’re being murdered!” Laura shouted over her shoulder, which of course made me channel my inner Janet Leigh/Jamie Lee Curtis Scream Queen until even the people on the other train were looking around for the source of the nails on chalkboard. Most notably was the older man in the backseat of the blue train. He was riding with his young granddaughter and straight up SCOWLED AT ME when our train whizzed by at the very end, bringing us to sweet, sexy victory.

“YEAH! WE WON! YOU’RE ALL LOSERS!!!” Chooch shouted across me at the assholes on the blue train. We continued our asshole parade all the way off the ride until we met up with Henry near the exit for his side.

“WE EVEN BEAT YOU OFF OF THE RIDE!!!” I screamed, laughing so hard I had to squat to keep from peeing. (This is my signature move. I perform it at work at least thrice weekly. However, I’ve already met my quota today alone.)

Loser Train.

Henry acting like he doesn’t care that he lost, because with family like me and Chooch, he’s clearly a winner.

Walking backward to mock Henry some more.

Then I came across the old man who was scowling at me and realized it was the librarian from my high school and I totally fucking lost it. Oh my god, I was laughing so hard that my breath was caught in my throat. I was such a pain in that man’s ass when I was a teenager, so it was only fitting that I put a aural blemish on three minutes of his Father’s Day all these years later.

Then we rode the Jack Rabbit, another wooden coaster, on which I proceeded to scream like an elderly lady from the 1920’s getting a sexual tickle from a feather.

Henry, as much as it must have pained him, actually cracked a smile during that one, though, if you can try to imagine.

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.)

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 tattooed 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 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 him 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 just 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.)

Douchebag in Blue

So it seems again I have been asked to recap an event that Erin deems blog worthy. Me, I feel it’s just another day in the life. Chooch decided he wanted a funnel cake ,while Erin and him rode the scrambler I was instructed to get. It seemed easy enough since there was no line, just run up order it and sit down and wait. Ordered it,sat down waited, noticed the tall gentleman in blue at the order window above. He placed his order after me while I was taken the picture ( as instructed to by Erin) waiting for my funnel cake to fry up. I said gentleman in blue, which now is going to turn into tall douchebag in blue as he turned from the order window and went directly to the pickup window and proceeded to grab my just finished funnelcake. My mother who was sitting behind me ,just got the words ” he’s gonna take your funnel……” out of her mouth when he grabbed it turned and almost ran past me before I had a chance to get a word out of my mouth. He was actually walking very briskly almost like he knew what he had done. No big deal, by this time his had come up and was ready for pickup. All I had to do was wait for Chooch to get done, so I set ti down on the bench next to my mother not thinking that it might fall off , it was quite windy that day. Well of course right before Erin and Chooch returned the wind had proceeded to pick it up and throw it on the ground, and blow the plate clean across the park. Didn’t want it to go to waste, I mean it fell behind the bench and just hit the ground for a sec so no harm in eating it and Chooch would have eaten it. So by the time they got the I had devoured almost all of it except for the powdered sugar that was still on the ground. Well of course I had to explain what happened and after all the

” eww how could you eat that off the ground”

and the tears from Chooch , I went and replaced the first funnelcake. Got this one wrapped to go so there would be no accidents. We were now leaving and as always the wacky worm is always rode on the way out. As always I had to use the bathroom and walked right past the wacky worm. When I returned I noticed Erin frantically waving her arms at me. Like I’m supposed to know what that means, it also comes with the

” you asshole can’t you tell what I want”

looks. I noticed too late the douchbag was on the wacky worm directly in front of her.

[EDIT NOTE: I did not edit this for Henry. It’s time for him to spread his wings and fly. Also, the title of this is mine.

Some other things: now I know the TRUE story. Henry made it sound like he was loafing by the pick up window when Tall Douchebag in the Blue Jacket swooped in and snatched it right from under Henry’s nose. I feel less bad now!

Henry was taking a picture of the funnel cake place because I asked him to since Dutch things appeal to me. My phone was dead or I’d have done it myself.

Also, I was gesticulating wildly on the Wacky Worm because I wanted Henry to take a picture of the Douchebag (again, my phone was dead). But since Henry and I fail at Charades, the ball was dropped. Actually, I think he knew exactly what I wanted and just didn’t care. This sounds more accurate.]

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.

Mother’s Day used to suck for me (mostly because nothing is ever good enough and I will find a reason to be an entitled asshole) until last year when I learned that DelGrosso’s Amusement Park in Tipton, PA has FREE ADMISSION for mothers on Mother’s Day and you don’t even have to provide DNA samples.

Granted, it’s a two-hour drive and a ride-all-day pass is only like $12 normally, but it’s the principle of the fact that I am being rewarded for those nine suicidal months where a fetal Chooch abused me internally and ballooned my stomach out to the point where people thought I was having twins.

Of all the horrors of pregnancy, THAT is the one thing that sticks with me. Vanity wins.

Plus, I was hoping that maybe the Douchebag Doppelganger would be back. You never know – maybe it’s Mother’s Day tradition for his potato sack wife. (“You have problems,” Lee said when I giddily mentioned this possibility to him at work.)

Henry invited his mom Judy to join us, which initially I thought was super sweet until I realized his motive was to hope her presence tamed me. I always try to curb my obnoxious streak when she’s around because I’m afraid she will yell at me. She has never yelled at me before, but there’s always a first time for everything and I don’t know if she keeps a wooden spoon in her purse or not.

I mean, even CHOOCH checks himself around her.

After two hours of me progressively turning up the radio over Judy talking about people I don’t know while admiring the countryside and pondering how people could live out there (“Do they have electricity?” she wondered as we passed a house that had a DirectTV satellite, a swimming pool, at least 4 quads and an SUV in the driveway. “They’re not AMISH,” I answered.), we finally made it to DelGrosso’s.

And it was COLD. Only around 50 degrees, I think.

Since I’m a mom, I didn’t have to get the ride-all-day wristband. But Chooch did, and now he’s winning our weird wristband competition. We keep our fair/amusement park/special event wristbands on until they fall off on their own, which drives Henry absolutely nuts. I wore my Jonny Craig concert wristband for over a month before it finally disintegrated on my arm. My co-worker Pam noticed it one day and thought I had been in the hospital. When I explained it to her, she shook her head and said, “I’d make you take a nap and then cut that off in your sleep!”

We both still have our Knoebels wristbands on (they’re plastic, so these bitches ain’t budging, much to Henry’s chagrin — he takes his wristbands off before we even get to the car), but now Chooch has a DelGrosso’s wristband on his other wrist and I hate it.

Anyway, wristband woes aside, it was a great day to ride shit! It wasn’t crowded at all, not that I have ever seen DelGrosso’s especially packed, so Chooch and I of course ran right onto the Wacky Worm. We asked Judy if she wanted to ride it too since it’s so mild, and she just laughed and said, “Yeah, no.”

Which is weird, because minutes later, Chooch and I were standing in line for the Crazy Mouse (the only ride there that ever really has a line because it’s the motherfucking Crazy Mouse), when Judy sidled on up behind us. I thought she just wanted to chat since Henry had wandered off on his first of 870 bathroom pilgrimages.

“I’m going to ride this,” she said all nonchalantly, causing Chooch and I to laugh. Good one, Judy! “No really, I was watching it from over there and it doesn’t look so bad,” she continued.

Meanwhile, Henry had returned from counting his hemorrhoids and was all, “What is the meaning of this?” At least, that’s what I assume his facial expression meant, but it could have been gas.

“She’s riding this with us,” I said in a “duh” tone with a shrug. So a 70+ year old lady is going to ride the Crazy Mouse, there’s nothing to see here. Go sit down, Henry.

The kids running the ride were stoked that Judy was riding and took extra care with getting her strapped in, which is good because I was like, “I don’t know. Maybe put your seatbelt on?” I’m not the best when it comes to being helpful. And absolutely no one is surprised.

“This is what you do for your grandkids,” Judy said as our car ascended the inaugural hill. Quick, someone tell my mom that!

Immediately after, Judy went on the merry-go-round with Chooch.

A little while later, after we had eaten (Chooch’s least favorite part because god forbid he has to sit down at a table, and I can relate to that but I have officially reached that age where eating is imperative to help temper some of the impending motion sickness that I am inevitably going to face), Judy said, “I want to ride those airplanes.”

We couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. I thought maybe she had seen some ride in Kiddie Land that she wanted to try, but then as we continued to walk, she pointed and said, “There! The airplanes!”

It wasn’t “airplanes,” it was the fucking Yo-Yo.

Let me tell you something about the Yo-Yo: these aren’t your ordinary amusement park swings. These sons of bitches are SCARY. County fairs usually have the Yo-Yo in their arsenal of death traps. I always feel incredibly unsafe and especially white-knuckled on the Yo-Yo.

But Judy wanted to ride it so I obediently followed suit.

There is this one point during the ride where it waits to pick up a good, semi-whiplash speed before this sickening “whoosh” is sounded and all of the bucket seats TILT BACK to the point where I always feel like I’m going to slide out backward. And I don’t know if it was because it was so windy that day, but we were all literally banging and crashing into each other.

I prayed for the most painless death possible. Please god, fling me into that tree and not one of the 785912 metal spikes around the Yo Yo’s perimeter that are suddenly so apparent to me that I know I AM GOING TO PERISH.

But Judy loved it! Look at her go! I hope I’m as cool as she is when/if I’m a grandma (and I better be a grandma someday because I already have tomes upon mental tomes of incriminating Chooch tales to share with his future spawn).

“I rode the Yo Yo better than you!” is what I imagine Chooch is saying in this photo because he makes everything a competition. He must get that from Henry.

I thought about asking Judy some questions about her day at DelGrosso’s, but if she’s anything like her son, I’m sure it would have been a bunch of monosyllabic answers. I’ll have to get some wine in her.