When my brother Corey graduated college in the spring, I made him a photobook of one of our county fair adventures. Inside the cover, I wrote something to the effect of, “No matter how busy and stressful you are in your adult life, always remember to make time for deep fried pb&j and spinny rides.” I really believe this is the secret to not succumbing to suicide or madness: holding on to some delicate childhood remnant (i.e. your life when you’re riding the Zipper), ogling carnies, drinking overpriced lemonade and forgetting that you’re a parent. (Note: This should only be done if another parent is present to step up and be both parents. In other words: Thank God For Henry.)

Fanny pack? Check. Redneck Beer Belly? Check. Trailer Park Smoker’s Twang amplified to the nth power while hollerin’ at miscreant children? Check. The compulsion to publicly follow Flo Rida’s order when he tells shorties to get low? Check.

(I’m not judging. All these things happened in the span of time it took me to snap her picture. She didn’t get much lower than this though.)

Sometimes I think Life just has a way of knowing when it’s getting to be too much, and it finally gives me a reprieve by inviting the fair to town. The Big Butler Fair is by far my favorite (it’s BIG, just like its name insinuates!) and it was the only thing getting me through my last pre-vacation week of work. It was just a really bad, overwhelming week, the kind that could only make me appreciate the fair that much more. Good god do I need some carnival bullshit in my life!

Chooch’s minions.

Chooch got along really well with Seri’s kids, and I was glad because the poor kid usually always winds up riding stag (or worse: with some random little girl) in kiddie land. However, I discovered that grown-ups are allowed on Quadzilla, which is basically just these big dune buggy things that go along a track, but there is also a HILL and that was enough to entice me. Seri and I squeezed into one of the cars together, after the carny waved us on with something akin to annoyance, but how could anyone possibly be annoyed with me? Anyway, toward the end, our pictures were taken, like this was some giant coaster at Six Flags, but we were totally unprepared. Pete checked it out (there were monitors set up next to the ride in case anyone actually wanted to pay for that shit) and said we looked like Paris and Nicole. All I could think was, “If he’s comparing to me Nicole Richie, I hope it’s Nicole as Emaciated Mom and not Nicole as Chubby Faux-trailer trash.”

Although the latter would be apropos for the fair. I could have probably picked up some filthy hillbilly ass for sure.

Corey was also glad that Seri’s kids were there, but probably because he didn’t realize that he was still going to have to take unlimited spins on the Sizzler and Tilt-a-Whirl since the kids couldn’t ride alone. Come on, Corey – take one for the team.

Words can’t express how nervous this scene made me. Don’t worry — Pete was on there with them.

THEN DON’T DRINK IT!

We all (minus Henry) rode the Wacky Worm a bunch of times and the general consensus was: “Goddamn, Erin was RIGHT. This ride is LEGIT.”

Look how happy Pete was to catch a ride on the Wacky Worm! Henry could have been that happy, too.  I guess he didn’t want to get any fun on his melon shirt.

I learned a lot about Seri that day:

• She says “to the hilt” A LOT
• Her hair is perfect
• not even 90° heat/humidity or the brisk movements of the Wacky Worm fucked it up
• seriously, NOTHING
• She doesn’t sweat
• actually, I think Chooch and I were the only ones drowning in our own summer secretions that day
• She likes a Pitbull song

My favorite part of the day was when she and I quit being parents (I know Henry is reading this wondering, “Wait, when did Erin ever START being a parent?”) and sat Indian-style in the middle of one of the midways with Corey, talking about our dysfunctional families. This was not my pedometer’s favorite part of the day, though. (FORESHADOWING.)

There were so many highlights, but the only lowlight I can think of was when all three kids hounded us about the carnival games ALL DAY LONG. Those fucking carnival games! Oh my god, I’m glad it wasn’t just my kid.

It’s totally OK for Henry to spend my future-wheelchair funds on games though. GAMES THAT HE NEVER WINS. How many of those overstuffed animals do we have in our house? OH, THAT’S RIGHT – NONE. At least not until Henry “dies” and I have him taxidermied, anyway.

Do you know what else the fair has that my house does not? Clean restrooms. They put attendants all up in that piece, and they go all out. You need to fix your curled and backcombed bangs before you meet up with Jeb at the tractor pull? They’ve got Aquanet. You feel the need to bump and grind at your reflection? They’ve got smooth r&b playing up in that joint. I was trying to bond with Pete over this later in the day, but he was not as enthused about the bathroom amenities as I had hoped he would be, but instead he began ranting about how he just wants to get in there and out as fast  as possible with two kids in tow, not remark about how Boyz II Men tracks put him in the mood to pee.

I guess this goes back to that whole “parenting” thing that I don’t really know much about.

Still not done; more later!

When Henry came downstairs on the day of the Big Butler Fair, his torso was modeling a brand new nondescript t-shirt in a garish hue of jack-o-lantern.

“Nice orange shirt,” I exclaimed on a rocking bed of laughter and derision.

“It’s not orange,” Henry snapped. “It’s melon.”

As if that was supposed to make me stop laughing.

There are many facets of Henry’s life that I have my thighs squeezed around in a death grip, but his fashion sense is not one. I have made futile efforts in the past to get him to break free from generic, joyless threads mostly purchased from Wal-Mart but eventually I had to concede, wave the white flag, turn my attention to dressing my kid instead. Henry’s dresser full of boring, plain and Faygo-printed t-shirts is pretty much all he has left to his identity and manhood.

(It probably doesn’t help that I was trying to groom him into a singer from a post-hardcore band, swathed in Drop Dead Clothing sweaters and neck tattoos.)

My new friend Seri met us at the fairgrounds that afternoon with her husband Pete and their two sons, Aldy and Max. Apparently, Pete had originally attempted to wear his own nondescript orange shirt to the fair that day, but Seri made him change. So after the obligatory introductions were over, Pete and Henry had a special moment of “I can relate to you.” Henry’s first impression of Pete was probably a confusing cocktail of empathy and pity garnished with a burgeoning bromance twist.

Being plain.

However, when Pete was talking about his own orange shirt, Henry was quick to interject, “My shirt is melon, not orange.” My blue-collared boyfriend has turned into a color-snob hipster overnight. Next he’ll be insisting I call him my “cerulean-collared boyfriend.”

My brother Corey came out to the fair later that evening and when I texted him our whereabouts, I tacked on, “Just look for Henry’s orange t-shirt. It looks like he’s single-handedly promoting Halloween.”

And Snooki’s skin tone.

And Tang.

And the FLYERS.

No Orange Shirts Allowed on the Wacky Worm.

It was easy to spot Henry each time the rest of us lively non-old humans would go on rides; he would lumber around the fairgrounds, toting my iCarly messenger bag and wasting money on all the nearby games that he never wins and even if he did, no one would be impressed.

DON’T DRIP ICE CREAM ON THE ORANGE SHIRT OMG!

When I was on the ferris wheel with Seri, it was fun to seek him out in the crowds below, like Waldo on fire. But then I noticed that quite a few other men were also wearing bright orange shirts, though theirs were advertising plumbing companies, Harley Davidson, strip clubs and guns.

Seri mistakenly referred to The Shirt as “cantaloupe,” which made Henry snap for the 87th time that day, “MELON!”

I always thought cantaloupe was a melon, but I guess not when applied to the Color Wheel.

It’s surprising he would even let me this close to him after 9 hours of ridiculing his orange shirt.

Some day, I’m going to snatch all of his nondescript shirts (or “blank,” as Pete prefers to call them) and screenprint Jonny Craig’s face all over them.

Every Father’s Day, we glorify Henry’s existence by spending the day at Kennywood. (He’ll tell you this is more for me than him, but he’s just being “HUMBLE”.) This year, we were joined by Henry’s 19-year-old son Blake (whose age drops down to 10 when he’s around Chooch); Henry’s mom, Judy; Laura and Mike (their first time at Kennywood!); and Chris and Kari, who were accompanied by their adorable daughter, Katelyn: a/k/a the cause for Chooch’s flushed cheeks.

One of these days, my child will learn how to eat an ice cream from top to bottom.

Chooch can almost ride everything now! And the things he didn’t want to ride, I berated him about it until he finally conceded and then realized, “Oh my god, Mommy, you were right! I DO love this ride!”

Mommy knows, son.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

I was so uptight about Blake having Chooch out in the open waters of Kennywood (which is probably only like 4 feet deep) that I had to walk away. God only knows what they talked about during their 30 minute paddleboat getaway.

(DAMN, that would have been the perfect question for my interview with Chooch!)

Probably coming back from his 87th jaunt to the restroom.

(What? Summer makes the balls chafe, you guys.)

(By the way: nice oversized, nondescript shirt, Henry. I’m seriously going to take all of his plain t-shirts and stencil Jonny Craig’s mugshot on them. FRONT AND BACK.)

Robbinseseses. (Look at their matching calves.)

(There were no winners at this game.)

Laura and Mike needed to take a few breaks from Chooch. Sometimes I even took those breaks with them.

Despite some failed attempts to put a ginger-tinged damper on our day, we all had a really great time, I didn’t lose my pedometer, and Henry got to spend quality time with two of his three sons. I don’t even think Chooch and I fought once.

I know this is a very truncated account, but I have to keep walking.

Me: If you had to see Daddy poop his pants on one ride, what ride would it be?

Chooch: Jack Rabbit because of the double dip!

(We both pause here to relish the image of Henry pooping his pants, leaving his seat, and then smashing the poop upon returning to his seat. We’re all children here.)

Me: Why do you like Garfield’s Nightmare? That’s the worst ride there.

Chooch, making a super angry face: WORST?! It has all those statue stuff!

Me: Aren’t you afraid the boat is going to tip over? (That might actually salvage the fun factor, really.)

Chooch, shaking his head like I’m a fool: No.

Me: How safe did you feel riding the Jack Rabbit with your brother, Blake?

Chooch: Why do you type my name as ‘Chooch’ on everything?

Me: Because that’s your name. Just answer the question.

Chooch, making some gross boy noise: It’s cold in here, don’t you think?

Me: Stay focused. (Repeating the original question.)

Chooch, sounding extremely unsure: Really safe?

(That means NOT SAFE.)

Chooch, seeing this picture: Oh, crap.*

Me: Talk about riding rides with [our friends’ daughter] Katelyn.

Chooch: Aw, come on. Not fun! [Laughing giddily, which means OMG ALL OF THE FUN.]

Me: Then why did you get mad when her cousin wanted to ride with her?

Chooch: No I didn’t! I did not! ….how did you know that?

Me: Seriously, how badly did you want to put your arm around Katelyn on the baby roller coaster?

Chooch, blushing furiously and smiling while struggling to maintain his faux-anger: I did not!

(*Chooch, after re-reading this, cried out, “I did not say ‘crap’ there! I said ‘shit’!” Trying to keep Child Services out of our house, OK KID?)

mommy took a picture of grandma who was annoyed of mommy

Me: How pissed off do you think grandma was having to spend a whole day with us idiots?

Chooch, laughing: Uh, fucking* pissed off. Grandma wouldn’t go on everything. Probably because her foot hurts.

(*Seriously! Child Services, kid!)

Me: Look at Laura in the background!

Chooch: Looks like she’s drinking something out of a pee cup.

Me: What do you think you were thinking about in this picture — Katelyn?

Chooch, panicked: No! Now you made me forget what I was thinking because you had to type in Katelyn, thanks a lot!

Me: Talk about how dumb daddy looks in this picture.

Chooch: Oh, I got a great one. It looks like daddy is eating that pizza and he’s going to poop in his pants. And Blake is laughing and smiling because daddy looks like he’s going to poop his pants.

Me, laughing: I mean, look at daddy’s face!

Chooch, pointing in a demonstrative manner: I know, it looks like he’s pooping in his pants! I already said that!

Me: How bad does daddy suck at playing games? Isn’t he the WORST DAD EVER for not winning you all kinds of BIG MAJESTIC stuffed animals?

Chooch: It made me sad.

Me: He totally sucks. I bet Jonny Craig would have won you the BIGGEST STUFFED ANIMAL THERE.

(Probably because he would have needed something to transport his heroin & ego in.)

Me: What was your favorite ride?

Chooch: Uh, the Jack Rabbit.

(I think this is the only ride whose name he can remember.)

Me: Even after you fell down the ramp and scraped your knee and cheekbone?

Chooch: Blake fell too!

Me: Did he really?

Chooch: No, he didn’t really. I just like to say that.

I wanted to stay there at Kennywood but daddy would not let us sleep over at Kennywood.

And this concludes Chooch’s first Oh Honestly, Erin guest post, mostly because we have both lost interest.

The “I’m Trying To Enjoy This Pizza, It Might Be My Only Father’s Day Treat, Get the Phone Out of My Grill” frown.

Chooch usually begins to unravel by the time we’ve snaked our way through vendor alley and reached the Point, which you think he would love because that’s where all the kid-centric stuff can be found. This part of the day usually sounds like this:

Me: Chooch, do you want to go over here to this tent and [insert art medium] some shit?

Chooch, giving it a bored once-over: Not really.

Maybe because everything is so happy and bright and full of Blues Clues fans. Perhaps if the medium was haunted house prop building or painting a nude Bride of Chucky, he’d be all in. However, the guy working the pottery wheel snared my son’s scattered attention. (And mine too, because I was oddly attracted to him, so when he mentioned that the studio gives youth classes, I used that as my launching pad to get closer to him and chat. Too bad the classes are Wednesday evenings and I’ll be working, but Chooch genuinely wants to go so have fun with that Henry. And don’t you dare find some single mom there to get all Ghost with, either, because I WILL KNOW.)

Acting like he had to take an important business call; it was just his mom. 

At the next tent, I forced Chooch to make me an acetate picture because I thought they looked cool. So cool that I haven’t taken it out of my iCarly messenger bag yet.

The bad part about the children’s area is that once you get through it, the river is within child-detection distance; Chooch sniffs it out and takes off like a looter on the lam to get to it, which gives me heart palpitations, and then this is usually where he starts acting like a complete dick because I tell him no when he says, “I want to go on that boat” and points at one of the twenty boats rocking lazily on the river and I have to explain to him in 87 different ways that we cannot just walk onto a boat that we don’t own, and then he acts like I’m like THE WORST and all obedience and Fear of the Hand^TM goes out the window (or into the river, as it were), leaving Henry and me muttering under our breaths different incantations of “Why the fuck do we keep bringing him here year after year?!” and then I got bittersweet flashbacks of when he was a baby and he slept the whole time in his Baby Bjorn.

(And you know Henry was wearing the Baby Bjorn, not me.)

After an hour of Extreme Dick Behavior, we finally had the gumption to inquire as to whether or not our child might have been hungry. It turns out, he was—for a snocone.

Henry was starting to break a sweat at the thought of going through another pressurized snocone-ordering episode, but luckily for him, all he had to do was say, “I want a snocone,” at which point he was given a ($5!!) bowl of crushed ice to take over to a syrup station, where Chooch got to make his own goddamn rainbow flavor.

Disaster in 3…2….

I’m pretty sure this happened last year, too, yet it was still OMG shocking to all involved. The passers-by got to witness an angry soliloquy.

Henry took over, after grumbling something like, “Oh, Jesus Christ, let me do that.” Too bad he wasn’t any more adept. I stood there muttering, “Idiots” over and over, but can you imagine if I had gotten involved t0o? God, the whole table probably would have exploded on us, but probably in an artful manner, since it is the Arts Festival after all.

Next year, the Arts Festival should add a family glazed over in snocone syrup to their people statue collection.

Henry ended up eating it, as usual. $5 for a bowl of ice,  a ruined shirt and a kid whining about being blue and sticky for the rest of the day. What a fucking bargain.

My favorite part of the day occurred right after the syrup splashing when we were crossing the street and Chooch, in a snocone-eating zone, mistook the guy in front of him for Henry. I saw this coming from a mile away (OK fine, five steps away), and when his little blue-syruped hand reached out and tugged on the back of that stranger’s gray shirt, I braced myself for the fallout. The stranger looked behind him, and then down; the two of them had this “Wait a minute….” moment, before Chooch spun around in a panic looking for us. We were obviously right behind him the whole time, but I think he actually thought he had been abandoned there for a second and I was actually a little glad about that because this kid has NO FEAR.

Then the stranger saw his less-stocky, more-nerdy doppelganger (a/k/a Henry) and everyone in our little pedestrian cluster got big laughs at Chooch’s expense. Chooch meanwhile had a stunned smile on his face and his cheeks were flushed from embarrassment.

It was awesome.

You have now reached the end of this post.

Getting ready to take his show downtown. Apologies in advance, Pittsburgh.

I think I have only missed the annual Three Rivers Arts Festival two or three times since I was sixteen, and I’m sure Henry had something to do with it. It’s tradition, even when I’ve been too broke to afford anything more than the trolley fare it costs to take me there. Before I got a job downtown, it was pretty much the only thing that ever brought me down here—in addition to the urge to randomly dance to Andy Gibb in the middle of Liberty Avenue on a Saturday night, which I still say was one of my finer moments—so that’s why I can usually only find my way around down here if someone gives me directions in relation to the Arts Festival layout. (But it is still best that I walk around with a seeing eye Law Firm co-worker.)

And now suddenly my kid is very much “OMG THE ARTS FESTIVAL! WHEN ARE WE GOING?!” This pleases me. (Also what pleases me is knowing that he can probably produce better art than a lot of what’s down there.)

In honor of the Arts Festival, there are these awesome mannequins all over downtown Pittsburgh. Chooch has seen some of them already from the car when he and Henry come and pick me up from work, and he has been dying to get his pose on. Unfortunately, so was pretty much every other asshole down there, and I literally had to edge my way in front of a group of yuppie and their flock of inconsiderate Benetton-swathed children who, I’m sorry, had totally outwore their photo-op welcome after the ninth completely un-funny pose. Give a working class kid a chance!

Corn(dog)rows, or what corn-breaded hot dog enthusiasts (a/k/a carnies) oft refer to as “breakfast.” I have a picture of Chooch eating his corn dog, but it looks so embarrassingly phallic that I just can’t do that to him. Now, if it were Henry…

Henry got me a falafel sandwich, and the goal was to convince Chooch to sit in the lawn with me long enough to orally pulverize the shit out of that pita pocket but instead he had to play that awesome game that all parents love where their children wander away and try to get abducted. So instead of having my falafel sandwich shit lettuce and tzatziki sauce in one isolated spot, I hansel-and-gretel’d it all over Point Park, my shoes and the depths of my cleavage.

Wishing this was his father. Me too, kinda. This looks like the kind of husband that would buy his wife a plane ticket to California to see Jonny Craig’s solo show at Chain Reaction, probably while copulating with his mistress in his wife’s absence, but what the fuck do I care, I’m going to see Jonny Craig, bitches.

I know, what a fantasy right? Like I’d ever actually have a husband.

Speaking of non-husbands, mine bought me this glorious Jesus print from my new favorite artist Lex Covato (and she’s not just my favorite because she liked my quotation mark tattoos). What a lovely addition to my religious art collection. That room in my invisible house is really coming along!

I do not know if these trees are real or not, and I see them all the time. I guess I could have read that sign.

Or, you know, touched one of them.

After we exhausted all there was to do in the heart of the Arts Festival, we walked down one of the streets that I don’t know the name of and ran smack into the middle of a jazz festival.

There was a large stage in the middle of the street attracting a fairly sizable crowd, and since we were kind of tired from walking around all day, we sat down a curb and pretended to be jazz fans. (Mostly, Henry just scanned the crowd for girls who maybe work at Blush.)

Chooch apparently is a jazz fan, though. At least he was for a few seconds until he started reading the zombie book Henry bought him.

(“Zombies Hate Stuff” – Greg Stones once again had a booth at the arts festival.)

Legit jazz fans.

There were some older broads in front of us who I thought at first were having epileptic seizures, but it turns out they were just REALLY into the music. At one point, I thought to myself, “Hey, I think I know this song. I guess this small potatoes, local Pittsburgh band that I cannot see from where I’ve popped a squat is doing a cover of some other, mildly-popular song that I guess I heard on Lite FM as a kid*.”

(*Or last week. Listening to soft rock is one of those things that makes me a case study in contradictions. Wendy acted all shocked yesterday when she learned that I love Barry Manilow.)

On a whim, I decided to look up the jazz festival line up on my phone.

“Huh,” I said to Henry. “Turns out this is Average White Band. And here I thought they were some cover band.”

“Yeah, covering their own songs,” he said smugly, when he didn’t know it was them in the first place, either!

God!

And then Chooch’s behavior began going downhill faster than Jersey Shore, so we began walking back to catch the trolley.

Putting on a show for the girls sitting behind me.

Old Dude on the Crazy Mouse, holla!

Usually when we go to county fairs or amusement parks, Henry declines getting on rides in lieu of standing off to the side, looking like a regular woman’s purse-holding creeper. But I guess this past Sunday, Henry really wanted to remember what it’s like to have all of the fun, so he actually allowed the elderly woman in the ticket booth to slap a ride-all-day wristband on his arm.

Either that or he just really wanted to feel the breeze cruisin’ through his McNichol-locks.

Me: So, which is it?

Henry, mocking me with a Santa laugh: I wanted to have all of the fun, of course.

He complained about neck pain a lot during and after the Crazy Mouse, which is such an old person thing to do.

****

Me: Seriously, how did it feel to actually be on a ride for once, and not ogling underaged girls with a twitch of your Selleck ‘stache?

Henry: Seriously, I’m not answering a question right this minute.

(Oh, that’s because his nose is in his phone, ogling underage girls with a twitch of his Selleck ‘stache on Facebook.)

Me: What was your favorite ride there, and don’t say ‘the ride home’?

Henry, in a tone that implies I’m a fool for not knowing: The Crazy Mouse.

Me: So, would you say that the Crazy Mouse is your Wacky Worm?

Henry, using the tactic of saying whatever I want to hear in an effort to appease me faster than ear-fucking me with Jonny Craig records: Yeah, I guess.

When it comes to bumper cars, I ususally tend to sit that one out and let Henry and Chooch do their thing. But on this day, I was feeling all sorts of female empowerment and decided what better way to celebrate my day as a mother than by getting all sorts of vehicular homicide on the sperm receptacle that knocked me up in the first place? I immediately regretted the decision when we ascended the steps and got into a line which was turnstiled inside an area the size of a walk-in closet (a regular person’s walk-in closet, not Kimora Lee Simmon’s walk-in closet; bitch, watch an episode of “Cribs” now and then, and you’d know). It was so cramped up in there that I had to stand stockstill, with my arms straight down my sides to avoid my white bread city flesh accidentally chafing against red neck farmhand brawn. Remember in my last Delgrosso’s editorial where I expounded on the social classes of its average patron? Well, it was here, in line for the bumper cars, that all my hyperbolic observations manifested themselves into an actual breathing and stinking family. Imagine the TV show Roseanne, but if the Connors lived in hills that have eyes and not Illinois; marry that with People of Wal-Mart; and then bathe them in liquid cabbage, body odor, vomit and spritz them with eau d’ petting zoo and then plant them right behind the judgmental girl with the over-sensitive olfactory system.

My senses were all a’prickle. Even HENRY was like, “What the fuck is behind me, I’m too afraid to look, here use my periscope.” The Dan Connor of the family was wearing a billowing t-shirt with the arms cut off to allow for adequate stench expulsion from his putrid pits. One of the younger boys was a true ginger and I felt extreme sorrow for him. Also a little bit of disgust. The two pre-teen girls were dressed unintentionally whorish and one of them will probably fail a pregnancy test within the coming weeks while the other loses her virginity to a saw horse.

But the worst was by far the mom. Totally Roseanne Barr if Roseanne Barr was hatched from an egg under a troll bridge, she did nothing but fucking HOLLER at her family and repeat over and over again, “WE’S GON NEED 12 CARS YA’LL CUZ BRITNEY WANTS TO RIDE BY HERSELF! 12 CARS!” and it’s like, “OK! We get it! You can fucking count! You can put the abacus away now!” but really I wanted to know who (or what) she was counting, because I only saw 5 people in their party.

I think the bigger question is why were they spending money on Delgrosso’s admission and not TOILETRIES?

And then one of them, either the mom or dad, emitted the nastiest, wettest fart I’ve ever smelt, and I grew up with two younger brothers. A stew of John Wayne Gacy’s corpse pit, the Jersey Shore smoosh room and sauerkraut might have emitted a comparable fecal bouquet. It was so terrible that I actually CRIED OUT LOUD, DRY-HEAVED and made a big production of covering my nose and mouth.

We ended up getting the last two cars, so at least I was able to ram the fuck out of Henry’s backend without having to hold my nose. (In this case, anyway.)

****

Me: How good do you feel about yourself when you’re amongst the riffraff at Delgrosso’s, be honest? You probably feel hot like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Or at the very least, Michael Landon in Highway to Heaven*. TOTAL SELF ESTEEM BOOST, right?

(* I imagine this is someone Henry emulated in the 80s after his Erik Estrada infatuation fizzled.)

Henry: I don’t understand the question.

(OK. Maybe Henry isn’t that much better than the signature Delgrosso’s patron.)

Henry actually won something! A stuffed shark that his mom kept calling a whale the next day, much to Chooch’s chagrin.

Chooch didn’t understand why his hands weren’t sparking when he stuck them out of the Crazy Mouse car. How fucking precious.

****

Me: How close did that random redneck resemble Jesus Christ, I mean, Jonny Craig?

Henry: I don’t know, I never really looked at him.

Me: I’ve totally been squeezing my eyes shut and pretending you’re him, just so you know. Hey, speaking of Jonny Craig, what is your favorite Emarosa song?

Henry, before I even finished the question: I don’t have one.

(Well, he better get one, otherwise it’s going to be one excruciating wedding dance for him – OH WAIT WE’RE NOT GETTING MARRIED OH HO HO.)

There were girls in line with us, which explains the bewildered smile.

Henry didn’t want to go on the Swing Buggies until he heard Journey’s “Wheel in the Sky” playing, and then was suddenly all stoked. God, imagine if it had been Ted Nugent. He’d have plowed down girls in wheelchairs to get in line.

****

Me: Are you sure you don’t want to finally confess about what really happened that night at the Nugent show in 19OMGYROLD?

Henry: OH SHUT UP! GOD!

This is really what Chooch looks like. I photoshop all his other pictures.

If there are maps, Henry will read them.

****

Me: What are your favorite kinds of maps to read, and how badly do you want to have sex on top a stack of atlases?

Henry: WHAT? WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT? I DON’T HAVE A FAVORITE KIND OF MAP TO READ. Murmuring: What’s my favorite kind of map to read. You’re so fucked up.

Me: [reiterating the atlas part of the question and flinching even though this part of the exposé is now being conducted via telephone — you don’t think I actually get him to answer everything in one sitting, do you? We’re going on FIVE DAYS NOW.]

Henry: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I’m going to kill you.

Me: Imagine that your daydreams of becoming a Universal Hemorrhoid Ambassador came true.

Henry: A universal what?!

Me, repeating myself and gagging on deep-throated giggles: How would you rate Delgrosso’s ‘rrhoid comfort level for your fellow sufferers on a scale from Preparation H-eaven to Bleeding From My Anus?

Henry, after making me repeat it again because he doesn’t understand my laughing slur: I don’t understand the question.

This is apparently Henry’s new go-to answer. Either that or I need to seriously work on my syntax.

Me: OMG Henry, how adorable are me and Chooch? (Answer wisely and this can be your last question.)

Henry, looks at me suspiciously: Very?

Jesus Christ, now I can’t wait for our annual Father’s Day romp in Kennywood!

Being a teenager and going to Kennywood for our school picnic day was A REALLY BIG DEAL. You had to go out and buy a new skanky outfit (I always got mine from Merry-Go-Round, RIP pleather ghetto couture). I mean, you HAD to. Going to Kennywood in last week’s fishnet tank, looking like a cheap hood rat? Unacceptable. How you gon’ hit a home run behind a picnic grove wrapped in a faded B.U.M. Equipment t-shirt?

What I like about Delgrosso’s is that you could step into your basic potato sack, strip your face of makeup and shear yourself a mullet and still look better than most of the people there on any given day. (The employees, however, are young and pleasantly scene. They all probably had at least three Jonny Craig songs on their iPods.) The park is surrounded by nary a big city, but rather rural villages, so imagine Mabel ripping the curlers from her hair and hollerin’, “Earl! I just finished warshin’ the clothes down at the crick, so get the Pinto off the cinder blocks ‘cuz we gon’ to Delgrosso’s!”

(Altoona & Johnstown are nearby, but I’m not sure that really counts.)

You’ll get your fair share of men in suspenders, is all I’m saying. And not the kinds worn with hipster irony, either, but real suspenders meant to hitch a pair of farmer’s pants over a sweat stained-NASCAR shirted beer belly.

So Sunday morning, I threw on some jeans and a black t-shirt, smeared on some light makeup, ran a brush through my hair for good measure, and I was confident that I could still pass for Prom Queen. Even though I’m pretty sure my sweater had a rolled-up Star Wars sticker adhered to it all day.

In the bowels of a Dizzy Dragon.

In front of us in line for the Tilt-a-Whirl was a man in a non-descript blue-gray t-shirt (it had a logo on the front; I’m guessing a local plumbing company), camo shorts and a matching camo bandanna. Knowing what you now know about the closets of Delgrosso’s average demographic, you would think that I wouldn’t even give this guy a second glance. But I did, and then a million more glances followed, which eventually turned into full-blown, open-mouthed stares.

I pulled Henry close. “Doesn’t he look like Jonny Craig?” I whispered on a rocking bed of giggles. Henry gave him a once-over that lasted approximately .00001 seconds and then smirked.

“Um, no,” he said and then went back to looking at maps on his phone. What? That’s what I imagine he’s looking at every time I catch him with his glasses lifted up, nose-to-phone. Map porn.

Seriously, I know this is going to be a real imagination-bender, but try to imagine a white trash(ier) Jonny Craig, stripped of his TOMS, knit hats and music career, wearing Crocs and pro-America t-shirts featuring flags, mountains and moose; now accelerate his age to somewhere around 40, give him an over-weight wife double his size in the aforementioned potato sack and two of the homeliest ginger pre-teen daughters you’ve seen this side of Appalachia.

Could. Not. Stop. Staring.

“This is Jonny Craig’s future unless I can save him!” I cried to Chooch as the Til-A-Whirl flung us around. Jonny Sr. and his Frumpy Missus had chosen the car across from us, so after every other revolution, we would be face-to-face with them. I know he is unhappily married because not once did I see him smile and what kind of person takes a twirl on the Tilt-a-Whirl without cracking a smile? Serial killers and discontent husbands with frumpy wives, that’s who. I inadvertently (OK, totally on purpose) made some hardcore eye contact with Jonny Sr. Suddenly, I was thankful that I at least chose to wear a t-shirt that was tight and low-cut, and not one of Henry’s billowy Faygo Red Pop smocks.

Wait. Why do I care what I’m wearing? I asked myself inside my head, about to have a complete existential crisis on the goddamn Tilt-a-Whirl.

OMG BECAUSE I HAD A CRUSH ON JONNY SR NOW. HE TOTALLY HAD THE SAME, CLOSE-SET WEASEL EYES AS MY JONNY CRAIG.

And thus began an afternoon of old school cat and mouse stalking. Thank god Delgrosso’s is such a small park!

When I saw him in line for the Crazy Mouse, I legit nearly tripped my own child as I sprinted over to snatch a spot behind him. Some other downtrodden family with eighteen box car kids got there before I did, which angered me but really it was probably for the best. I can’t promise for sure that I wouldn’t have done something stupid.

At first, Henry just thought my urgency in grabbing a spot in line was because I was that excited to ride the Crazy Mouse for the third time that afternoon, until he interpreted my throaty giggles to mean, “I am standing five feet away from today’s prey.” He actually left Chooch and me alone in line because he was that embarrassed. But I like to pretend it was because he didn’t want to impede on my game.

Henry runs the gamut of emotions when it comes to this stuff. He starts off mildly amused, then annoyed, maybe a little embarrassed, there’s always a plateau where he is completely worried and concerned, and then it usually ends with him angry.

Chooch and Henry rode the carousel together, while I sat my ass on a bench and took pictures. Every time their horses would buoyantly carry them around to the tune of Liberace’s music box collection, Henry would see me laughing and smiling, so he would laugh and smile, too, like we were having a true 1950’s TV family moment. When they rejoined me afterward, Henry said surly, “I couldn’t understand why you looked so happy until I was getting off the carousel and saw that that guy was on here with us too.” He was! He was sitting on one of the benches with his wife while their backwoods offspring were each dryhumping  a horse, and he totally fell asleep. I HOPE HE DREAMT OF ME.

 Later, Henry was buying us ice cream cones, and Jonny Sr came over to buy nachos! This is him BUYING NACHOS!

Henry kept trying to block me from taking his picture. “HE’S TOTALLY STARING AT YOU, OK?!” Henry hissed at me, running his hand through his non-ginger hair.

“Oh my god, really!?” I cried. “Do you think it’s because he likes me too!?”

“No! It’s because you’re being totally fucking obvious!” And then Henry sighed and said, “Whatever, do what you want.”

I’ll tell you what I wanted to do. I wanted to follow him around the park so he could watch me fellate my jimmied ice cream cone, but Henry deemed that it was time to go. So we all headed over to the park’s entrance when Chooch, bless his heart, started crying about wanting to go on one more ride before we left. So he and I hurriedly downed our cones and rode the kiddie free fall ride that’s next to the Wacky Worm. We rejoined Henry afterward, and I clutched his arm, begging him to let us take one final stroll through the park.

“For what?!” Henry spat.

“Um, I don’t know. I just want to get one more look. You know, before I say goodbye,” I stammered.

“You don’t have to walk through the park for what you want to do,” Henry sighed. I was confused about what he meant, until I turned toward the direction of the park entrance and THERE WAS JONNY SR, WALKING TOWARD US WITH HIS HOMELY WIFE! Instead of basking in his Elder Jonny Craigness while I had the opportunity, I clung to Henry’s arm and burrowed my face in his side, giggling and spitting all over his t-shirt. I was convinced that I was IN LOVE with this man and was about two more furtive glances away from actively seeking a way to go home with him. I really fucking disgust myself sometimes.

Still, this wasn’t enough. I needed to see him again. And again and again. So right before we left the park, I squeezed Henry’s arm and shouted, “Wait! You said you wanted to buy some of that potato salad to take home!” (Our friends Chris and Kari told us that Delgrosso’s is notorious for having the best potato salad of all time, and it’s a good thing I’m the authority on this and was able to confirm that yes, this is true. It was the best and I am right now sitting at my desk at work, remembering the creamy sex of it all.)

I know that Henry really wanted to turn around and go back for a tub of it, and probably he would have if the threat of Jonny Sr wasn’t lurking around like sleazy land mines of infidelity in the park. But instead, he was like, “Nah, maybe next time.” That ginger-hating asshole.

Many hours later, as we were getting ready for bed, I asked Henry if he thought Jonny Sr liked me back in a hyper-tone extremely reminiscent of a 7th grader seeing her crush at the mall and spending the next 6 hours interrogating her friends regarding every nuance of his eyebrow arch. (Not that I could relate to that.)

Henry put his pillow over his face and turned his back toward me.

I leave you with some Jonny Craig for your ears! And possibly a Henry Interview tomorrow!

I spent my entire Saturday moping around, looking at old pictures, and generally stewing in my own brand of self-inflicted malaise. But, I needed that: one full day of letting it all sink in and crying about it to the point of choking. Everyone needs a good cry, and my good cries kept getting getting truncated last week by work and things like, oh I don’t know, having to be a “mom.” So Saturday was devoted to remembering my cat Don, crying over his death, and also mourning other things that happened to come up in the wake of Don’s death, like the summer of 2002, which was apparently a better summer than I gave it credit for originally. (I was openly in love with Henry, according to my old LiveJournal entries!) I guess there were also a little bit of growing pains thrown in there too.

Moving on can feel like torture sometimes.

Meanwhile, Henry cleaned the house and brought me fro-yo with all my favorite weird Asian toppings. And cheesecake bits. He always insists on thinking I like cheesecake bits on my froyo. (For the record, I don’t, but I’ll eat it anyway.)

When I woke up on Mother’s Day, I thought to myself, “No. I’ll be damned if I’m sitting in this house for two days straight and pouting.” So I started looking for things to do, and somehow I ended up on the Delgrosso’s Amusement Park website where I saw that not only were they open for the season, but MOMS RIDE FREE ON MOTHER’S DAY. I couldn’t really think of anywhere else I’d rather be that day than on the Wacky Worm, miles away from heartache and Real Life. Goddammit, if happiness wasn’t going to come to me, then I’d just have to go to it. And it just so happened it was only 2 hours away.

Henry was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I ran in and collided into him, waving my phone in his face.

He smirked at me and said no. “Delgrosso’s is two hours from here! And the weather is shitty. I’m not driving all that way to get rained on.”

So I checked the weather in Altoona and it said it was going to be 70 degrees and mostly sunny with scattered showers. I waved this in his face, too.

He started to say no again, so I forced my eyes to rain salty droplets of despair and disappointment.

“After everything I’ve been through! I just want to be HAPPPPPPY!” I can only imagine how ugly and snot-bubbly that scene was.

Then I sent Chooch in to remind him that it was Mother’s Day and now mommy is crying and wants to kill herself, good job. This all started around 9:30AM. By 10:30, everyone was showered, dressed and in the Delgrosso-bound car.

Henry even let me listen to Emarosa and talk about Jonny Craig for the entire car ride. Like that’s anything new. (And like he even had a choice, Mother’s day or not.)

Right outside of Tipton, the small rural-esque town of Delgrosso’s, I checked the weather again. It had changed from sunny to 60 degrees with clouds of doom and gloom. I quickly hid my phone from Henry so he wouldn’t see and change his mind.

No, the clouds didn’t part and shit on us rays of golden sunlight, but the rain pretty much stayed away for our visit. And it was the best Mother’s Day of all time.

Henry wouldn’t ride the Wacky Worm at first, pretending that he had to pee and urging me and Chooch to go on without him while he killed time in the restroom. (Read: Cried about his SERVICE days of yore.) You might remember that he has a pretty staunch No Fun policy, especially when it comes to amusement parks and making girlfriends smile, but I think the last few weeks have made him feel bad for me, so he actually rode it one whole time without me having to cause a scene!

“This ain’t gon’ muss up my luscious McNichol locks, is it?”

I kept turning around in my seat to better cajole Henry into putting his arms up and holler like a madperson (you know, like me), but all he would do was smirk and give me that, “Don’t be a fool” look that I know so well. But that smirk kept twisting upward into a smile and I KNEW he was enjoying his spin inside that caterpillar’s caboose.

The best part was that Chooch insisted on sitting on by himself, and I didn’t want to sit with Henry, so we all sat separately. Henry was so angry about this; I guess he had banked on Chooch sitting with him to make him look less of a child roller coaster predator.

“For some reason, they put on the brakes right before it goes down the hill,” I pointed out to Henry. “They don’t do that at the Butler County Fair.”

“Yeah, because they don’t care about SAFETY about the fair,” Henry explained in his Dad Voice.

Or! The Mexican carnies just want us to have more fun.

One go-around was enough for the old man and his brittle bones, so he stood by the fence with all the other proud parents for all of our other wormy journeys.

And we finally got the front seat! Oh my god, Chooch and I were so obnoxious about it too. I kept shouting, “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS OUR FIRST TIME IN THE FRONT SEAT AFTER TWO YEARS OF RIDING THE WACKY WORM!” and then Chooch would be all, “It’s not really that big of a deal.” But I was practically crying with joy as I peered at the sky through the caterpillar’s antennae when it began its ascent up the first hill. There is a metaphor in here somewhere.

Something about a metamorphosis.

It’s the little things.

View from the top.

So much more to come.

The thing about Lakemont is that as far as amusement parks go, it’s puny. Nothing about it is really “new,” except this time when we were there, we noticed that one of the rides had been removed so maybe next year there will be an upgrade in its place. And how shocking that would be. Especially if it was anything manufactured post-1980.

But for some reason, I love the hell out of this park! People-watching is prime, the rides they do have are an amalgamation of bizarre and retro, and best of all—it’s cheap. Extremely cheap. We always go on the same weekend in September when Lakemont hosts some sort of Altoona craft bazaar, because it’s only $5 that weekend and there is almost no lines to stand in at all.

NOT EVEN FOR THE WINE SLUSHIES.

One of the bigger draws at Lakemont is a small wooden coaster called Leap the Dips, which also happens to be the oldest running coaster in the WORLD.

THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD.

It costs an extra $2.50 to ride it. They didn’t charge extra the last time, but I guess this is their effort to do everything possible to maintain and preserve it for future use. The old man who sold us the tickets was hilarious and teased us mercilessly. He wouldn’t hand over the tickets until I was able to tell him how much it would cost for three. This of course caused sweat-on-the-brain but I was able to answer before Janna and that’s all that matters.

It’s so old that the young farm-handish employee had to actually run and push our car to give it momentum. But not before making fun of my iCarly messenger bag. (He accused it of being Hannah Montana and I felt the vinyl flap featuring Carly and Sam’s mug heat up as it rejected his insinuation. )

Janna and Laura quickly learned the meaning behind “Leap the Dips” as they were nearly catapulted out of their seats when we went over the first dip and our car became airborne.

It’s one fucking rough ride. Henry won’t ride it due to the fact that it agitates his hemorrhoids.

Proof.

Lakemont’s Wacky Worm is definitely the Toboggan (I finally learned how to spell it! Gold stars all around!). This was Chooch’s first time riding it and he took to it immediately. We must have been ejected from that vertical tube 20 times that evening. Such a stupid yet fun ride.

If we’re being honest, it was the guys running the thing that kept me coming back for me. They were hilarious and cute and coveted  my iCarly messenger bag. The thing with the Toboggan is that there is a lot of sitting around in the cars, waiting for your turn to be carried up through the tube and then waiting for all of the other cars to come back before being unlatched and set free. But these two guys would walk back and forth, antagoning us, showing us stupid magic tricks and just being all-around completely entertaining.

It made me remember why I enjoy Lakemont so much — the kids working there actually give a shit about their jobs and have fun doing it! What a novel concept!

OK good, I did spell it right.

Isn’t it majestic?

Someone watches too much 16 & Pregnant.

Moments later, I almost lost an arm and leg when Chooch stamped down on the gas pedal before I was all the way inside the car. It was a pretty great scene for all the people standing in line.

This was the first time I was actually proud of my kid. Not for nearly spontaneously amputating me (though I would finally have weighed less!), but as far as riding things at amusement parks go. Of course I’m already proud of his sarcastic, biting words; knowledge of horror movies; and independence in the kitchen. He rode the shit out of everything he was tall enough to ride and I felt like we were really in sync with each other that day as we frolicked from ride to ride; even Henry rode his fair share AND EVEN SMILED AT TIMES.

Considering we had spent the morning screaming at each other over money, the day ended up being pretty spectacular and Henry even held my hand at one point (!!!) and said he was glad he came along after all. See that? My brilliant day trip ideas SAVE RELATIONSHIPS.

Can’t wait to do this again next September! WHO’S IN?

***

On the drive home, Janna admitted to not being able to see, provoking Laura and me to nervously suggest in tandem for her to pull the fuck over. Since I was now driving, I told Janna it was her turn to entertain us, and after whining for awhile about not having any stories, she launched into this shoddily-detailed narrative about going to a party when she lived in DC but then ended up getting a chili dog instead and then parking in a loading dock by her apartment and eating it in the car. I kept waiting for the climax, at the very least a car-jacking, but nothing ever happened other than her eating a chili dog while illegally parked.

Kids, don’t blow off parties for chili dogs or you too will grow up to not have any stories to tell.

[Read Henry’s harrowing account of the day here.]

It’s been over a month since this wondrous event happened, I’m not sure I will ever be able to do it justice now. There’s just too much that has been going on since that day and it kept getting pushed to the backburner; completely unacceptable. But there are pictures and I really want to post them, so I will do my best.

First Stop: DelGrosso’s

All you really need to know about DelGrosso’s is that I got really fucking sick. I had just rode back-to-back spinny rides with Chooch, Laura and Janna (one of which was the Tilt-a-Whirl, and Chooch and I kept laughing because Janna rode alone; I am raising my child right, in case you haven’t noticed) before agreeing immediately to ride this thing called the Casino with Chooch.

Laura and Janna opted out.

First, Chooch and I had to stand next to an unoccupied seat, waiting for the girl running the ride to help us unlatch it while everyone who was already situated stared at us like they couldn’t believe it was our first time at an amusement park. The girl kept getting distracted, or she was just pointedly ignoring us, who knows; but I should have taken it as a sign and walked away.

Instead, we stood there like idiots until the door was unlatched for us (there were like, three whole steps to unlock it; no way would I have ever cracked that code) and then within one and half revolutions, I felt my equilibrium throat-fucking me.

Really, it wasn’t so bad: just some slight undulating motions as the roulette wheel spun us around, but then, joy of joys, it went BACKWARDS.

And that is where my first trimester of pregnancy came back to haunt me. I instinctively reached into my pocket for a peppermint disc, but I didn’t have any on account that I am not actually pregnant anymore.

Oh, look at Little Miss Thrill Ride Queen, nearly barfing all over the occupants of the Casino.

One more revolution, and it would have been that puking scene in Problem Child all up in DelGrosso’s.

After the ride ended and we waited to be released from our maximum security cell, Chooch skipped off into the horizon while I staggered slowly after him, finally nailing the zombie gait that I so pathetically pantomimed during my zombie self-defense class last spring.

Without a word to Janna, Laura and Henry, I slowly took a supine position on a bench.

“Maybe the train will be a nice break for you,” Laura suggested, so we all got in line for the most lamest amusement park train ride of all time. We didn’t make it on right away and had to stay in line for one more go-around. I considered sliding down the wall into a heap of sweat, stomach acid and minced stomach lining instead of standing with everyone else.

I was that nauseated that even standing was giving me the spins.

However, I was not too nauseated to laugh evilly when an older woman got out of her seat before the train started to take a picture of her family, only to lose her balance and fall back into the seat, sprawling across her embarrassed husband’s lap and absolutely cracking the fuck out of her shin.

It was a pure delight to witness. I guess it wasn’t all that exciting though because Laura and Janna admitted afterward that they must have missed it. It gave me tears, that’s how much I enjoyed myself.

The train ride did not help my churning stomach. I clutched the front of the seat with whitened knuckles, wishing the sunshine would un-blanch my complexion instead of coaxing the bile up my throat.

Afterward, I waved the white flag and collapsed on a bench. I urged Henry to take Chooch to kiddieland and encouraged Janna and Laura to ride the Crazy Mouse again without me.

“Don’t worry about me,” I moaned in the stoic tone of a fallen soldier. “I’ll be fine.” And then I wept behind the privacy of my sunglasses.

Everyone rejoined me after about 15 minutes and I decided that I needed to try and eat, so we all trooped back over to the food area, where Chooch and I sat alone on a bench, me with my head between my knees.

“Let’s go on the Wacky Worm again,” Chooch cheered.

I started to say, but then on second thought, I said, “Yeah, OK. Let’s do it.” And damn if that fucking ride didn’t make me feel better.

“Where were you?” Henry said when we found him holding a plate of pizza.

“On the Wacky Worm!” I shouted happily.

“But you’re sick…” he started.

“NOT ANYMORE, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Laura and Henry both wore black shirts because they’re in a pigment race gang.

We rode the Wacky Worm one more time before we left, while Henry stood sullenly off to the side and stared with disapproval.

“So, what did you think of the Wacky Worm?” I interrogated Laura on the way back to the car.

“It’s a…ride,” she answered uncertainly.

I’ll say! THE BEST RIDE EVER!

[I have to re-read this every year to remind myself that no matter how caught up in the October spirit I think I am, going to the Apple Fest is a fucking stupid idea. This is from 2008 and I’m reposting it because I can.]

Today we took Captain Vulgarity to the Apple Fest in the ultra conservative farmlands of Western Pennsylvania. One has to park in various fields several miles from where all the apple action goes down and board chool buses doubling as shuttles. Our bus was pretty quiet, and the whole way there I sat with clenched muscles and pinched nerves, praying that Chooch wouldn’t start snarling spontaneous “Asshole“s to the elderly couple adjacent to his seat. The excitement of being on a school bus for the first time seemed to work effectively as a cuss retardant, thank the fucking Lord, so I was able to focus on the adorable lesbian couple in front of me, mouthing along to West End Girls and kissing the top of each other’s heads. Seriously, I wanted to paint a cupcake couple painting for those lucky assholes. (I don’t know WHERE Chooch gets that word.) I tossed a few resentful glares over my shoulder at Henry, who does NOT mouth the words to awesome synthpop songs or kiss me lovingly atop my crown. BUT MY GIRLFRIEND DOES.

If you like kettle corn, the apple fest is a fine place to spend a Sunday. If you like personalized wood-carved toy flutes and crafts made with puffy paint, then the apple fest could potentially complete your mantle collection. Do you like face paint? YOU WILL LOVE THE APPLE FEST. How about the tones of Jimmy Buffet cover bands colliding with whining kids and the grinding horror of chainsaws? Then the apple fest is like one mother of an orgasm contained on one whopping acre.  Is the tied and bound body of your latest victim incomplete without an apple gag? You can buy ’em by the BUSHEL at the apple fest!

For someone who is not interested in any of the above (the last one, maybe someday), my typical I Hate The World venom was sort of tempered. I only said, “This is so fucking lame, ” once. ONCE. (I’m either growing up or someone plopped a Valium in my tea.) I had one goal, and one goal only: Eat some applelicious delicacies.

Keep that pulled pork away from me.

We let Chooch go on some kiddie rides and molest some farm animals. (I saw a retarded man clap after he pet a sheep and I seriously almost died. Between that and the drugfreeworld.

org commercials, I’m wondering what the fuck is going on with my heart-frost and estrogen levels.)

Ninety percent of the apple-humpers there were sporting Steelers jerseys and I felt slightly angry about it. But then I saw THREE WHOLE PEOPLE in Penguins shirts and I felt less alone. Chooch cheered when he saw one of those people, too, and I shouted, “That’s my boy.” Then I looked up to the heavens and mouthed “Thank you” when Chooch didn’t tack a gritty “Asshole!” to the end of his cheer.

We followed some shoddy and ill-placed signs for a hayride, hoping to keep Chooch’s attention masturbated since it was growing close to his naptime and his ornery side was beginning to peak. The designated area for the apple fest just isn’t large enough to hold all the fruity wonders and delights that are to be had, so the activities and vendors tend to leak down onto a nearby street. The hayride depot (I don’t know what I’m talking about) was situated next to a church. Henry pointed to a sign on its steps and said, “Let’s go see that.” Because my eyes are as bad as my ears (if not worse), I read it as “Come see the trans.” I was intrigued that a church would have transvestites on display for us hee-haw apple-folk. “How progressive,” I said out loud.

But it was just some model train display.

In the church’s basement, a bevy of booths were set up. As I walked past a stand of necklaces, I accidentally made eye contact with its purveyor, who flitted her hand and said, “They’re made from paper mache!” I fake-smiled and said, “OH OK” and hurried along before she compelled me with the Holy Spirit and Mod Podge. It stunk really bad in there, like church craft fairs often do. Some kind of horrible odor bomb of cooked cabbage, Avon perfume and shitty diapers. Chooch began acting like an orphan who was force-fed caffeine capsules and then turned loose on the world, so we yanked him out of there in time to go on the lamest hayride ever, where I was seated across from some older God-fearing woman who glared at me every time I looked up at her and her teenage daughter who had a broken foot and chowed on a bag of kettlecorn while staring dispondantly off into the horizon. Chooch only said “asshole” once, but no one heard him over the put-put of the tractor’s engine.

The tractor-driver let the wagon glide to a rest on top of a hill, where our screams would be heard by no one for miles and miles and miles. Slowly, he turned around, and as though he were in some sort of cigar and whiskey-flavored fugue, he slurred, “Six feet of snow….nothing but the moon in the sky….what do you think the view would be like up here?” No one seemed to know what to say, so I looked at Chooch and said awkwardly, “Pretty awesome, huh?” The only other person who humored him with an answer was the God-fearing woman, who curtly replied, “Nice.” I kind of felt bad for that old hick; he was just trying to fire up some camaraderie, after all.

Maybe if he would have added flagellation stations and bleeding Stigmatas to the vision, God-Fearer would have been more excited.

There really wasn’t much to see out there. Several cows, but that novelty wears off pretty fucking fast, especially when Chooch got to pet pigs and sheep on the actual festival grounds. In fact, I’m not even certain the hayride was a part of the apple fest. It was probably just some neighboring farmer trying to make a quick buck because his crops sucked this year.

After that disaster of a hayride, I finally got to have some sugary apple slop. Standing in line, I was certain I wanted apple crisp, but as we got closer to the front, that apple pie looked simply to die for, so I changed my mind. Henry went with the apple crisp and we took our plates of fat and calories inside where some old broads were quilting on a raised platform, watching everyone eating at the tables. Awkward.

After two bites of my pie, I stole a bite of Henry’s apple crisp, deemed it tastier than my pie, and arranged for a switch.

“Good thing I know you so well,” Henry grumbled. “I was going to get pie myself, but I figured you would be disappointed and wish you had ordered the crisp.” It’s a good thing, having someone studying my indecisiveness so thoroughly since 2001. He’s somehow always one step ahead of me.

After that, we got in line  to board a bus back to the lot. Some older gent, who took his job way too seriously, shouted commands at us before he’d let us get on. “THE BUS IS APPROACHING. BEGIN FOLDING YOUR STROLLERS NOW.

GET IN THE BUS AS FAST AS YOU CAN AND PLEASE FILL UP THE SEATS STARTING AT THE BACK OF THE BUS FIRST.” A hearty brow-swipe followed, and then he stepped to the side to let us through. I’m certain he was reliving the good old days of the Korean War.

We were the first ones on and I was determined to follow instructions. That guy seemed like the type to march aboard the bus and throw out the rule-benders by their ears. So I plunked down in the very last seat, just like my friend Rosa.

Five minutes later, the bus was pulling away, and there were only about ten of us on there. An old man in front of me mumbled, “He was so adamant that we fill up the back of the bus, and there’s hardly anyone on here.”

IT WAS FUNNY BUT I GUESS YOU HAD TO BE THERE.

A giant cocknibbler, stomping out all of the fun at the amusement park.

Thursday morning, an Everfresh- and Rip It-logo emblazoned Henry spontaneously took me out for breakfast; this afforded me a chance to properly interview him about his FML Day (a/k/a Double Amusement Park OMG Epic Fun Day) with a spiral-bound notebook over a cup of coffee, like it’s 1945 and I work for Blue Collar Beverage Aficionados Weekly.

***

It all started when I found out that there is a small amusement park called DelGrosso’s about 2 hours away from Pittsburgh that has the Wacky Worm;  I’ve been dead set on going before the summer’s end. And then when I realized that it’s only a few miles away from Lakemont, my favorite petite amusement park, I started to devise a plan where I could go to both in one day. They’re both small enough that spending a full day at one could get pretty boring if you weren’t there for a company picnic, family reunion or  the scattering of body bag contents, plus they both have discounted admission in September: Lakemont is $5 if you go during the Altoona Arts and Crafts weekend (see also: a bunch of Republican propaganda and several wreaths beneath tents) and DelGrosso’s is $12.95 (free for all the Henrys in the world, i.e. non-riders!). The combined admission is still cheaper than most amusement parks but I still made a conscious effort to save some of our vacation money, unbeknownst to Henry. You see, I had it all worked out in that remedial mass of lobes and neurons that we’ll just generously call a brain.

Because I knew that he would pitch a financial fit as usual, most likely on the morning of. And he did, which caused me to cry.

Like a five-year-old. While our actual five-year-old was still asleep.

But I threatened to wake him up and fill him in on how his dick father was once again trying to rip the carpet of fun out from under our feet, and then Henry would have two crying five-year-olds on his hands.

Then I pulled out my wad of leftover Tennessee Fun Money and Henry suddenly changed his tune. So I had to text Janna back and tell her Never mind! We’re still going. And then Henry was all, “And tell her I didn’t call you a bitch!” because I told her he called me a bitch.

Like anyone would ever believe Henry had the balls to speak to me in such a degrading manner.

Anyway, it couldn’t have been too terribly bad of a day for Henry, considering he got to ride up there with just Chooch in the car since I rode with Janna and Laura, meaning that Henry didn’t have to listen to Dance Gavin Dance at all. (I didn’t get to listen to them either, though, or any music I like for that matter. Just a bunch of shit on Janna’s XM radio. I was scrolling through the menu and there was one point where Lady Gaga was on something like 8 stations at once. Sad times in the car. I eventually settled on Journey. Motherfucking JOURNEY. Which inspired Janna to sing. Countless ways this is terrible, but that is a rant for another time. Or for my private diary.)

Two hours and two weeping ear drums later, we arrived at DelGrosso’s, at the base of the Laurel Mountains. Because a week in the Smokies just wasn’t enough.

***

In this picture, he’s thanking me for giving him food money after he spotted me eating a slice of pizza when I swore all I would eat all day was energy bars to save money. “Is that what energy bars look like here?” he texted me, so I guiltily slapped $2 in his hand so he could also have pizza.

Me: List some things you’d rather be doing than going to amusement parks.

Henry, with no hesitation: Sleeping. Getting a tooth filled.

[Not like he has many left.]

Me: How did it feel to have to ask me for money to buy food?

Henry: It was the worst, because you’re so stingy and you would have let us starve to death. [Whenever I say I’m starving to death, he’s quick to point out this isn’t true, yet he’s allowed to say it.] Basically we would have starved to death [that’s 2 times now] because you never want to eat until you find out I’m buying then all of a sudden you’re hungry.

[Now, I’m a little taken aback but this response. I’m stingy, but he’s the one who didn’t want to go because we’d have to “spend money.” Any kids reading this? This is what you have to look forward to when you get into a “grown up” relationship: Financial bickering. It’s the best. And then even sex goes downhill because all the things you want to try “cost too much money.” Anyway, the pizza was only $1.75 a slice. Eat up, orphan.]

I only gave him enough for one slice of plain pizza. However, he ordered pepperoni AND A DRINK, can you even imagine, so he had to turn his pockets inside out and slide a mound of coins across the counter.

Ordering food with A WOMAN’S MONEY. His SERVICE buddies would probably frown. Emasculation and all that.

Me: What’s your problem with the Wacky Worm?

Henry, sighing wearily: I don’t have a problem with it. I just choose not to ride it.

Me, unwilling to let the subject die: Because you don’t want people to see you having fun?

Henry, in a snippy, irritated fashion: It’s a kids ride.

Me, probing further: It’s because you’re afraid your Rip-It hat is going to blow off, mussing up your McNichol locks, isn’t it?

Henry, monotone & through clenched teeth: Yeah, that’s it exactly.

Me: What if there was a reunion for the people you were in the Service with, but it was on the Wacky Worm. Would you ride it then?

Henry, engrossed in his phone as usual and mumbling thoughtlessly: I don’t know. I guess.

[I’m sure there’s enough room on the seat for his donut, if it’s his hemorrhoids that’s keeping him off the Wacky Worm.]

I mean, this asshole was nearly Henry’s age and he seemed to be riding it unabashedly.

I imagine this is how googly he looked the first time he saw tits in person.

Me: Did you know I serendipitously snapped a picture of you smiling at Lakemont? It almost looks like you might be having fun. Which makes me wonder, what is your idea of a fun day?

Henry, in that squeaky “You’re Pushing Me to the Edge” voice that I absolutely can’t stand and makes him sound like a spoiled 7-year-old girl, I fucking swear that’s going to be the impetus to my leaving one day: I don’t know. A day spent with….Chooch. Sometimes you.

[I’m pretty sure that was a joke, or that he was only saying that because he wanted the rest of my pancakes.]

Me: Get serious. You’d probably want to go fishing off an oil rig with a boombox blasting Judas Priest, but only if you have ear plugs.

Henry, on edge and quickly retorting with a smugness: Yeah, probably.

Chooch, shit-talking on the go-carts because he knows his father is too much of a pussy to do it.

Me: Did you and Chooch talk about me at all on the way to DelGrosso’s?

Henry, acting like this was a dumb question: No! Not until we saw those wind turbines [on the hill] and I told Chooch that you’re scared of them. Then we laughed.

[This is not something to make jokes about. I’ve been scared of them ever since I saw the Tehachapi Pass Wind Farm scene in  Mac and Me when I was a kid. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THOSE THINGS ARE CAPABLE OF.]

Henry refused to buy a ticket to ride the train, so he had to stand alone and stroke his…moustache.

Me: How sad were you that you couldn’t ride the train?

Henry: I wasn’t sad at all.

Me, determined to get to the bottom of it: What did you do while we were riding it?

Henry: I don’t know! [Thinks for a few seconds.] Watched some people throw a ball in hole.

[This means he watched porn on his phone.]

Me: When you were a kid, did you like going to amusement parks?

Henry: Yes.

Me: So what you’re saying is that at one time in your life, you were capable of having fun?

Henry, rubbing his beard: Yeah, right up until around 2001. [He started laughing as he watched me start to realize that we began dating in 2001.]

Me: Is there anything else you want to add?

Henry: No thanks. Let’s keep it mysterious.

There is nothing mysterious about the fact that he’s a dork loser who hates the sound of joyful laughter. (Mostly my joyful laughter.)

In case you ever wanted to know what Henry’s nostrils look like.

Me: “I said to myself, ‘I’ll just watch one episode of The Lying Game and then go for a walk,’ but the next thing I knew, I was halfway into the third episode. That show is so good.”

Henry: “Wow. Your life is just so full.”

***

I know I should be spending my newly child-free days doing productive things while Chooch is in school, and perhaps one day that will happen. But right now, I’m having fun doing, well, nothing.  And to celebrate that theme, here are three pictures from my Epic Double Amusement Park OMG So Much Fun Day that I had on Saturday, because I just don’t feel like doing the whole “word” thing right now. Maybe tomorrow—I don’t think I’ll have any tween shows to catch up on tomorrow.

Speaking of free time, since I’ve got it by the DD-cups, if there’s anything you ever wanted to know, wish I wrote more about, etc etc, feel free to fire away. Even if you’re a lurking hater who’s been dying to hate. The stage is yours. And now, I’m going to take a walk around the neighborhood and pray no one recognizes me as that asshole who posted their picture on the Internet. And also? This might be one of the last days to lather up in  suntan oil.

I’m going to miss that smell.

I’m going to miss summer.

(But Henry is definitely not going to miss suntan grease smeared all over the steering wheel.)