David’s sister, Julie works for Carlson Companies as an event planner (seriously, I think that everyone who works for Carlson has a job relating to planning company events or HR. It’s really weird). Every year they rent out Valley Fair, a mini-wiener version of a 6 flags style amusement park. There are rides and long lines and cheap cotton candy and little piles of puke and a little marching band that plays all kinds of weird instrumental pop music songs.
One of the free attractions of the park is that it backs up to a landfill and is next to a waste water treatment facility. The term “Minnesota Pride” means Different things to different people.
The nice thing about having the park bought out by the company was that lines were virtually non-existent and since it was a company event, the threat of having your boss near by seemed to make the parents less likely to scream at their children.
Here’s the deal, I’m not much of a ride person. I adore places like EPCOT with their slow moving, educational rides. I like the spinning swings, the ferris wheel and the carousel. I despise the sensation of falling, I hate rollercoasters. David really likes rollercoasters a lot.
David likes rollercoasters. I like David. David knows me really well. David bribed me with ice cream, cotton candy and kisses to go on the Wild Thing. The Wild Thing has a 4,926,781,438 foot drop. It literally has to take you into space before dropping you back to earth at speeds that will force your skin to peel off your body and find a safer way home. In fact, I went on the Wild Thing, the rickety wooden coaster with the peeling lead paint and the Excaliber which is also a rickety wooden coaster but with a big drop and one of those sections where anyone taller that 62 inches will have their skulls sheered off.
I didn’t just get an ice cream, I got a hot fudge sundae! I’m no fool. I know what I deserve.
We did the log ride (david got some of that foul water in his mouth), the corkscrew, a water raft ride in a pitch black tube where we got totally drenched and the Enterprise (twice) but I could not convince either of them to go on the tilt-a-whirl or the scrambler.
The strange thing about Valley Fair is that there really aren’t that many rides but it’s set up in such a convoluted manner it takes forever to get from one ride to the next. I guess that’s intentional, the longer you are in the park the more likely you are to buy food, novelty hats or monkey shaped backpacks.
All in all, a lovely day. Way more fun that I could have expected and at the end of the day I declared myself the champion of the rides and danced through the park.

You know, I’m not feeling particularly charitable at the moment. I know I should, I’ve been propped up against disaster by my friends and family. I know that I should be given my current situation, but I am not.
No.
Let’s talk about cops. Generally speaking, I have positive feelings about the cops. They have a hard job, they put their lives on the line to keep us safe (I mean city cops, not you fat bastards in the suburbs). I don’t generally feel that cops are assholes with small penises and tenuous grips on power. No, that’s just not me. I appreciate that there are jobs to be done and there are cops who do those jobs.
But not tonight. Tonight I do not feel so charitable about cops.
I should be posting about how Owen just foiled a cherry pink starburst into my hair and how we made quesadillas and drank beer and watched some shitty show where second rate celebrities sang with a lot of old singers. That is what this post should be about. I’d had most of it hammered out in my head on the way home, all about Owen’s new condo and how gorgeous it is and about how I love my hair and adore his abilities and blah blah blah. It was going to be a happy post, a cheerful post.
It should not have been a rant about cops, and yet officers #4697 and #3955 have ruined my night and my post. Yeah, I got pulled over 5 blocks from home. I was so close. I got pulled over for a fucking headlight being out. A fucking headlight. Okay, I have no problem with getting pulled over, fine, but I got a fucking ticket. A $132 ticket for a headlight. Jesus christ.
Seriously, do you mean to tell me it was such a quiet fucking night in the barrio that you had nothing better to focus your attention on than a burned out headlight? that’s it? Nothing at all going on in the 3rd precinct for you to cover that you had to pass me, drive 2 blocks, stop, turn around, follow me for another 2 blocks and then pull me over? Did you guy debate this? Did you go back and forth and discuss whether or not it was worth it? or did you have to go over your action quotas for the night and discover that it was pretty slow around here and old sarge down at the precinct might figure out how much time you sit with your fingers in your asses eating doughnuts so you figured you’d better get a ticket out for something?
yes, officers #4697 and #3955, I know you’re just doing your job, I know how important it is to the well-being of the city and the people and your own shattered sense dignity that you pulled me over and made me sit in my car for almost 15 minutes while you ‘ran my license’ and printed my ticket on your space age ticket printing machine. I suppose you guys need to collect as many fines as possible to pay for the high-tech gadgetry you use to print up these tickets and keep track of how little else you are doing.
Yes, I’m sure you’ll get to go home to your lovely families and regale them with tales of your bravery…”oh darling, I kept the city safe once more! I worked hard all night making people pay dearly for their criminal ways!”. Your children will be so proud, “oh mommy!!! What sort of criminals did you catch? Burglars? Murderers? Homosexuals?”
And on “What does your momy do for a living” day at school your kids can cite statistics showing how many fewer people died as a result of my headlight getting fixed and my cash being drained from my soul.
So, officers #4697 and #3955, how many lives did you save tonight? How many criminals did you stop?