It's Official: I Am An Old Lady

For those of you unfamiliar with Cedar Point, it's an amusement/roller coaster park that is the greatest place on earth for kids, teenagers and thrill seekers. I am none of those things, but since I hadn't been in about 6 or 7 years, I decided it was time to check it out again. This is what I found:

1. I hate wooden roller coasters. This includes the Mean Streak, the Blue Streak and the Mine Ride. Yes, the Mine Ride. We got stuck on the last hill for a few minutes and even rolled back a bit. This equals me never riding it again.

2. I love skeeball.

3. I hate kids and teenagers (okay, not all kids and teenagers, just the bad ones). At the end of the night while standing in line for the Raptor, I got spit on. Some kid or teenager spit out on the crowd from the ride. As P cleaned it off my back, I watched a teenager full on pick his nose in the line ahead of me. I had had enough at that point and we left for the night immediately after the ride.

4. I love keeping up-to-date on the latest white trash fashion trends. This includes peekaboo thongs, airbrushed t-shirts and angel wing tattoos.

5. I hate going to the park with a thrill seeker when there's only one thrill seeker in the group. Do you want to ride the Top Thrill Dragster? No. Millenium Force? No. Magnum? No. Wicked Twister? No. Mantis? No. I felt so bad that telling P no, but I just can't do the big rides anymore. I did ride the Gemini and Iron Dragon with him though, so there.

6. I love the Sky Ride.

7. I hate feeling like I need to be scrubbed with Germ X immediately after leaving the park. This would apply even if didn't get spit on.

8. I love the giant old-fashioned swing. Although this year even that ride almost made me sick.

So, yup, it's official. I'm definitely an old lady. But will I go again? Sure. But it will probably be over Halloweekends so I can at least go to some haunted houses!

Making Others 100% More Awkward Since 1979

I like to think that God blessed me with some special talents in this life.  And you know what?  He did, He just didn't give me any conventional talents.  While it turns out that I can't play the piano a lick, keep a plant alive for longer than a week or speak French after 4 years of classes, I can turn a normal interaction into the most awkward situation in a matter of seconds.  Here's an example of me ending a phone conversation today with a potential work partner:

Him:  "So I should follow-up with you in about a month?"

Me:  "Yes, that will work."

Him:  "Ok, I look forward to talking with you then."

Me:  "Yes, call me.  A month should be good."

Silence.

Me:  "So, call me around then and we might be ready to move forward.  You know, hopefully, if we like it."

Him:  "Ok, I'll be calling you."

Me:  "Ok.  I mean, that should be good.  I don't see why it wouldn't be.  Unless, of course . . . you know, just call."

Him:  "Ok, thanks for your time."

Me:  "Thanks for your time."

Him:  "You, too."

See what I did there?  I totally threw him off.  By the end of the conversation, he was dying for me to end the call.  Just waiting for me to tell him something like "have a great night" or "it was nice talking with you."  He had "you, too" all ready to go.  But instead, he probably hung up the phone, scratched his head and thought:  how did that happen?   

Bet he's counting down the days until he dials my number again.  "So glad you called!  I've been waiting for you to call.  Well, not waiting, you know.  But I was expecting your call, so I was thinking about it . . ."

The Sweetest Thing

Last night while working the fish fry booth at the local festival, I took an order from an older gentleman for three fish sandwiches on wheat bread. I shouted the order back to the fryers and turned back to take the old man's money. He had his $12 in one hand and a covered soup pan in the other.

"Would you mind putting the fish in here?" he asked as he slid the pan over to me on the counter. "My wife just got home from the hospital yesterday and I promised her I would run up here to get her some fish. I want to make sure it's still warm by the time I get home."

"Sure," I said. "We can absolutely do that."

I carried the pan to the back and took off the lid. As I got ready to load the fish, I noticed that he had lined the pan with tin foil and placed a few napkins at the bottom to soak up the grease. I put the fish in, folded the foil over and put the bread on top. Making sure the lid fit tightly, I carried the pan back to the man.

"Will this do?" I asked.

"This will be perfect," he said. "I know she'll like it."

"Well I hope she feels better soon," I said.

He smiled and said "I hope so, too."

It was all so sweet I almost cried right there in the fish booth. The only thing that stopped me was imagining that five minutes earlier the bedridden wife probably shouted exact orders to him regarding the proper packing of fried fish: "Get out the foil!" "Don't forget the napkins!" "Use a pan with a lid!"

Closer to reality? Probably...

Don't You Just Hate It...

...when you go the whole day and realize that you forgot to put on deodorant?  

New Applications Are Fun!

While playing around with the settings on blogger tonight, I came across the new survey application.  So I decided to play around with it a bit, and I might even use it for something serious down the road.  But for now, I thought I'd poke some fun at the fact that I'm pretty sure my family members make up the majority of my "readership."  Which is fine, but help me out and get me above 10 results.  Vote twice if you have to--I probably will!

If You Have a Brain in Your Head

If there is one thing I'm truly afraid of, it's being home alone.  I had a bizarre incident in college involving a teenage runaway named Sherice that I promise I'll share on here someday.  But even before Sherice, I hated being alone.  So this past weekend while P was white-water rafting in West Virginia, I decided it was time to be an adult and stay at home all weekend by myself.  In the end, it went well, but it involved me spending a lot of time watching infomercials at 4 in the morning.  And let me tell you, the later it is, the worse the infomercials are.

Early in the night, the infomercials seem to feature items that are at least plausible.  A multi-tool titanium rod that easily switches from a mop-head to a screwdriver to a rake?  Sure, I would use that.  An eco-friendly 100-piece set of imitation Tupperware that comes with a special waterproof rack so you can wash them while you shower?  Makes sense, come to think of it.  But at 4 a.m., the doozies come out.  Ladies and gents, let me introduce you to the Pos T Vac!

In case you don't have much of an imagination, the Pos T Vac features a line of male enhancement vacuum therapy products geared toward the older crowd.  The testimonials were perfection.  A group of buddies out on the golf course, all candidly discussing their use of the Boss 2000.  A couple walking along the beach talking about how the MVP 700 saved their marriage.  

Then, following along the infomercial format, a price point was splashed all over the screen (which I honestly can't remember, but really, are you going to let price come between you and the Boss).  Then the freebie was featured--a handy, yet discreet, carrying case.  Finally, the commercial closed with the hard sell.  This is where it gets good.

A middle-aged, aggressive looking man barked at the camera, "If you have a brain in your head, buy this product now!"  This is a sales tactic I've never seen before and quite frankly, it's brilliant.  The only pre-requisite is having a brain.  I imagine that before long, the other infomercials will take notice and start using similar directives:

"If you live on planet earth, buy this product now!"

"If food is a regular part of your diet, buy this product now!"

"If you have fingers on your hands, pick up the phone and buy this product now!"

My prediction?  Pos T Vac will be bigger than Miss Cleo.             

A Dozen Roses and a Broke Down Truck

On my way to the movies yesterday afternoon, I happened upon a thirty-something year old man carrying a huge bouquet of assorted roses.  Normal, if we were in the city.  Not so normal since we were on country road outside of Columbus.  

I was headed north, and there he was, headed south at a brisk pace.  Sweating profusely and carrying only the flowers.  He held them up against his chest, as if to protect them from the wind of the passing cars.  He looked determined, to say the least.  

After an initial chuckle, I thought--seriously, where is this guy coming from?  The closest place to purchase flowers was perhaps a mile up the road at a supermarket.  And, in the other direction, there was nothing around for miles.  Hmm.  

I crested a small hill and saw a black pick-up pulled off to the side of the road.  There was no flat tire, no accident damage, no sticker indicating the truck had been inspected by the police or highway patrol.  Nope, the truck belonged to the flower man--it just had to.  My guess?  He ran out of gas and ditched the truck to get the flowers where they needed to be.  Which meant carrying a bouquet of flowers down a road with a posted speed limit of 55 in the 90-degree heat.  What would make a person do such a thing?  He totally cheated, I'm telling you.

And next time, screw the movie, I'm turning around to ask.