Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Let's talk about spaceships.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
meet Roy-

Hertz has a lot full of cars. Rental cars that allow the renter, for about a week to say "yeah, I'm this cool." A facade, perhaps, but what's a vacation if not an escape from reality? So anxiously we walked through the lot, searching our assigned vehicle number. The sleak and shiny automobiles seemed to beckon with a wink, promising a week of class and style. And then we found 33B. The Mercury Grand Marquis. Gold. We were to be the envy of every Ethel, Ruth and Mildred.
In the end he served us well. Partly because Lola, our GPS system, made for foolproof navigation. Yes, we named the car and the GPS. Which reminds me of something I heard on a talkshow. I trust everything I hear on talkshows. So the following was upsetting: "If you personify objects or animals, it means you're a lonely person." Shoot. I personify paint chips. And I really personify my dog. And now I'm going to transition not very smoothly into why I might not make a great mom. In fact I threw the dog thing in there only to sort of tie the two parts together. Which is maybe why I won't be a professional writer. And I'm lonely. I just had 3 depressing realizations all at once. Hold on. I'm going to go vent to my fence post. K I'm back. What was I saying? Oh yeah. Why the world should fear for my offspring. It really all comes down to my relationship with our family dog. We're supposed to be disciplining her because she's a bit on the unruly side. But it's just so funny when she's naughty. I'm usually giggling when I tell her no, I always give her food from my plate, and I let her chew my hair cause who does that? So someday I might have one of those children who is spoiled and loud and punches the other kids in the face and all I'll do is giggle and give him/her treats.
If you personify nonexistent people does that make you lonely and dellusional? Is that how you spell dellusional?

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

what happens when two substances collide

Sometimes, I watch Oprah. Not often, but you know those strange hankerings you get? Maybe for salt and vinegar potato chips? It's like that. It seems as though everytime I tune in to Miss Winfrey, she's talking about the same subject: weight loss. And without fail, everytime I'm eating something very unhealthy. One would assume this would cause shame and emmbarrassment. That I would recognize that even though I'm not the same size as the morbidly obese crying on the screen, one chocolate chip cookie too many may lead down a path only Dr. Oz can correct. Not so. I find it empowering. I saw Super Size Me and ate a Big Mac. I've found that m&ms and The Biggest Loser are the perfect combination. Don't misunderstand. My diet is fairly balanced. And I eat more fruits and vegetables than the given digestive system allows. But for some reason, someone telling me what not to eat makes me want to eat it. Some people get tattoos. Some smoke pot. I consume french fries.
But my coke is always diet.

Friday, August 14, 2009


Nickmo's home.

Monday, August 10, 2009


Here in my car. You can see me but you sure can't hear me. What is it I'm singing? Who's on the other end of my cell phone conversation? And the guy across the intersection, he's picking his nose, but you can't tell him that's gross because he won't hear you. And I think he feels really good about that. If we pull up to a red light, I might look over. We might make eye contact. But I'll pretend we didn't, playing with the radio dial and adjusting my rear view mirror, praying the light changes quickly. I will never roll my window down because that means you've penetrated my bubble. Suddenly I'm vulnerable, and if you talk I must respond. It's a beautiful thing, driving down the road, surrounded by so many other people and completely without small talk obligation. And how fascinating that we're all going somewhere. We all have something to do, someone to see, some aspect of our lives which compels us to get in our cars and drive. Every person in every car has a life. They eat breakfast and go to work and watch Conan. They all have epiphanies, even about cars.
k, bye.

Monday, August 3, 2009

when i catch a fish, i put it in the fridge

Lagoon. It's what fun is...? Ok sure.

Ride 1: Lets start big. With Colossus. Anxiously we waited, ready to loop and whirl and rearrange our internal organs. But then a delay- as Lagoon worker walked past and yelled to his fellow employee "that sure was a close one!". We then watched another lagooner, this one rubber-gloved, pour sawdust, sweep, spray lysol, and walk away with a white bucket.

"Plush must remain with a non-rider", reads a sign. "Plush?" we asked. But not long after it hit us- plush is prized. Plush is the reward for "spilling the milk", "wacking the mole", or winning the "plop plop" (ha). Small children could be seen hauling plush twice the size of their own body. A plush Pimp sat on a bunch, guarding a giant banana, shark, and baseball bat while his offspring rode Dracula's Castle. Not going to lie, had he not been sitting there, I might have swiped the shark. It would have been nice to finally be respected by the other lagoon patrons.

We ate $9 chicken fingers for lunch. They were not delicious. Also, the southwestern fry sauce, which was 70 cents extra, had no semblance of the south or the west.

It turns out that Spencer is not a fan of heights. A good friend would forgo any ride that might induce terror. But a good friend I am not, so we insisted he join us. Just as soon as the lap guard came down, his eyes closed. As we shot upward at an alarming speed, he made a sound something like "aaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggghhhhhhhhheeeeeeerrrrrrrrnnnnnnnoooooooo", followed by "This is the worst thing that has ever happened. I hate you both."

3 is an odd number. As in strange. Because most rides are built for 2. So when we faced this dilemma with the Jet Star 2 (we don't know what happened to Jet Star 1), the ride attendant insisted that 3 in one seat was better than 1. 3 full-grown people squoze into a compartment snug for 2 children. No matter, we thought. The pain won't last long, no ride exceeds 2 minutes. Should have known better. It was either our extra person or the girl behind us who had a donut for breakfast that made the ride stop. For a while. Until we got a push start. And finished the ride 20 minutes later. You know how you feel after horse back riding? Worse.

We spent the remainder of the evening regretting the chicken fingers and realizing that kids are made of rubber and iron stomaches, and that getting old bites.

As we exited, we saw another unfortunate soul pour sawdust over a post Centennial Screamer episode. Bookends.

Editor's note: I learned how to spell "pour".