The Junk Drawer

My sister Marlene treated her daughter, Amy, and me to an afternoon at Dorney Amusement Park on Saturday. Every year her company gives its employees free passes, plus two for their guests. Excellent deal, since tickets normally go for something like 30 bucks. I know I’ll still pay a fortune on food, drink and at least one impulse purchase. But since I’m not starting out $30 in the hole, it’s all good. Plus, the park hosts "Halloweekends" in October, where they decorate every square inch for the fall holiday. Even if you don’t go on rides, it’s really nice to just stroll around and get into the Halloween spirit.

But I do go on rides. At least the ones I think I won’t die on.

We meet at my house and pile in one car. For the next half an hour, we complain about the extra weight we’ve put on, how we hate exercise and that we’re doomed until we get serious about weight loss. We get to the park, walk through the entrance, look around and the first thing out of our mouths is "Where do we want to eat?" What did we JUST SAY people???

We head down a pathway that leads to one of the park’s many Dippin’ Dots carts. Dippin’ Dots is (are?) ice cream molded into the shape of tiny beads. Strangest ice cream I’ve ever had, and difficult to maneuver, since half of those little buggers tend to escape and roll away with every spoonful. Whatever. We each pay $5 for a small cup. And I do mean small. I’m done with it in 2.5 minutes, but that could also be because half of the beads have jumped the cup and are now bouncing happily away.

We decide it’s time to consider going on rides. When I say "we" should go on rides, I really mean just Amy. I’ve appointed her the ride inspector and the "oh-come-on-you’ll-be-OK" motivator. It works this way — She picks out a ride she likes, or thinks I’ll like, gets on the ride and then reports back to me about how violent said ride felt. Then I decide whether I can handle it. She gives me the blow-by-blow account of each one, and then we determine how much I would cry and how embarrassing a scene I would make.

While discussing whether I’m going on any rides, Marlene whips out her digital camera and begins taking the first of several hundred pictures in the park. We shall refer to her now as The Sisterazzi. Nobody’s safe. "Look over here! Amy! Kathy! Stand in front of this! Over here! Just one more picture! Oh, wait! Come over here!"

We tolerate this because she loves taking pictures. But we have requirements. Our hair can’t look like any of the scarecrows dotting the park. Above-the-waist shots only. No rear shots. We think Sisterazzi complies, but I haven’t seen the pictures yet. It was too sunny to make them out on the tiny screen.

We head over to the one ride I’ll consider, Talon. It’s one of the best in the park due to its smoothness. Steel tracks are the best. Wooden ones will cause teeth to fall out of your head and you’ll be a bruised and battered mess when it’s over, assuming you survive at all. We wait for Amy to go on Talon once, alone. She’ll report back about how long the line is and whether the teenaged ride attendants look responsible enough to trust our lives with.

Sisterazzi is busy taking pictures of other people on other rides, while I’m getting my stomach in knots just thinking about going on Talon. What freaks me out most is not the ride itself. The ride is awesome. It’s having to walk the stairs to the platform where you queue up for seats. I have real trouble standing still in high places. I have no problem hurdling to the earth at breakneck speeds (possibly literally break neck speeds), but I can’t handle waiting in line up really high, long enough to realize that the ground is way down there and I’m way up here.

Amy returns from her quick trip on Talon and begins her motivational speech. She assures me she’ll talk me through the ascent and that I’ll love it as much as all the other times I’ve been on it. And, no doubt, we’ll ride in the front row. If you ride a coaster, the only good seat is the front seat. Totally clear view of the ground coming up fast at you. There’s no better thrill, except maybe bungee jumping or skydiving. Those I won’t do, because I can’t hang my life on a string. But I will fly through the sky if I’m nailed to a seat.

We decide around now it’s time to eat a real meal and head off to a pizza place. The line is very long, so we briefly contemplate going over to a Subway instead. None of us wants to eat healthy, despite our complaints about wanting to lose weight, so we remain in the long line and then pay a small fortune for a slice of pizza and bottled water, $10. Extortion pizza.

As soon as we sit down at a table in the shade, Sisterazzi is at it again. This time, taking pictures of Amy and me with stringy cheese hanging out of our mouths. Thanks for that. We feel better now that we’ve had food and gotten out of the sun. But it’s a record-breaking 85 degrees on this October day, and we’re suffering a bit from meaty paw syndrome. Amy suggests we could cool off more if we go on Talon and I’m back to stressing about whether to go on it.

We slowly walk up the hill toward the ride and I remind myself that the reason I want to do it is for the exhilaration of flying through the air for little over a minute. There are four inversions: a vertical loop, a zero-gravity roll, an Immelmann loop (whatever the hell that is), and a corkscrew.

Two things happen in this environment. You briefly cannot breathe (wheeee!) and your hair winds up looking like this. At least mine does.

I decide I’m ready for the climb up the stairs and onto the platform. Fortunately, the line is short and I don’t have to spend time standing still on the stairs. But I do need some encouragement from Amy. She distracts me from the reality of my situation by discussing a very boring topic. Routers and wireless access points.

She goes into a long discussion about what kind of network she has at work and talks about getting a wireless router for home. I ignore where I am for a moment and talk about a new laptop and wireless router I’m thinking of buying so I can blog anywhere in the house. I’m hearing all kinds of screaming from passengers already on the ride, but I ignore this. Amy also directs me to look at a spot on the platform full of people and that doesn’t overlook the ground below. I pretend I’m anywhere but there.

We are soon led like cattle into the front row chute. We are shocked that they’re sending the ride out without a full front row. What’s wrong with these people? The front row is the BEST seat in the house. I’m all cocky about it — until it’s my turn to get in the seat.

Blogger’s note: I’ve begun to sweat just writing this. The memory of front row seat lockdown is fresh in my mind and I’m very tense right now. My keyboard has asked me to stop pressing so hard.

So we are led to our seats and we get nailed in. I’m thankful that the ride operator clicks the metal harness into my lap even lower than I got it to go myself. This makes me happy for two reasons: 1) It tells me that my stomach is not as huge as I thought it was, and 2) I’m 100% bolted in. I no longer worry that I’ll somehow slip out of my chair and die a horrible, screaming, bloody death. Wheeeee!!!!

We begin our ascent up the 100+ foot hill and Amy’s still talkin’ about routers. I have my eyes closed because I hate the ascent. She asks me if I want to know when we get to the top, and I reply "No, I’ll know it when we’re about to fall off the face of the earth. Thankyouverymuch."

The ride is exceptional. Smooth, fast and breathless — exactly as I remember it. Since it’s hard to scream when you can’t breathe, I opt for the silent descent. I just smile a toothy smile the whole way through.

Without further ado, here’s how the ride went. It’s my one impulse purchase. The park used to offer still shots of riders screaming their heads off, but now they offer DVDs of riders screaming their heads off. That’ll be me on the left, and Amy on the right. We appear 30 seconds into it.

Amy wanted a picture of me when we got off because I looked like I’d just been electrocuted (sign of a great ride!). We don’t have a camera, but of course Sisterazzi does. She gets the shot and now we can relax a little because I don’t have to stress anymore about doing this ride. I’ve done the deed.

We stroll around the park for another hour or so, jump on a train that chugs throughout the park and decide we’ve had our fill and start thinkin’ about what to eat again. Everything we do begins and ends with food. Will we never learn?

So Saturday was the day I didn’t die on a ride. I’ll have to pencil this in again for next year and, with Amy as my co-pilot, I’ll do just fine.

Last month I wrote about 10 Things That Annoy Me. If you follow my blog, you know there can’t be only ten things. There can’t be only a hundred, really. So keep checking back for more lists.

Let’s get on with the show!

10 More Things That Annoy Me:

1. People who get on their cell phones as soon as they put their cars into gear. What? You couldn’t have had that conversation before you pulled out onto the open road where you will pay zero attention to other drivers while you order take-out?

2. My nose runs when I eat. Doesn’t matter whether I’m eating hot or cold food. I just finished a snack bag of Doritos and had to blow my nose. A co-worker saw me do it and asked if I had a cold. I lied and said "Yes, but I’m fine." That’s better than explaining the issue with my nose. No one understands. It doesn’t have a cool medical name. It garners no sympathy. It just runs.

3. Giada De Laurentis, host of Everyday Italian on the Food Network. She speaks perfect English without the slightest trace of an Italian accent. But when she says any word of Italian origin, suddenly she’s Sophia Loren. "Now we’ll add our ree-GAUGH-ta cheese and Rrrr-egiano parmi-GEE-ano…." Oh my God. I just want to punch her.

4. Two of my cats do not understand how to use their water dish. One won’t drink water unless it’s coming right out of the faucet. And the other picks up his food with his claws, while hovering over the bowl. He lets the morsels drop into the water and then promptly gets P.O.’d that there are chunks of food floating around in it. So he tips the bowl over and drinks off the floor. Guess which cat.

5. I’m physically unable to burp. The closest I get is a gurgle, which sounds like a sink backing up. It’s not only annoying, it’s painful. Please do NOT suggest I guzzle a carbonated beverage. No burp will come of that. It only backs up the pipes more.

6. Kazoos, bugles and bagpipes. They’re not instruments. They’re noise-makers. I used to work in the same office with someone who played a CD of nothing but bagpipe "tunes," if you can believe someone made a CD of only bagpipe music. I was tortured slowly for a few months, for no good reason.

7. My answering machine. It takes the stupid lady forever to GET TO THE FREAKING MESSAGE ALREADY! Have a listen.

8. Toyota, for not understanding that a sun visor has to be big enough to, you know, BLOCK THE SUN. Both Toyatas Dave’s owned never had long enough visors, so when I’m riding in the car, I have try to keep really straight and tall, squint, and wear sunglasses.

9. Starbucks, for making it impossible to order a cup of coffee without a PhD. Coffee used to be so simple. A friend of mine who has a PhD helped me out by writing this on a store business card. The front reads: "Please help this woman." On the back: "Mocha. Extra shot. Dark choc. Whip." Works for me.

10. Saran wrap. Tear off a sheet of cling wrap, and it does exactly that. It clings to itself and then you have to ball it up, throw it out and try again. I would never use this stuff if not for the need to see which of my leftovers is turning into penicillin in the refrigerator. What someone needs to invent is clear tin foil! Anyone? Anyone?

I’m throwing in a bonus 11th annoyance — this one from my husband, who wants to get in on The Annoying List action. He’s not a very annoyed person by nature, which is why we’re a perfect match. If we were both as annoyed as I am, we couldn’t live in the same house. But apparently some things do bother the man.

Here’s what annoys Dave: People who put slashes through 7’s and 0’s. His rant goes thusly: "And it’s always the ones who have perfect penmanship!!! It’s the slobs who need it, but they never do it, and the ones who do are probably the same people who write xx’s in place of zeros on their checks. You’re supposed to write 00/100!!!! Numbers go on checks! An ‘x’ is not a zero you half-wit!

Oh-kaaaaay.

About three times a year, I have a nightmare about a plane crashing. This is because my house is located directly under the flight path of an airport three miles west of me. Since they say most crashes occur during takoff and landing, my odds of being involved in a crash are greater than if I were a passenger on a plane itself.

In the ten years I’ve lived here, I’ve gotten used to the noise, but I never stop wondering if some day an injured plane won’t make it to the airport and instead will crash into my neighborhood. The only good thing about these nightmares is that when the planes crash, they never hit my house. They hit other people’s houses all around me, though. My subconscious keeping me safe, I guess.

Last night’s nightmare went like this:

I was a passenger on a 747 getting ready for takeoff. Not at the airport, but instead on a highway near me. We begin to accelerate down the highway, passing cars on either side of us. I’m not sure how it is our plane fits on the highway, but it’s a dream, so anything is possible.

We approach a hill in the road that will be used to get us up in the air. Nevermind engine thrust and the laws of physics; in my dream it’s the tiny 4 foot incline that’ll give us lift and get us airborne. As we get to the hill, the pilot announces "Uh-oh, there’s an aircraft with trouble ahead." As it passes over us, I glance out the back window (I’m inexplicably in a car at this point) and see the troubled plane trying to make it back to the airport.

Our pilot slams on the brakes and we come to a stop on the berm of the road. We all turn around and see that the other plane’s back left wheel is on fire. The plane comes to a complete stop, in midair, and then flips over. The plane is shaped like a shoebox, and tapers at the rear. Its squarish figure makes it impossible to keep its momentum and it drops like a rock in a ball of flames.

Seeing this, I buckle my seatbelt (?), put on my watch (??) and begin snacking on a box of white cheddar cheese crackers (???). We continue watching this event unfold and are relieved to see the Three Stooges jump out of a fire engine that arrived earlier because they were alerted about the impending disaster (????).

Why the Three Stooges? Well, there’s a great scene in the movie It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World where Moe Howard, Larry Fine and Joe DeRita appear as firemen responding to the end-of-movie mayhem. I haven’t seen the movie in months, but dreams have a weird way of pulling out memories from the deep recesses of the mind and sticking them in random places.

As the Stooges put out the fire, we return to our starting point because we’re going to make another attempt at takeoff. But I don’t wanna try and take off after what I’ve just seen! I scream "Shouldn’t we wait another day before trying this again?" but the pilot doesn’t hear me because he’s way up front. I realize that we have to go through this despite my objections, so I put on my life vest and get into the crash position. Nobody else on the plane is doing this and I feel silly for being alone in my panic. I start to sob quietly and then I wake up.

I always wake up at the moment I think I’m doomed. Dear Brain — thank you for working in that crazy way you do. I appreciate whatever connections you make to shake me up out of my nightmarish sleep to save me the agony. I just wish you could make me forget these dreams, now and the next time. Because I’m going to have another one in about four months, right on schedule.

I love autumn. Love it so much, I got married in November when the leaves were just falling and the air was crisp and cool. There is no better time of the year.

Here are my Top 5 reasons why I love the fall:

1. Halloween is coming. What other time do you get an excuse to dress up like someone you’re not and get away with it? It’s fun driving somewhere in full clown gear just to see the look on other people’s faces when you whiz by. Hey, clown! Get off the road! And don’t forget…. If you’re looking for a treat to make for a Halloween party or just because, check out my Butterfinger Eyeballs.

2. The air is cool, dry and I can stop sweating. I’m not a fan of the heat and humidity, considering what it does to my curly hair and my general well-being. I get puffy and perturbed, plain and simple. Don’t know why I keep living in the northeast.

3. I exercise more. Winter is too cold, spring is too rainy and summer is too brutal. But autumn is just right for getting out for a good, comfortable walk.

4. The weekends are mine. With few holidays and no major events to attend, I can kick back and relax on most weekends. Christmas ruins all that. There’s just too much to do in too little time. Autumn is the calm before the storm.

5. I can stop sweating. Oh. Did I say that already? I’m just not good in the heat. My hands swell into what my sisters and I like to call "meaty paws" and my feet blow up. That happens all year round, but it’s infinitely worse in the summer. I’m crankier than ever when it’s very hot and I imagine if I was ever pregnant, I would look just like Violet Beauregarde, the bratty girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who chewed the forbidden gum. She blew up into a giant blueberry and the Oompa Loompas had to roll her out to the dejuicing factory. Yeah, it’s that bad.

Until the summer comes again, I’ll be enjoying this great fall weather and hoping my readers are doing the same, wherever you are!

So I just had a very embarrassing time of things at the grocery store. While waiting in line for postage stamps at the courtesy counter, a guy behind me says "I know you."

Uh-oh. I don’t know him.

He says "You live on my street, don’t you? Two doors down."

I’m not recognizing him in the least. I think I should know him if he lives only two doors away.

I give him my street name and he says "Yeah, we’re neighbors. You know Martha, two doors the other way."

Oh my God. He knows me and he knows who I talk to and who the hell is Martha? I try to get my bearings, but because I’m directionally-challenged and "two doors down" is not specific enough for me, I ask him "If I walk out my front door, which way is your house?"

"To your left." Nothing’s registering. "I’m the one whose red Jeep never leaves the driveway." That doesn’t help either.

"Which way is Martha?"

"She’s two doors to your right." Still nothing. I’m sure by now he can see light streaming straight through my ears, because clearly there’s no brain matter in there.

I’m so mortified and flustered by now and the cashier is trying to hand me my change and I don’t know who he is and he must think I’m a total moron. I try to salvage this go-nowhere conversation by at least asking his name, since it seems the neighborly thing to do.

He says "Andrew." We shake hands and he says in all seriousness, "Nice to meet you." How can I have been nice to meet? I’m a total clod. I wouldn’t know any of my neighbors if they sat on me.

I drive home and begin looking around for a red Jeep that never leaves the driveway, but realize he’s probably driving it home himself right now. God, just let me pull in the garage quick so I don’t have to see him again.

Still unsure who this guy is, I jump on my county’s tax records website and punch in my street name. Up comes all my neighbors’ house records and right there it is — an Andrew who lives two doors to the left. According to the records, he’s been living there 12 years. We’ve been in our house for ten. He’s been my neighbor for a decade and I didn’t know it.

I gotta get out more.