Yesterday the Bean and I went to a carnival. We found it totally by accident, on our way to another event called “Touch a Truck” which was basically just a huge, dusty field lined with big trucks, a partially deflated bouncy house, and a big pile of dirt for kids to fuck around in and then track back to their parents’ cars. Awesome name, lame event.
Seriously, the only real thing of note there was the vanilla-flavored Sno-Cone I ordered just so I could say things like, “Mmm, I just LOVE having Vanilla Ice in my mouth!” and “I am going to swallow all this Vanilla Ice!” while my friends looked disgusted and my son looked confused.
Anyway, after standing in line for 20 minutes so the Bean could sit in the driver’s seat of a fire truck and *not* pose for pictures, we were both like, “Um… FUCK THIS,” and left to go to the carnival instead.
Hey, here’s something:
Me, age 12: “OMG OMG OMG THE CARNIVAL!! I can’t wait to run around with my BFF like we own the place! I don’t care at ALL that all the carnies look creepy and smell weird! And who cares that each ride is held together with chewed gum and fishing wire and costs $43 to ride? Sure as hell NOT ME! I’m going on every ride at least twice! And then I will eat an entire candy apple and jump on those revolving swings so I can barf in a trash can later!* I hope no cute boys are looking because I might want to make out with one later! YEAH! Whee!!”
Me, yesterday: “Yay! The carnival! The Bean will LOVE it! Oh, look how happy he is! This is wonderful! Wait, why are there so many delinquent youths here? Are those two ugly preteen children making out on the Kiddie Barnyard ride? Gross. Huh… was the carnival always this expensive? There sure are a lot of people smoking around here. And that one gentleman running the Moby Dick ride looks an awful lot like one of those mug shots I saw on the Sex Offender Registry when I checked before trick-or-treating. Wait, you want me to ride what? Um, no thank you, I think I’ll pass on the Deathtrap Zipper Ride and the Vomit Spin. What do you MEAN children under 46 inches must ride with an adult? Fuck YOU, Sex Offender Carny. Just fuck you.”
But of course I DID ride every ride, because that was what the Bean wanted and if any kid has mastered the art of Getting What He Wants Via Sad Face, it’s my kid. (Inappropriately Proud Mama moment… okay, over it.)
So I tried not to barf on the Tilt-a-Puke (narrow success) and tried not to cry on the Demons of Speed and Force (less successful) and just blatantly SOBBED on the Paragliders of Death ride after my so-called “friend” Paige, who’s a court reporter, gleefully announced while we were still in line that she had done depositions on “lots” of injury cases thanks to carnival rides “just like this” and then I noticed that the fellow running this particular ride was missing several incisors. The Bean (who clearly doesn’t understand how unlikely it is that someone unable to perform even the most basic dental hygiene maneuvers will be motivated to follow carnival equipment maintenance guidelines to the letter) happily climbed on board without a care in the world and then laughed in the face of death while I wept openly and shouted things like “PLEASE GOD LET IT BE OVER” and “I WANT MY MOMMY DEAR JESUS WHEN WILL THIS END??!?”
Later, he told me that my torment only served to add to his enjoyment.
I’m just a *little* worried.
Anyway, I left about 80 bucks lighter and a bag of Kettle Corn heavier, with a stuffed unicorn and one very exhausted and satisfied Bean in my backseat. And on the way home, with sleepy eyes and blue cotton candy lips, he muttered (not to anyone in particular), “Best. Day. Ever.” And as much as I hate to admit it… he just might have been right.
* Really happened.Stumble it!