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.

 

 

 

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When we went to DelGrosso’s mommy really wanted to go on the wacky worm so we did. then we went on the crazy mouse daddy did not want to go on it because he’s such a crybaby because of the big hill. so he didn’t go on anything grandma went on the crazy mouse ;-) twice and the marry-go-round and the yoyo witch is the swings. mommy went on the super SPIRAL and the XTREAM (I put that in capital letters because it’s so XTREAM ) :cry: mommy peed her pants :lol:

ME AND MOMMY WENT ON THE Casino. I got a picture with buddy witch is a bear. Dumb dumb Daddy won me a tiger I named it Tony I won 2 things a fish & a bear. It was mothers day and my mother rules and daddy doesn’t.

I was going to win this game but this stinky lady dumbest lady in the hole wide world cheated for this 4 year old and I was so freaking madddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd the game was called water races.

I like amusement parks because there’s roller coasters and swings and some water rides.

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En route to Delgrosso’s for some unlimited Mothers Day rides on the Wacky Worm! Henry invited his mom and I am going to try my hardest to get her on the Wacky Worm but I can’t make any promises.

So far this Mothers Day weekend has been the bomb! Chooch and I went rollerskating, had dinner with Janna and her friend Jeremy at Mad Mex, bought myself some new TOMS, and the motherfucking Penguins advanced to the next round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. Feeling pretty happy right now except that Henry and his mom are practically shouting to each other in the car which is really upsetting my music-listening.

Should have brought my headphones, I guess.

Happy Mothers Day to all the REAL moms out there, regardless if you gave birth or not!

(OMG WTF is Henry’s mom talking about back there?!?)

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Knoebels is an antiquated, beautiful park — the woodsy, old-fashioned kind that are few and far between anymore.  I’ve mentioned this before on the blog, but I really do prefer small, family-oriented parks like this one because that is where you get the weird, old rides. Don’t get me wrong, I heart roller coasters just as much as the next adrenaline junkie, but there is something to be said for entering some creepy funhouse that smells like old All In the Family episodes and moth balls.

I’m not a big fan of riding ferris wheels, but Knoebels had one of the prettiest ferris wheels I’ve ever seen. I think I must have taken a picture of it every single time I passed it—it was the mechanical embodiment of childhood summers.

But again, I did not ride the ferris wheel because I was too busy riding things that were flinging me about like a rag doll. Whiplash never felt so good.

SPOILER ALERT: My stomachache went away after Henry fed me. (And no, he didn’t feed me Rohypnol. This day, anyway.) But first I had to suffer on a bench, alone, while Chooch and Katelyn “panned for gemstones” under the guidance of an old man who really took his position outside of the Mine Museum seriously. (I’m not being sarcastic.) While I was on the bench, I had the opportunity to internally mock a family who tried to ride the Black Diamond only to be rejected because they didn’t have tickets.

Speaking of the Black Diamond — sick ride, bro! It was a dark ride, one of the reasons we were there that day, and it took us on a relatively macabre tour of a mining catastrophe. It even started off with some miner forcefully yanking on his mule’s* rope, which really upset Chooch, so good job Black Diamond! Your work here is done!

*(I knew this was a mule and not a donkey because the Mine Museum taught me so much, you guys!)

There was one especially chilling part of the ride where we passed a mural of skeletal angels lifting away dead miners. (Props to Kari for the heads up on that one!) This was Chooch’s favorite of the two dark rides because it had a couple dips, giving it a mild coaster feel.

Me? I prefered the Haunted Mansion. It was everything a dark ride should be: pretzel car bursting through the entrance door and the momentary panic when your eyes don’t adjust to the sudden darkness,  the sound of gears and chains as your car is propelled around corners, the heart-stopping sensation of having a car horn honked at death metal decibels right up in your grill, the parts that make you laugh (one of the dead props had hideously-sagging boobs, which Henry was obessed with), and the parts that make you wish you were riding with someone you could make out with, or worse. (Read: Jonny Craig. I wonder if his ginger hair glows in the dark?)

Included in our registration fee was an authentic Knoebels late lunch! The  thick slabs of glazed ham and fried chicken, which—and I’m going to Vegetarian Times Hell for saying this—actually looked so super good but I still haven’t completely rejected my anti-meat stance yet. Instead, I allowed a Knoebels worker to ladle some scalloped potatoes and cole slaw onto my bare compartmentalized picnic plate. And it was really good. This is where I learned that I really enjoy white birch beer. I mean, I REALLY ENJOY IT, Dottie.

Then we got to eat birthday cake for the Haunted Mansion’s 40th birthday!

On a sad and serious note, one of the DAFE members had recently passed away. Her name is Tanya and she was supposed to have been there with us that weekend. Being a DAFE n00b, I had never met Tanya, but during our meal, someone stood up and gave somewhat of an eulogy for her, and I can tell you that she sounded like someone I wish I had known: had a love of amusement parks and haunted houses and ran like Hell from chainsaw guys. She must have been so much fun! And it was clear that she was incredibly loved and highly regarded. I can only hope people care half as much when I die. I mean, I had never met her and I was totally welling up!

Afterward, a raffle was going to happen, but Chooch and I were like, “WE CANNOT SIT HERE ANY LONGER. WE WANT TO RIDE THINGS OMG!!” Henry is REALLY into raffles and tried his best to discourage a revolt, but we weren’t playing around. From where I sat beneath Pavilion L, I could see approximately 4.5 rides that I wanted to strap my ass into post haste, and I wasn’t waiting around to hear a bunch of numbers.

Especially since Henry refused to bid on any of the bumper cars being auctioned off. Dickbag.

Chris offered to listen for our registration numbers to be called, so I was like, “GREAT THANKS!!!” and hoped that he heard that over the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. Chris? Bless your number-listening heart. Meanwhile, Henry looked completely defeated, but followed us anyway.

Because really — Chooch and me alone in an amusement park? Not the best idea.

Knoebels has a flying carpet ride, which Chooch and I rode twice in a row. Henry shook his head when he saw that in lieu of rejoining him after the first go-around, we ran straight back into line to ride again. He obviously knows not the gaping orifice left in my heart after Kennywood shipped off their own flying carpet ride, else he’d have understood my urgent need to clean to that swooshing motion a little longer.

That ride is my jam, y’all.

Like so many other parks, Knoebels has their own variation of the log flume called Skloosh, which I actually did not know the name of until just now. I had just been calling it “that log flume thing” this whole time. Anyway, prior to our DAFE meal, Henry had already filled his quota of rides (two wooden coasters and two dark rides — I imagine his hemrrhoids must have been straight up picketing) so he skulked around with my large iCarly messenger bag, pretending to have friends to text, while Chooch and I waited in line in front of a small gaggle of super boisterous middle school boys.

One of them said “shit,” resulting in their Eddie Haskell-esque ring leader to lean toward me and apologize on his friend’s behalf.  I was like, “Oh bitch please, if you only knew the cussing dregs that pour out of this kid’s mouth,” jutting an elbow toward Chooch.

Seriously, that kid’s first word was “asshole.” He calls Bill a “douche cup.” Hearing the word “shit” isn’t going to drastically alter his already-snide demeanor.

Knoebels has one of the last remaining Fascination parlors left in the US. I learned this today by accident when I was Wiki’ing something else. (It’s really none of your business.) Anyway, I wanted to check it out because my friend Kate was telling me about her local amusement park in New York called Sylvan Beach and how she likes to play Fascination and I knew immediately that I needed to see this for myself because one of my favorite Cure songs is “Fascination Street” and what kind of poser fan would I be if I didn’t at least stick one foot inside a Fascination parlor.

So, it’s like a Skee Ball and Bingo amalgamation, right? Totally old fashioned and wood-paneled. Among the strange flea market assortment of prizes were crock pots and LAMPS, you guys. LAMPS. It was a nice change of pace from Bieber posters and stuffed Rastafarian bananas.

And you just put a quarter down and some chick comes around and collects it and then that’s it — you’re playing Fascination.

Henry and Chooch really sucked at it, though. I was really hoping one of them would win me that bantam green chair (pictured above) for my imaginary friend that just happens to double as a dwarf lifeguard.

Man, I bet Henry’s mom was the shit at Fascination back in the day. I’m going to ask her. Anytime I ask her things, she gets paranoid that I’m asking her things.

Chooch made me take this.

After the park closed, the rest of us laminate-wearing DAFE members got to stay for an addition 90 minutes of exclusive ride time on the two dark rides, free of charge. Yay, my favorite part! Flaunting my laminate!

Our group met in front of the Haunted Mansion, where a moment of silence for Tanya was held as the first car was sent in alone, carrying a bouquet of flowers. This beautifully bittersweet moment of silence as we all watched the floral representation of Tanya take the inaugural trip through the Haunted Mansion’s doors…

…when Chooch the Mouth asked in an inappropriately-decibeled voice: “What, did she like, die in the Haunted Mansion?”

Several people near us bristled uncomfortably.

“I don’t know,” I hissed, making throat-slashing motions which is Mom Sign Language for You Best STFU, Boy!

“Then how did she die!?” he pressed on.

It was everything I could do not to stuff the nearest caramel apple pork chop into his yammering maw.

Thankfully, I think the people around us understood that he is just a small kid with legitimate questions and meant no disrespect.

Still, it was pretty embarrassing. Meet your newest members, DAFE!

Before getting into line, we all hunkered down for a group photo which was cool because group photos make me feel like I’m part of something (paying for membership cards accomplishes that, too) and also because there were enough people huddled together that I have hopes the photo will be far enough away that the casual observer won’t notice my cake-rolls.

Afterward, I thought for sure we would all be in full-blown Sweep the Leg, Jonny-mode, clotheslining each other on our wild sprint to get into line. But everyone just walked calmly to the entrance and lined up without acting like the wolves I was raised by.

I was one of the first people in line because I am naturally in a hurry for everything. If I tripped you on my way there, sorry I’m not sorry.

You know what the worst is, when you’re with a bunch of people and they are walking so goddamn slow toward a ride at an amusement park and you see this huge group of d-bags coming from another direction and they swoop into line right before you because SOME PEOPLE don’t know the proper times to be in a fucking hurry!

Don’t be one of those people.

I think the reason I feel such a strong pull to darkrides is because most of them embody that flamboyant Hee Haw-esque psychedelic kitsch of the 1960s & 1970s and you never know what day-glo monster is going to laugh mockingly at you when your Pretzel-car bursts through those black doors. Kennywood had a ride called Le Cachot (lovingly known as Lick a Shit) which burnt down in 1998 and I promise you that part of my heart was singed along with it. Kennywood has never been the same since – the remaining old darkrides have been given modern makeovers, which basically means they’ve been raped of their magic.

Their beloved skeleton-haunted Old Mill was given a Garfield makeover, for Christ’s sake.

However, I’m sure 25 years from now, when the current darkrides have been replaced with CGI zombies and To Catch a Predator vignettes, my pruned-self will be pining for the days when we got to shoot at mechanical ghosts for points.

90 minutes of back-and-forth running between the Haunted Mansion and Black Diamond — it was this girl’s dream come true. And we were treated on a lights-on excursion through the Haunted Mansion, where Henry got to see his favorite pair of floppy monster boobs in better lighting.

(We almost got to ride through the Black Diamond with the lights on but then some ride engineer person caught wind of it and came over to tell the ride operator to turn the lights back off. Henry was super bothered by this which worried absolutely no one because what’s Henry going to do? Bristle his moustache, that’s all.)

This is the censored version. We all know what was really happening.

Knoebels is a super charming park, the kind you’d want to lose your virginity in (they even let you bring dogs! Not that I’m suggesting anything by mentioning that in the sentence as losing your virginity), and I can’t wait to go back!

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When I was 13, I loved amusement parks and listening to the same songs over and over. (My top 2 burnt-out songs of that age were “End of the Road” by Boyz II Men and “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins—the b-side of that song was dope, ya’ll. Just ask my friends Kim and Liz, who were subjected to it the whole weekend we spent at Lake Chautauqua that summer.)

Twenty years later, the only real difference is that I don’t have braces anymore. And if I really felt so inclined as to dildo my ego, I might even say that my hair is way more fabulous now. (Hi, I had a perm then.) But other than that, there I was in the car last Saturday morning, listening to the same 5 albums, rinse and repeat, for 4 hours on the way to Knoebel’s Amusement Park in Elysburg, PA.

“Uh….this CD is back to the beginning. Can we change it now?” Henry would ask futilely as the instrumental intro to Dance Gavin Dance’s Downtown Battle Mountain replayed. (Yes, I still buy CDs.) I’d answer that question by looking out the passenger window and smirking. God, it’s good to be childish.

I mean, child-like.

 We arrived at the park 30 minutes before registration time, but luckily Knoebels is a free admission park, so we parked and did a preliminary walk-around. I needed to get a lay of the land and to scope out all of the rides, as if I hadn’t creeped on their website 87 times in the weeks prior.

I take amusement parks very seriously. If a park is particularly crowded and Chooch wants to stand in line with 60 screaming assholes to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl, I will calmly* count off on my fingers all of the other parks and fairs where he will be able to ride the ubiquitous Tilt-a-Whirl, at which point I will drag him over to a ride that we wouldn’t normally have access to at home in Pittsburgh, like the Looper or the Cosmotron (like an indoors Music Express — Metallica was playing when we rode it). Someday, Chooch will understand this and his future children will be better because of it.

*(I mean…..)

The concept of an amusement park with free admission is just so precious to me. I remember when I was a kid, our local Kennywood Park was like that — you could just strap on your fanny pack and walk around if you were an old person or perhaps someone allergic to standing in lines, and not worry about it costing you $35+.  And maybe later on if you wanted to just ride the bumper cars because  maybe you’re 9 months pregnant and trying to put yourself into labor, then you could just buy tickets for that ride and call it an abortion day.

Knoebels is still like that! You can either get the ride-all-day wristband, buy individual ride tickets, or not do either of those things and just eat yourself to death on caramel apple pork chops. KNOEBELS ISN’T GOING TO JUDGE YOU.

PETA probably will, though. Right after they make stickers with your caramel apple pork chop-stuffed face on it. I’m sure I’ll be signing some petition about it at Warped Tour this year, too.

Finally, it was 11am and we got to meet up with our peeps at the pavilion. The Handas were already there, so Chooch and their daughter Katelyn did their weird elementary school flirting routine (which is obviously still the same flirt set I belong to). Those two never stopped bickering like an old married couple for the rest of the day: Insult! Assault! Compete! Repeat! 

A little 411 about DAFE (appropriately pronounced “daffy”): Back in November, I enrolled the three of us in the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiast club because I was always checking out their website for trip ideas anyway, and then once I became friends with the Castle Blood family, I learned that they have an affiliation with that group as well. That was all the arm-twisting I needed.  One of the coolest perks of being a card-carrying DAFE member (aside from bragging about it, of course), is that there are kinds of fun group events to attend at various amusement parks and we get exclusive ride time on the dark rides. In November, we got preferential treatment during Kennywood’s Holiday Lights event — a lights-on walk through of their dark ride Ghostwood Estate while the everyday commoners were still waiting to get into the park.

Shit, you know I rode that high horse the whole way home.

However, my work friends think that this is one of the most ridiculous things ever as far as my ridiculous life goes and have been making fun of me mercilessly. To that I say: u mad, work-bros?

I was so excited to get my own laminate that I didn’t even question the fact that “fourty” is spelled wrong. I LOVE LAMINATES. All day long, I was thinking, “Yeah, I see you looking at my laminate” to all of the non-laminated people in line. Somehow, Henry became part of the registration crew and sat at a picnic table, stringing together laminates. He is always identified as “blue collar volunteer” no matter where we go and always ends up helping people.

We are so fucking different.

I’m going to get him a bunch of “CREW” t-shirts for his birthday.  I’m sure they’d be applicable every time he wears them.

After we were registered, we still had to get our hands stamped and wrists braceleted, which required us to stand in line with COMMONFOLK for an extended period of time because the park was just about to open for real and everyone decided to get there at the same time. That gave me time to scope out the non-DAFE crowd.

“I’m looking for my kind,” I explained to Henry, who knew immediately that I was looking for scene kids.

“Good luck,” he said dryly.

I thought I saw a guy later on in the day that I could possibly have an ill-conceived crush on, but the closer I got to him, the more I realized he was half past Bring Me the Horizon, more toward Blood on the Dance Floor.

That and also the fact that he was probably only 15.

And had pretty bad skin.

And wasn’t Jonny Craig.

With our special DAFE vouchers, we each got a ticket for the two dark rides—Black Diamond and the Haunted Mansion—which are an additional fee on top of the ride all day price for all the peasants.

Meanwhile, my stomach had REALLY STARTED TO HURT. I’m not sure what the fuck was wrong, probably Henry’s terrible driving and the shitty Sheetz breakfast sandwich that was revolting inside my new Weight Watchers-shrunk stomach. But it was so bad that I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to ride anything. CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE!?

I’m going to end Part 1 with this awesome photo that I took inside the free Knoebels Museum:

 

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*[This works as alliteration because the k in Knoebel’s is not silent. BAM.]

“STOP IT!”
“PLEASE DON’T GET A TICKET!”
“I DON’T WANT TO DANCE!”
“I FEEL LIKE I’M TEACHING A KID HOW TO DRIVE!”
“TURN IT DOWN!”
“NO I DON’T WANT TO SEE HOW U DRIVE WHEN YOU’RE ALONE!”
“SETTLE DOWN!”
-Things Henry said while I drove us home from dropping off the rental car.

It’s not often that I get to drive the Great Professional Driver anywhere, so I really lived it up. Unfortunately, he doesn’t believe that dancing belongs in moving vehicles. Granted, my dancing is more like a walk through a mental institution, but still. I guess I’ll just have my Pierce the Veil dance party at home with Marcy, then.

—————

We listened to EVERY SINGLE PIERCE THE VEIL album on the 4 hour drive to Knoebel’s and Henry actually didn’t complain (that changed once I did a clandestine disc-change and he realized we were then listening to Dance Gavin Dance) until I started comparing him to Vic Fuentes.

“I wish you were more like Vic,” I sighed. “I bet he’s such a great boyfriend.”

“He’d never be around!” Henry pointed out.

“Yeah, but he would be writing pretty songs about me so it wouldn’t matter,” I reasoned.

But then Henry and I looked at each other and laughed because we both know that if I was Vic’s girlfriend, his darkly romantic songs would take a quick turn to “IFUCKINGHATETHATBITCH” death metal territory.

At Knoebel’s, there is a pavilion that has a roof shaped like a giant cake. One side of it says “Congratulations!”

“Ugh, that makes me think of [“Currents Convulsive*”],” I said dramatically to Henry, kicking at the gravel. “I wish I was listening to it RIGHTNOW.” And then I devoted a few moments to acting like a moody teenager and even said, “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” to Henry, further perpetuating my stereotype. (“Scene kid” in case you forgot.)

*[In real life, I actually just said “That one PTV song” because Henry is too old to know song titles.]

This song has officially gone from making me cry over 2008 to making me reminding how much fun this past weekend was. Another finger removed from its death grip on the past.

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This was me & Chooch right before the park closed (to the common folk, that is; us card-carrying DAFE peeps got to stay for about 90 minutes longer and take unlimited rides on the two dark rides there which normally cost extra). I had a bad stomachache when we first got to the park that morning, so it’s a miracle that I didn’t end up puking on any rides. Thank you, theme park gods.

After a pit stop in Hershey (where we saw a girl who was at the Pierce the Veil show in Lancaster — Henry was actually the one who recognized her because looking at teenaged girls is what he does best), we are now on our way home. I have “bad hotel sleep attitude.” I’m also pouting because Henry wouldn’t buy me a bumper car.

(I would have sat in it every day & watched MTV.)

Felt good to be riding things again, though. More later this week!

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Stumbled across this photo I took with my Holga at the 2008 Warped Tour. This was the first time I got to see Pierce the Veil live and I of course sobbed through the whole thing.

Plus, my friend Maya is making a Vic Fuentes companion to my Jonny Craig doll, complete with a tiny embroidered Jaws t-shirt, just like the one he was wearing at that year’s Warped Tour. I went back and re-read that post this morning and felt so happy. God, that was such a good day, and an overall fantastic year. I feel compelled to re-share that Warped Tour post, so now you have to read it! Even if it’s just for the picture of Henry eating nachos. (This might have been Henry’s least favorite Warped Tour of all time. I imagine it was a huge shock to his system.)

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

This year, Henry had the pleasure of taking his two favorite kids to Warped Tour: his son Blake, and, well…me. I kept ducking while we were stuck in concert traffic because I didn’t want the surrounding carfuls of scene kids to laugh and say, “Oh god, that girl is going with her dad, how lame.” When we entered the parking lot, we drove past the drop-off area and Henry said, “God, those parents are so lucky that they don’t have to go in.” Then he tried to murder me with a look of disgust and resentment.

It was nearly noon by the time we managed to park the car. Blake didn’t have a ticket yet so he and I stood around idly outside the entrance to Post Gazette Pavilion while Henry went and bought his ticket. We were approached by the singer and guitarist of Uh-Oh Explosion, who were toting around a box of their CDs. Making small talk, the singer asked if Blake and I were “together.” Instinctively, we both took a step apart and emphatically answered “NO.” Trying to figure it out, he squinted his eyes and guessed, “Brother and sister?” We shook our heads. I saw Henry lingering a few yards away, knowing better than to walk over and lame-up the convo. I pointed to Henry and said, “OK, see that guy? That’s his dad, and my boyfriend.”

This kid (he was only 17) thought this was so fucking fantastico for some reason. “That’s so awesome! Like, talk about closeness. And you guys all came to Warped together!” He paused for a second, before sending my stomach to the meat grinder. “So do you guys have threesomes too?”

RECORD SCRATCH.

I was ready to whistle for the cement mixer to come and seal up my sex organs for real. So disturbing and awkward. I still bought their CD though, because what I heard sounded good and proceeds went to the animals. And what’s a little quasi-incest discourse in the name of stray cats, am I right.

Once we got inside, I was like a kid on Christmas. My eyes had a veritable scene kid feast as we weaved our way to the main stage, where Sky Eats Airplane was playing. Blake and I have the same taste in music — the more scream-y the better. Henry, however, shits himself when he hears hateful bellows, so he took this as an opportunity to go and find a set schedule and then conveniently lose us. Sky Eats Airplane was a good way to start the day.

In between bands, I got to ogle more scene kids. I was wondering why I was so fascinated with them when it dawned on me: If that scene was around when I was a teen, I’d totally have been the first on board. I used to make fun of them,  but now I want to like, write a book about them or something. I’ll start with Blake.

Averting the Hare Krishnas, we went to the Highway 1 Stage to catch From First To Last. Henry was all, “I’m perfectly fine standing all the way back here” and sent Blake and I into the crowd to get pummeled without adult supervision. Anyway, FFTL’s singer Sonny left two years ago and it was a little strange watching them perform without him. Their new material is a little too easy-to-digest and mainstream for my liking, but they ended the set with “Ride the Wings of Pestilence” which always makes me want to sacrifice a shack of Mexican prostitutes. And drink some of Henry’s blood.

Not interested in any bands playing right after FFTL, we walked around and looked at t-shirts and other merch for awhile. Henry, who had bragged on  the way there that he NEVER gets sunburned, started complaining about his nose getting burnt. He kept trying to sneak away and pose under trees in his signature old man-stance. Blake and I would pause and hunker down over the schedule, trying to determine which bands were must-sees and which ones we could skip without losing sleep that night. I kept trying to include Henry, but he would grumble, “I don’t know, does that band actually SING? Then NO, I don’t want to see them.” Perhaps Henry should have just went to that twanged-out Jamboree with Tina instead. Fuck.

 

1. The Bronx: I almost got trampled trying to push my way to the stage to see them, only to leave after ten minutes to run to another stage far away to see Alesana. They were really good and made me want to continually punch Henry in the balls. I always forget how much aggression I have until I go to shows like this. I just found out that they’re going on a tour of LA Mexican restaurants as a mariachi band and oh, who I wouldn’t kill to see that.
2. Alesana: They were playing on the main stage, and Henry was like, “Thank god, now I can sit my weary bones down!” So Blake and I begrudgingly sat down too. I realize that I enjoy bands less when I’m sitting, because I become too distracted with people-watching. Because of this, I don’t remember if I liked Alesana live or not. All I remember is that Blake picked up an Underoath CD release poster from the ground and gave it to me, making me  think he wanted me to keep it, so I ended up lugging it around all day in my backpack only to wind up throwing it away the next day.
3. Human Abstract: Another main stage band, but at least this time Henry allowed himself to be dragged down to the floor by the stage. I had never heard their music before, only seen the ads in Alternative Press for their new CD, so I really wasn’t sure if I was going to like them. Even aside from the immediate crush I developed on the keyboard player, I ended up liking them a lot. They were nice and heavy, but had an interesting melodic side as well. Blake thought they were just alright and stayed sitting down next to his old man for their entire set. This was also around the time that I considered slamming my camera to the pavement because it was taking such shitty pictures, but after Henry inspected it for three seconds, he deduced it was because I had a giant finger print on the lens. I didn’t hate my camera after that.

After the Human Abstract, it was nearly time for Pierce the Veil. They were the main reason I was there and all day it felt like butterflies were fornicating in my belly. It was either Pierce the Veil anticipation or the residual side effects of being asked if my vagina is friendly with both generations of Robbins. Henry once again stood in the sidelines, but I weaved my way as close to the stage as I could get. Which was fairly close since they were still sound-checking.

To show his unwavering adoration, Vic vowed to wear his Jaws shirt every day for the duration of Shark Week. He kept going on and on about sharks and I know this is going to make me look bad but I’m going to be honest: all I could think about was Tina’s vagina, gnashing against flailing legs. Thank God they started playing right after that because fuck — my mind disgusts me sometimes. And holy shit, their set was fucking fantastic. It was so good, that I didn’t even mind the heat or having two bitches dropped on me (thank God for Blake, else they’d have hit the pavement). They basically just play a blend of alternative rock, with some screamo-lite thrown in for scene cred, but what makes them stand apart for me is their lyrics. They’re smart, morbid, sad, and just overall clever. At the end of one of their songs, they segued right into a thirty second cover of “Bleeding Love” which was a million times better than the original we’re guaranteed to hear every time we walk into a grocery store. They also threw in a cover “Beat It” which was energenic and really fun to watch, and they ended the set with “Party Like a Rock Star” gone metal.

I did NOT want that set to end. Even Blake admitted that he was surprised how good they were live, and Henry was like, “Yes, fine, I liked what I heard all the back there in Parent Alley.” It was one of those moments where you want to call everyone you know and give them a hyper review in a shrill voice, but you know no one will give a shit. So then you’re just depressed.

We had a lot of time to kill after Pierce the Veil, so I bought a five dollar soft pretzel while wishing for once I ate meat so I could get a corn dog for $3.50 — the cheapest foodstuff there. Henry got nachos which looked like slop. Henry’s demeanor seemed to uncurdle a bit while he was coating his ‘stache with cheese sauce. He even smiled a few times and I think he laughed once.

While we were chilling out at the picnic table, Blake proposed that he move in with us. Maybe it was just the contact high of being with someone who actually gave a shit about music, but I declared that this was the best idea I had ever heard in all of my life, even better than my idea to direct porn, so now he might be moving in with us. It would make my scene kid research easier, for sure.

Blake was so sad that we missed Katy Perry while we were foraging for discounted sustenance. He even pulled his hat down low to hide the tears. But maybe it was because he saw kids he knew and was embarrassed of Henry.

• Evergreen Terrace: I liked them alright but there was nothing mind-blowing that made me want to scour Ebay for rare memorabilia. However, during one of their songs, they chanted “I want you dead” and maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I thought that would be such a romantic sentiment to have engraved on wedding bands.
• Classic Crime: Another band that sounds good in stereo, but didn’t hold my attention live. Instead, I stared at this really surly girl who was like an overweight scene Sami Brady from Days of Our LIves. She was climbing over rows of seats and even though she was struggling to swing her trunk-legs over, she didn’t let it deter her from scaling the next row, until eventually she lost her momentum and wound up clotheslining her crotch. It brought me joy, lots of joy.
• 3OH!3: I wouldn’t have sought this band out normally, but we wanted to see the band that was coming on right after them, so we hung out for their set. I thought I was going to hate them at first, because that wave of white boy rap-rock-electronica kind of annoys me. But they ended up being so fucking fun and there was a really hot blond chick dancing on the side of the stage, so they kept my attention for sure. During their last song, it basically turned into a chaotic dance party on stage, and even Blake’s girlfriend Katy Perry was up there dancing with her man Travis from Gym Class Heroes (who I walked past earlier and wanted to say, “Your gf is a gaybo” but I wasn’t feeling assholey enough. Plus, I like Travis.). Anyway, I’m going to have 3Oh!3 play at my Sweet Thirtieth Birthday Orgy Masquerade. It’s gonna be tight.
• Bring Me the Horizon: Blake ran into some of his friends right as they came on, so we were officially ditched. Henry and I hung around for a few songs, but Henry looked like he wanted to call out for his mommy, so I spared him. I really liked BMTH though — they made me want to fillet a cop.
• The Devil Wears Prada: Sans Blake, things were pretty lame. I wanted to get closer to the stage but Henry was all OH HELL NAH so I was like, “Fuck this then” and went to buy a shirt instead. Henry, you pussy.

The day was coming to an end by this point, and Blake had re-joined us in time for Dr. Manhattan. I was torn, because they were playing at the same time as Norma Jean, side-by-side. And I love Norma Jean. Norma Jean blocked out Eleanore’s nerve-prickling coupon-cutting many a night for me. But I chose Dr. Manhattan, along with fifteen other people. It was sad! But you know a band is good when there are OTHER bands in the crowd watching them. And they were good — they were quirky and fun and energenic and they made me laugh out loud a few times. Unfortunately, Norma Jean was one stage over, luring people into their crowd. They had gigantic black beach balls and I won’t lie — I’m a sucker for a beach ball. At one point, I yelled to Henry, “Hey, do you want to go over and watch Norma Jean for the rest of their set?” but right then, two people left Dr. Manhattan’s crowd and the singer — in the middle of a song — stopped and yelled, “Hey! Where are you guys going??” It was so sad/cute/scary that I looked at Henry and said, “Never mind!”

At the end of their show, some of the bands in the crowd started chanting, “One more song!” but they weren’t allowed because of time constraints. So the singer started chanting back, “One more crowd!”, the retardedness of which made me laugh. I was also dehydrated, though. Overall, I was glad I stayed loyal to Dr. Manhattan, because their set was rewarding.

And that was it. We walked back to the car and already I started to feel the body-dragging effects of post-show depression. Then I thought about how all day long I had been talking about all the bands I wanted to see, but by the end of the night, all I wanted to see was Chooch.

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There were many highlights to our night at the wintry Kennywood, like when the young-20s guy at the petting zoo fist-pumped me for wearing a Chiodos hoodie (of course this made Henry frown), and Katelyn asking me, “Which one is your wedding ring?” after admiring my rococo collection of finger ornaments.

“Why golly, that’s a good question. You should ask HENRY that as soon as we get off the ride,” I exclaimed in my most seraphic drawl.

You may have heard the faintest echo of Jonny Craig’s melodious pipes at that precise moment. That was just the sound of another addition to Team Erin, my friends.

Best mascot ever. I’d totally take him to the prom.

Lowlights:

The News Crews

We get it! Christmas lights in an amusement park is a novel idea! How much footage of shivering park guests do you really need, WTAE? I was doing an excelsior job at ducking from the camera, until Chris, Katelyn, Chooch and I were on the Paratrooper and the cameraman was aiming right for us. There was pretty much nowhere to hide at that point. I hoped that maybe that footage would be cut, but Chris told me we made the news after all. I didn’t get any heckling texts from my asshole friends, so maybe they were all too busy watching a Teen Mom marathon.

The Cold

Holy shit, it was cold! And you know what makes winter feel even colder? Riding spinny rides.

S’mores

Kari mentioned that last year they had a s’mores making station and I pretty much fixated on that all night. Kari promised we could look for it after the kids got their pictures taken with Santa, who was set up on the platform of the Racer. (Chooch totally had a panic attack because he was afraid he wouldn’t remember what to tell him — oh, to have such trivial things to stress about. You know, like: WHAT SHOULD I WEAR TO THE DANCE GAVIN DANCE SHOW OMG?!)

That Dutch Wonderland place had s’mores stations when we were there in 2010, but Grumpy Henry wouldn’t let us indulge. This time, he didn’t want to say no in front of our friends, I guess (even though he initially tried to convince me that there was no such s’mores station and that it was just a regular snack bar where he could buy warm soft pretzels for HIMSELF — until I frantically pointed to the sign that said S’MORES MOTHERFUCKERS.

So Chooch and I each got the fixins for some s’mores action. The goddamn newscrew was over at the hobo fire, filming no one making s’mores (seriously, no one had started making any s’mores yet). I hung back, determined to boycott mainstream news. (Besides, if it’s not on MTV or twitter, it’s not real news anyway.)

Finally, they retreated, and thank god because I don’t think Western Pennsylvania was  ready to see me completely ass-fuck the art of s’mores-making. Henry was helping Chooch roast his marshmallow, which would be normal in most familial structure, but one must realize that I am not actually in any position to responsibly twirl anything flammable above a roaring fire without the supervision of several experienced adults and probably a firefighter would be a smart addition, too.

“Blow it out!” Henry screamed after my marshmallow burst into flames for the first of eight times.

“I can’t! I’m afraid!” I screamed back, whipping the kindled marshmallow around in the air.

“You can tell you’ve never been camping,” Henry muttered, grabbing the stick off of me and snuffing out the flame. There was a young couple standing near us, watching this all play out and openly laughing.

I was not happy about that.

Henry returned the marshmallow to me said, “Don’t stick it all the way into the fire,” right when I stuck it all the way into the fire.

And then it burst into flames again.

I gave it a hard whack off the side of the fire pit thing, and there went my marshmallow, already engulfed in flames, into s’mores hell.

The couple laughed harder and then said, “Aw!” in mock-sympathy.

“Just go get another one,” Henry sighed.

Chooch volunteered to get one for me. When he told the ladies behind the counter that he needed a new marshmallow, he shook his head with disappointment and added, “It’s for my mom.”

Oh whatever! Maybe if Henry had made mine for me too, I’d be enjoying a delicious camp fire staple that I don’t even really particularly like that much, but that’s besides the point.There was brand new principle surrounding this activity now.

My second marshmallow did not treat me much better. And that couple was still standing there, being backseat roasters. “Hurry, blow it out!” the man hollered after I lost focus and let the fire lick my marshmallow again. And when I got the flames to subside, his lady cheered. This went on and on, with them pausing every few seconds to make out, until my patience ran out and I retreated to a picnic table with one half-kindled marshmallow. The other side was completely cold and firm, so assembling the s’mores only resulted in crumbling graham crackers and 100% unmelted chocolate.

It tasted like crap but I forced myself to eat it with a scowl. Chris had to turn away. I’m not sure if it was because he didn’t want me to him laughing, or if just couldn’t bear to see a boy scout tradition debased.

Fuck a s’mores.

Freezing our faces off on the Paratrooper.

Merry-Go-Round wreaths.

Henry, probably still criticizing my s’mores skills.

Afterward, we all went to Eat n Park, where I washed away my s’mores shame with a grilled cheese and we played 20 Questions and basically just repeatedly guessed everyone’s butts.

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Two years ago, we took a weekend trip to Lancaster, PA because I had a deep, intense yearning to be near Amish peoples. We found out by accident that Dutch Wonderland* was open for the winter season and even had most of its rides running. I thought this was a really awesome idea and even kind of put me in the Christmas spirit.

*(This is one of the creepiest amusement parks I’ve ever been to and have been dying to get back there.)

There is something really magical about Christmas light-strewn amusement parks, and I’m really glad that Kennywood has gotten in on the action. I didn’t go last year for its inaugural light up, but Chris and Kari said that this year was much better. Obviously because I was in attendance.

My favorite part of the night was when it dawned on Henry that we were staying for the whole night and not just the Ghostwood Estate walk-thru.

“I would have worn something more than just a hoodie!” he hissed through chattering teeth.The 30-degree night punished him for his wardrobe failure and I laughed and laughed, even though I wasn’t wearing much more than him and let me tell you — sitting on rides that hurl you through the air pretty much makes you feel like you’re getting hit in the face with Antarctica.

Even the games had Christmas-themed prizes. Surprisingly, Henry played none. And by “played,” I mean “wasted a week’s worth of food money.”

Cookie decorating!! Chris graciously bought a cookie for Chooch to decorate, so Henry started putting his cash back in his wallet. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, holding out my hand. “I want to decorate a cookie, too!”

And so I was the only adult slathering hearty tufts of frosting on a sugar cookie, and I made sure to tongue-up every last drop of sugary green excess, as well. WASTE NOT WANT NOT.

Or whatever.

Mine was so much better!

He wanted to frown so badly but I think he was afraid his frozen face would crack.

Laughing at something KATELYN said on the train, appropriately renamed Gingerbread Express for the festivities, and let me tell you — it was way better than the regular train. Chooch and I entertained ourselves by pointing out all the mustachioed gingerbread men that looked like Henry.

Laughing Sal, all ready to trim your tree. And by that I do mean “garrote you with her garland.”

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Dear Friend(s?),

It might come as a shock to you, but I really, really, really like amusement parks. Specifically, I like the creepy, old dark rides. The fun houses. The tunnels of love. The park attractions that smell like your Great Aunt Esther’s cedar closet in 1964.

Our Castle Blood friends, Chris and Kari, are members of the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiasts club and convinced me to sign up for the family membership.

Twist my arm, seriously.

(DAFE.org is actually what made me want to go to Waldameer Park so badly over the summer, so it was a no-brainer to finally become a member.)

Anyhow, what perfect timing – Kennywood Park is open for a few weekends this year with a Christmas theme, and not only did DAFE members get free admission the night after Thanksgiving, we also got to enter the park before the general public and take a lights on tour of Ghostwood Estate, which is all dudded up for the holidays.

We met up with Chris and Kari, and their daughter Katelyn whom Chooch pretends to dislike, but we all know better.

I love Katelyn. Not only does she keep my kid on his toes (not an easy feat), but she’s got some scene kid swag! And how can I not love a kid who totally appreciates my style? During the course of the night, she told me that she likes my:

• boots
• rings
• iPhone case
• scarf

If she had said Jonny Craig, I probably would have asked Chris and Kari if they can adopt me.

Ghostwood Estate, all dolled up with yuletide bling.

Chris giving the kids the parental “don’t touch a goddamn thing in there!” speech.

Chooch’s response to authority.

Ghostwood Estate is relatively new to Kennywood. Another darkride, the Goldrusher, was removed to make room for this update on the darkride genre. All the cars are equipped with laser guns, giving it an interactive twist. Hitting the targets makes all kinds of shit explode within the scene, so that’s a fun bonus.

Oh, and it also records everyone’s points, so this isn’t something that Henry and I are wildly competitive with. Not at all.

I realized, during the walkthru, that I didn’t recognize a single thing. And then it occurred to me that it’s because anytime I’ve been inside there, I’ve been so preoccupied with shooting the targets, that I never really gave myself a chance to just enjoy the decrepit scenery.

 

I really suck at shooting the targets, anyway. We got to ride through after the walking tour, at which point Henry and Kari made Chooch and I look like fucking pacifists. Jesus, our scores were so abysmal.

At least mine wasn’t as bad as Chooch’s.

The tour alone was worth the cost of our DAFE membership, but there was still so much more to do!

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Seri is a girl who knows what she can and cannot handle when it comes to rides at the county fairs. Spins too fast? Not with this hair. Goes upside down? That’s not for her. In fact, I truly believe that she wore a dress to the fair just so she’d have a back-up excuse for not wanting to ride the Superman.

Which was why I was so shocked (pleasantly so) when she said she’d ride the Cobra and I didn’t even have to pout, make her feel like a failure as a friend, or play the “Remember when I saved your life?” game to get her on it.

Granted, when she asked me if that ride was OK, I might have omitted the part where it makes your head feel like Jeffrey Dahmer is all up in there with an egg whisk.

We got in line just as the carny was letting everyone off the ride, which was good because that meant she wouldn’t have to see it in action and how it makes everyone’s face look like they’ve just been photographed after watching the video in “The Ring.” The carny then walked over to the gate, but instead of letting us on, he left.

Just walked away without a word.

After a minute or two, the people in front of us split. Then everyone behind us gave up too. I knew that the moment we left the line the carny would come back, so I insisted we wait it out. “He’s probably just in the bathroom,” I said, and then immediately made myself stop thinking about what he was doing to himself in there. He returned a few minutes later. Of course he did, what else has he got to do?

OK. Don’t answer that.

When he came over to lower our safety bar, he remarked on my fading hand stamp and said, “You should go and ask them to re-stamp that” and something about how “some people here are assholes”; he went on to mumble about how I might be accused of stamping my own hand my pressing it against someone else’s stamp. I really have no idea what he was going on about, but I was certainly lapping up the attention. I love it when carnies talk to me!

And then he proceeded to tell every single motherfucker on that ride the same exact cautionary tale while Seri laughed at me. I almost couldn’t hear her over the sound of my heart SHATTERING.

The bad thing about rides like this is that it’s similar to a ferris wheel or the Octopus in that there is a lot of idle time while all of the other seats are being filled. So for a good five minutes, we were suspended in the air while the seats on the other side of the Cobra were filled. (Thank god I got to listen to a happy Seri sing “Nothing Compares 2 U” during this.) This took twice as long because he had to have his little conference with every fucking rider, warning them about fading hand stamps, after which the ride finally started, but almost in a slow-motion pace.

“This isn’t that bad!” Seri laughed, still happy, but I knew that this wasn’t right. The ride was going so slow that we could have pulled out a deck of cards and had a heated game of Spades going if I knew how to play Spades. The carny was standing next to the controls, looking up at all of us with the scariest smile on his face, like he was the Cheshire cat and we were a bunch of trapped mice. He was totally fucking with us.

Then he stopped the ride so our side was back down on the ground, just so he could fill two seats that he left empty.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” I yelled, because I had pointed this out earlier to Seri, after he initially fastened everyone in on our side. I didn’t understand why he didn’t fill those seats when there were still people waiting in line. BUT WHAT DO I KNOW ABOUT BEING A CARNY. It wasn’t until these seats were filled that the ride kicked in on full throttle and suddenly Seri wasn’t singing anymore. It was all “OMG ERIN!!!” from here on out, no melody, no joy. Her throwing up on me was a legitimate concern.

Imagine you’re on a ski lift in outer space and then it detaches because some asshole Jedi engineer was drunk when he designed it, and suddenly you find yourself in a manic spiraling free fall into a black hole; you’re spinning so fast that your eyes literally cannot keep up with the direction your head is being pushed and maybe you’re mistaken but it really sounds like your brain is sloshing against your skull.

Yet somehow, this is fun and you’re laughing! (Maybe I’m speaking for myself, because I’m pretty sure Seri was crying and on the precipice of unconsciousness.) And then once the ride stops and you’re put out of your misery, you’re stuck suspended in limbo while the fucking carny lets off everyone on the other side, even though you’ve been sitting on this ride longer than anyone else. And even though Seri’s brain is oozing out of her nose, she still finds a way to sing along to MILEY FUCKING CYRUS and you start to wonder if you could survive the 20 foot fall onto the cement, a/k/a Step 2 of the Cobra Escape Plan.

Meanwhile, Pete was standing at the fence, this totally appalled look on his face as he watched the carny stop and chat with every person after unlatching their safety bar, and then replacing them with new riders who got the Hand Stamp Mission Statement while we were still suspended in miserable vertigo. And then the carny walked over and warned Pete and Henry about the hand stamps, too.

Henry totally didn’t care about our anguish, though. I might be mistaken, but I thought I saw him palm the carny $10, a condom and 2 Slim Jims to keep us up there longer.

Finally, we were released from our pseudo-cages. “You’re horrible!” I yelled at him, and he acted all taken aback, like no one had ever thought a carny was horrible before.

Later, I approached him for a picture. “I just want to always remember this day,” I lied to him as he posed. “You’re totally the best carny here.”

He laughed and said something as he walked away, but I don’t speak carny so all I heard was, “I’mma hog tie you on a mound of empty Skoal cans behind the toilets and poke you with my yucky-stick.”

After that, we walked over to where some amazing animal show was going to happen in ten minutes, which was really 35 minutes, with reminders every 5 minutes that the show was starting in 10 minutes. Circus time is really confusing.

Thank god they deployed a vendor from the back to carry around a tray of $2 sno-cones.

I didn’t really want a sno-cone, but Henry wouldn’t get me anything to drink because “The show is going to start in 10 circus minutes!” and the invisible announcer kept saying, “GETCHUR SNO-CONES BEFORE THE SHOW! NOTHING LIKE A NICE, ICY COLD SNO-CONE TO MAKE YOU FORGET THAT WE KEEP OUR ANIMALS IN CRAMPED CAGES! YOU’RE TOTALLY PAYING $2 FOR ICE MADE FROM HOSE WATER!”

“I want one!” I whined to Henry, who made the biggest deal about not wanting to buy me a sno-cone after EVERYTHING I DO FOR HIM. (Or maybe it was more like, “After everything I’ve done to him.”) But he bought one for Chooch, WTF. So all the kids got a sno-cone, and then Pete bought one for Seri so Henry knew at this point he would never hear the end of it, and managed to fish $2 out from all the hemorrhoid wipe and individually-wrapped prunes in his pockets, but now I didn’t want one anymore.

Then the fucking vendor was right behind the bleachers we were sitting on, looking at me expectantly while Henry and Seri were saying, “JUST GET A SNO-CONE OMG” and I felt so pressured so I took a goddamn sno-cone, ate approximately 5 and a half bites and then shoved it into Henry’s hands.

I wanted a blue one, not a red one.

And of course after I bought a red one, the vendor came back out with MORE BLUE ONES. I made some kind of loud, childish remark about this, causing the lady in front of me to turn around and laugh. I WAS NOT LAUGHING.

You’d think sno-cones would have been enough to placate the kids and keep them planted on the bales of hay on which they sat far, far away from us, but no. All three kept running back and climbing up the bleachers, crying about all of the other things they wanted, like bags of peanuts and cotton candy, and fuck that vendor for putting us in the Bad Parent position. Meanwhile, this goddamn show only ended up being 10 minutes long, and everyone had already devoured their treats before it even started. Way to go, vendor.

I have never seen sno-cones inspire so many tears and bad moods before. (Fine, some of those tears and probably all of the bad moods were mine.) I guess we’ll never learn.

Thank god this guy was there preaching about his make believe religion before the show.

“Go sit down. Go away.” I think sometimes the children forget that we come to these places for us, not them. God, get over yourselves, kids!

The vendor is multi-functional.

Oh, I hated this guy so bad. I love tigers (and lions!) so much but it is so excruciating to watch them get slapped around for a bunch of hicks at the county fair. Henry and I were placing bets on which tiger was going to be the one to mutilate this asshole’s Jugular. Henry said it’s totally going to be the liger.

Fuck you, Wambold.

(However, ever since that day, I have been threatening to send Marcy there every time she’s mean to me. Which is everyday. I think she’s called my bluff.)

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By this point of the summer, even I was a little burnt out on amusement parks and fairs, but I couldn’t open the door for September without one last hurrah at the Westmoreland County Fair, which is my second favorite of the summer. It’s much smaller than the juggernaut of the summer fairs, Big Butler, but it gets it done. And it’s a different company that puts it on, so while the rides are fewer, they’re also ones that we don’t get anywhere else.

Like the High Roller, which sadly has not made a reappearance in the last two years and I’m pretty sad about this. That ride is one of my favorites due to its complete ridiculousness.

Seri and Pete joined us with their kids. Seri’s frown of the day is brought to you by the color brown and the letters FML:

• she had lost a high-stakes fight with Pete over what color Henry’s shirt was. (Black, not brown like she had vehemently insisted. Looks like my brother Corey will have company at the Color Blind table!)
  • Although in her defense, her sunglasses made her do it. What excuse have you got, Corey?!
• our kids had staged 4 coups and formed 23 mutinies in the first hour.

Plotting.

There was no High Roller this time around, but the Aladdin was back! I wanted to ride this so badly last year, but it was all sorts of broken. I kept doing random walk-bys during the day last year to get a status update on it, but Henry was like, “Do you seriously want to ride that after it’s been dead all day?” I guess he was sort of right. But no sputtering motor or freak death was stopping us this time around, so Chooch, Seri and I rode and I wanted to mock her children for being too short to have all of the fun with us, but they had departed for the award-winning chicken barn and didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the fact that we were getting our stomachs churned like buttermilk in an Amish cottage.

Colored chickens were the big draw, I guess. Don’t worry, there was a big sign swearing that the chickens were dyed with non-toxic shampoo. It still made me feel sad, though.

The Aladdin is similar to the Music Express, only with less cars and roofless. The platform tilts  when the ride starts and the cars swing like sleighs, or miniature flying carpets, which I guess is the point of calling it Aladdin. Thank god I blew all that money on college else I might not have been able to make that connection. It was relatively mild for a carnival ride, which is how I conned Henry into riding it with me later. That, and that there were small icicles beginning to form in Hell.  The first time I rode it, all the kids were making their cars sway wildly before the ride started, and because I take all of my cues from pre-teens, I started throwing myself into Henry’s side, rocking our car against his wish.

“Stop doing that! You’re going to get us in trouble!” Henry hissed, worried that the carny was going to turn him into their brethren at the Blue Collar Bureau.

“Everyone does it!” I shot back, pummeling my body against his shoulder like a skin-suited battering ram.

Just then, the carny barked, “HEY! STOP ROCKING THE CAR!” which made Henry drag his hand over his face in embarrassment. We were literally the only adults on the ride, and of course we’d be the ones getting chastised.

“Why do you have to do stupid shit?” Henry yelled as the ride finally started, but I was too busy trying to prevent my urine from escaping because I was laughing so hard.

I went on the swings with Pete and Seri, leaving Henry alone with all three kids. I was already irritated in line, because no one was standing in an orderly fashion and the queue snaked out into the middle of the walkway instead of against the ride, so we were smack in the middle of foot traffic. And then some little bitch in front of us started crying because she was too short to go on, and instead of finding a ditch to throw herself in, she just stood there blocking the entrance with her height deficient body so no one could get around her. My patience ran out faster than Snooki’s Vagisil.

Hey girl, sorry you’re too short to ride the Swings at the fair & that you’re crying to your mama about it, but kindly get the fuck outta my 42″+ way so I can enjoy the ride.

My heightism would come back to bite me in the ass in approximately 5 seconds.

I was unaware that the seats were raised at different levels, and I wound up on the Tall People side, which meant my squat chubby ass couldn’t get up into the seat. It was incredibly awkward, and Pete finally had to help me. No, he did not present me with a toadstool to step upon like I had hoped, but he did hold the swing steady for me so I could raise my midget body up into the seat without kickboxing the air like I had been on my solo attempts.

It was a beautiful moment of people of opposing heights coming together, though I am really glad no one has it on video.

Then we enjoyed a block of Destiny’s Child songs and pretended like that never happened.

Thank god Pete stepped in before the carny got to me and hoisted me up with calloused hands dangerously close to my boobs. You can’t see it in this picture, but this particular carny had a humungous goiter-like growth perched on the side of his face, like it was preparing to jettison off into the ether at any minute. I’m sure it plays some part in his molestation games, serves as a decoy and before you realize how long you’ve been staring at it, he’s already led into you into the back of his tinted windowed carny trailer.

More later.

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Knock, knock Toboggan. Mama’s home.

Henry and I took the day off work two weeks ago with the intent of going to Idlewild. I was unnaturally stoked about this, even going so far as to make Chooch sit here with me and watch YouTube videos of various Idlewild rides. But then, the Monday before this was supposed to happen, Henry happened to go to their website and saw that it was closed on the day we were going.

What the fuck kind of amusement park closes on a Thursday in August.

I was devastated. Of course, this became Henry’s problem.  I’m not the kind of person who is going to sit at home doing fuck-all on her day off.  It was Blame Henry all week long, until I finally got him to agree to just take us to crappy old Lakemont instead. Didn’t want to go to Kennywood again, having already been there once this summer, same with DelGrosso’s. Lakemont just seemed logical.

(And I always forget that two hours is a long way to drive for a park that small, but I digress.)

God, I’m on a ride for two minutes and Henry is already practically sticking his dick in some other broad. Yeah, Henry. I KNOW you were ogling White Tank Top tits out of your side eyes.

Going up the Toboggan tube.

Half-senile guy who sells tickets for the OLDEST ROLLER COASTER IN THE WORLD, YOU GUYS. It costs an extra $2 to ride Leap the Dips, but that money goes to keeping it restored so I’m OK with paying it. It’s worth it to ride it at least once….

…even though I totally broke my back on one of the dips, when I was tossed into the air and landed with a sickening crunch as my spine was accordianed.

Chooch and I had a pretty choleric argument on the bumper cars, because he kept turning the wheel the wrong way which made us go in reverse. I kept trying to rench it out of his hands to properly right us, which made him extremely cross.

“Stop doing that!” he cried.

“Then stop turning it the wrong way! You’re making everyone slam into us!”

“THAT’S THE POINT! THAT’S WHY IT’S CALLED BUMPER CARS! OH MY GOD!” he snarled.

“Yeah, but not by GOING IN REVERSE!

” I countered, yanking the wheel from his hands once more.

By the time the ride was over, Henry walked toward the exit looking like he just had the best hand job of his life while Chooch and I continued to shove each other and bicker the entire way off the ride. Totally frustrating and embarrassing. The whole point was that we were supposed to gang up on Henry, NOT EACH OTHER.

Henry was absolutely miserable all day until this became his view.

It was super-crowded that day.

We took a break from the sun beneath a pavilion for a few minutes, which happened to be just long enough for us to witness the  meltdown of a little boy. Chooch was watching this with wide-eyes, and then said, “WOW.” Yeah, like he’s never done anything like that before.

Chooch is finally tall enough to ride the Round-Up. He kept balking in its presence, but I finally wheedled his masculinity enough for him to finally snap and say, “FINE I’LL RIDE IT! GOD!” Of course, he absolutely loved it and giggled uncontrollably as centrifugal force plastered him against the cage. So then we had to ride it two more times.

I mostly didn’t mind because I was exchanging flirty banter with the ride operator like I was still a slutty 18-year-old at the goddamn fair and not in fact there with my 6-year-old son while our old man sat his hemorrhoids down on a bench and waited.

We left after three hours, which is more than enough time to ride the whopping eight rides that Lakemont houses. The whole way back to the car, Chooch had one of those temper tantrums that he seemed to think was so ridiculous coming from some other kid. Thank god he slept nearly the whole way home so Henry and I got to listen to all of my music in peace.

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This sums it all up. Goddamn am I going to miss summer.

Until October. Then it’s all “Summer who? Fuck that ho.”

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