Ride 'til you puke

Pete and I have been together for almost 20 years. For the first 16 of those years, I thought I knew my husband pretty well. Quiet guy. Very smart. Interested in a lot of things. Not a hardcore thrill seeker. Definitely did not like amusement parks. Too crowded. Not at all interesting. Bor-ring.

Then I badgered him into taking a trip to meet the Mouse -- in other words, go to Disneyworld in Florida. He didn't want to go and swore he hated amusement parks. I prevailed and promised we'd have a great time. So we went.

Guess what? It turns out that I hate amusement parks and Pete loves them. On the flight back from Orlando, Pete was already talking about going to Busch Gardens and Kings Dominion -- two parks here in Virginia that are easy day trips from our house.

Little did I know what would occur.

Pete is now a roller coaster enthusiast. He loves, loves, loves roller coasters. One summer, he had annual passes to three different parks and rode over 100 different coasters in something like eight months. We now have a roller coaster update in our Christmas newsletter.

Pete doesn't just love riding coasters, he also reads about them, so he has a variety of websites and blogs bookmarked and he checks them often. He's bought books and watched TV programs. I, however, have to leave the room when he's watching a show about roller coasters, as the footage inevitably makes me queasy. He's tried to educate me on the different kinds of coasters: wooden ones, metal ones, loop-de-loop ones, blah blah blah, bored and nauseous Jen.

We drive a minivan for heaven's sakes. A beige one. We do not appear to be a thrill seeking family, but it seems that appearances are wrong.

Not only does Pete love roller coasters, so does Graceful, who has been riding them since she was five. In fact, she's got some impressive ones under her belt already. Elegant also is a fan, although not quite as much as Graceful ... but give it time. It's not at all uncommon for my nearest and dearest to jaunt off to an amusement park on a Sunday afternoon during the summer. They're usually gone for about eight hours and come back filthy, exhausted, loaded up on cotton candy, and swearing it was the best day ever. On the rare occasion I go with them, I come home filthy exhausted, and grumpy as hell.

Our vacations now invariably include an amusement park visit. The negotiations start weeks or even months in advance.

Jen, "Okay, I'll give you Puke World, but in exchange I want a trip to Snooty Museum."

Pete, "Fine. What will it take for you to go to Puke World AND Nausea Land?"

Jen, "Snooty Museum, Expensive Shoe Store, AND Pretentious Art Gallery."

Pete, "Sold."

And so the discussions continue. I can't imagine how this will play out when we start planning family trips abroad.

Here are some examples of the kinds of rides my husband loves, and the nicknames I've given them:

The Flying Shitter

This one? It's one of those where the ride shoots you straight up and then you go straight down the other side. STRAIGHT. DOWN. The dark smudges in the picture above are fresh piles of shit that have just been evacuated from riders' bowels moments before.



The Vominator

This one appears to have not only the up and down component, but also some extra track, to extend the ride a bit. Also gives those people who didn't lose their lunches via their colons the opportunity to vomit en route.



The Dry Heaves

This ride is so long that riders have time to vomit and then get the drive heaves during their epic adventure. And, since it's a wooden coaster, the ride is extra bumpy, which enables folks to work up some good nausea on the way.




The Sticky Hair

I think this name should be self-explanatory, but let me help you out. After you've vomited and shat yourself, you go on some corkscrew turns that spread the mess all over you and the people around you. Nice.



The Incredible Hulk

This is the ride's actual name and it's at Universal Studios in Orlando -- a place I've been three times in the past year with my family. And not because I asked to go. Pete's actually been there more times than I can remember -- something like six times in the past year, including today. Look it at: It's all ups and downs. Honestly, I don't know how the Hulk could rip off his shirt and go on a rampage after riding something like that. Myself? I'd be dead from the stroke I had in anticipation of getting on the damn thing.

Pete goes off on amusement park jaunts a few times a year. There are a few ground rules he must follow:

1. Personal trips of this nature may not occur on a weekend, which is strictly family time. If I'm going to suffer the rigors of Solo Parenting, then Pete's going to suffer by using up some of his precious vacation time.
2. Dates must receive approval from me.
3. All funds for these trips come from Pete's personal account within our budget.
4. While Pete is gone, I am free to spend whatever money I want on whatever I want. Lunch and dinner -- made by professionals, not me. New shoes? Why sure honey, I will get some. Pete hasn't actually agreed to this provision, but neither has he fussed about my expenditures while he's gone.
5. Pete must call in and check on the family every day, preferably several times a day. He must listen to me bitch and moan about how the toilet clogged and overflowed while he was off amusing himself. (This actually happened.)
   
6. Pete must bring home treats for the girls. 'Nuf said.

I fully recognize that in the grand scheme of things, this hobby could be worse, much worse. Pete could be a golfer. (Why do men think it's their God-given right to spend four hours golfing on a Saturday morning while the women are schlepping children to soccer, birthday parties, and ballet recitals?) Pete does not gamble, do drugs, or chase women. He does not go off for weeks at a time to climb Everest. He's not one of those uber-competitive guys who play multiple sports and make a competition out of every activity possible. So I really can't complain.

And, the fact is, one day he's going to be too old to ride these coasters. His back will hurt or his arthritis will be acting up or his pacemaker will make him ineligible.

So I just have to be patient ... for about another 30 or 35 years. In the meantime, I think I need some new shoes.