This all started with Winston scoring free tickets to Cedar Point. Which is pretty much the only way we are going. It costs a family of four nearly $350 to ride coasters and eat carnival food for a day. So we were pretty pumped to get to go essentially for free and only be forced to pay $5 for every bottle of water we guzzled. And you have to admit, the fries are worth $10 a pop. And I really need an infusion of blue cotton candy every summer.
But then we got to the park and found out that Cedar Point has found a new way to squeeze money out of people: The EZ Pass. Basically, for an additional $70 per ticket, you get a magical armband that means you don't have to wait in line. At all. Ever. Which I guess looks great on paper. And if I was a wealthy dickhole or a 20-something single guy, I'd be all, "Giddyup!" It's like buying Willy Wonka's golden ticket. BUT IF YOU'RE STANDING IN LINE WITH YOUR DAUGHTER FOR 1.5 HOURS SO SHE CAN RIDE FRONT SEAT ON THE FUCKING DISASTER TRANSPORT AND SOME DOUCHE BAG ROLLS UP WITH HIS FUCKING MAGIC ARMBAND AND TAKES HER SEAT.... AND THEN A FEW MINUTES LATER ANOTHER DOUCHE BAG TAKES HER SEAT, pretty much all you will do all day is visualize the classes rising up and eating the rich. Thank you, Cedar Point, for creating a steerage class of ticket. Now I know my place.
But that's not really my problem. No, apparently in the interest of making Cedar Point accessible to the handicapped, they added elevators to the loading platforms for all the major rides.
... Let's take a moment here ...
Have you seen the signs, people? At the entrance to every ride in the park?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am sure there is .003% of the handicapped population that can be in a wheel chair and still meet all the health criteria for riding a roller coaster. That's not my point. (Although, I would love to know how the hell they climb into the seat. I can barely navigate my ass and legs into the car. You almost have to be a yogi to get in and out. )
My point is that I WAS NOT LOOKING FOR A CRAZY WOMAN IN A WHEELCHAIR TO COME CAREENING BACKWARDS THROUGH THE LINE, like a trout shooting up stream, as I stood there applying zinc to my son's nose while we waited in line for the Iron Dragon. If you had asked me in the parking lot, I would have said my chances of getting run over by a bitch in a wheelchair WHILE IN LINE FOR A ROLLER COASTER was about the same as getting bit by a shark. While in line for a roller coaster.
All I heard was a small commotion, which I figured was some sort of good natured shoving fest ahead of us in line. I was trying to pin my son and apply zinc to his lily white skin, while jamming his hat back on his head, when I felt something sharp ram my knee and a sudden enormous weight roll onto my foot. And stop.
I started gasping like a fish (not that fish... Heavenly Creatures Go Fishing) and whipped around and saw.... nothing. I heard a sound of disgust somewhere below my line of sight. I looked down and saw a very angry woman. In a large wheel chair. Not like one of those "I get out of breath at the airport and I need some wheels" wheelchair. One of those giant "something awful happened and I am stuck in this bitch forever so I covered it with stickers and bags" wheelchair.
Wheelchair Bitch: Um?! Excuse me? (her tone said, "get the fuck out of my way")
Me: (no words, just a wheezy inhale as I process the pain coming from my foot. which now has fucking 300+ pounds of bitch and wheelchair parked on it.) Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.........
Wheelchair Bitch: Hey! Excuse me!? Hello?! Could you move?!?
Me: Owwwwwwwwwwww
Wheelchair Bitch: (trying to move her giant wheelchair... ram, ram, ram into my knee)
It was like she was trying to iron my foot. The left front wheel of her chair was sawing away at the tiny side bones of my foot, the front of the frame was scraping the shit out of my knee. She wanted me to move but there were 3 problems with that.
1. She was parked on my foot. WITH HER BIG ASS WHEELCHAIR.
2. My hind brain was scrambling, trying to process where the fuck this wheelchair came from. My eyes scrambled behind her, and saw an elevator. I looked back down at her. Back up at the roller coaster. Back at my foot. Up at her angry face. Scanned the crowd. No shark. What the hell?
3. I was trying to work up a really good way to tell her off. Usually this is not a problem for me.
It took me less then 10 minutes ( a personal best) to reduce my son's 2nd grade art teacher to tears when she had the nerve to give him a F on his ashtray project. Of course, she wouldn't even call it an ashtray, she kept calling it a "dish." Which was part of what was pissing me off. The other reason I totally lost it was that she gave a second grader an F because, and here are the key words people:
~Her "rubrick"
~specifically required
~ uniform sides
~so the air dry clay
~ wouldn't explode
~ in the kiln
~ she didn't have.
~She also felt
~ his designs
~weren't "creative" enough.
~and she put this in writing.
My son made a lovely ashtray. It is one of my prize possessions. This art teacher tried to grade his tiny ashtray like it was a final piece for an international pottery exhibition.
 |
| I want to be buried with it. |
All together now: AAAAWWWWW!!!!!
So, 10 minutes alone with me and my righteous rage, and Miss I Just Graduated From Art School and I Have Never Been Around Kids was sobbing openly. I never raised my voice, I just skewered her to the wall. (forgive me, teacher friends, but she left me no choice. She used the word "rubrick" with a 7 year old)) Both my children received straight A's in art from that day forward. And a wide berth from the art teacher. :) The art teacher went home sick that day.
Best part? The big mouth school secretary was listening outside the door and told all the other teachers that Henry and Anne's mom was vicious, so I received a degree of respect that I hadn't prior to that day. (Your average tattooed mother is treated like she might be slow.) Worst part? So was the school psychologist. She heard the evil spewing from my mouth and stalked my kids with sympathetic eyes for the next 3 years.
Anne: Mom, the duck-faced psychologist won't stop asking me if I want to talk to her.
Henry: Yeah, she keeps saying, "You know, Henry, I am a very good listener. Is everything OK at home?"
Me: Don't look her in the eye! Treat her the same as carnival workers and gypsies! Never look them in the eye! She wants your soul!
Back to Cedar Point. I stood there, gaping, as my mind galloped ahead gleefully, trying to select the perfect burn for this psycho bitch who was trying to break my leg. I galloped in every direction of the compass, but my mental horse kept coming back to the center and letting out whinnies of dismay as I realized:
I literally can't say anything. She has the ultimate upper hand. What ever awesome burn I select, she wins by default due to the awesome presence of her wheelchair and I would be left in line, not only in front of the disapproving looks of my children, but would probably be smothered by the disgusted looks of the crowd. It was the one and only time in my life when my ability to rip out a magnificent scorching comeback totally crippled (oh yeah, I said it) me.
Days later, as we floated in the pool AGAIN making snide comments about the sheer number of belly piercings amongst the young ladies at Lakewood Pool, I said to Winston:
Me: Oh! Oh! I know what I could have said to the bitch who smashed my foot! I could have nailed her with...
Winston: Nope. Nope. Doesn't matter. You could not win that fight. I don't care what you said, all she would have had to come back with would be, "That's easy for you to say, standing there on your two healthy legs! That's right! Yell at the woman stuck in the wheelchair for the rest of her life! At least you can limp on your Goddamn healthy leg! " You would have died of the shame of it.
Me: It's not fair! She didn't even apologize! She just just kept ramming into me! Just because she has a handicapped permit, it does not give her license to be a raging bitch! Oh! Oh! That's what I should have said! Let's go find her!
Winston: Good luck with that. If you had said that, me and the kids would have pretended not to know you. Just accept it. You can't tell off the handicapped. Ever. It won't work.
My foot is fine. Luckily, she parked her ass on the foot bones I have already broken before. (The first time being when I was clearing the table after dinner. And broke 3 bones on the side of my foot. No, I did not go to the doctor. I know what broke looks like. I went to Hasting's Medical Supply, bought a giant foot boot and crammed my swollen foot into it. It was fine-ish in 6 weeks.) That foot is particularly riddled with scar tissue from multiple breaks so it's like cement. It's all bruised though. But the more I dwell on this event, I keep coming back to several points:
1. Where was she coming from?
2. Why was she so pissed?
3. Why was she in such a hurry?
Because if you think I am a cruel bitch to want to tell off the handicapped, what about Cedar Point? They have, by my rough count, nearly 100 handicapped parking spots. Elevators for accessibility at every ride in the park. And giant signs saying, essentially, if you have to use the elevators you aren't legally allowed to ride. I think she rolled up to the loading platform and was told by some teenager that she couldn't ride this handicapped accessible coaster. How else do you explain her hauling ass in a rage out of line? That's fucked up. And cruel. Their accessibility policy should read:
"We at Cedar Point have made every effort to make our amusement park accessible to the handicapped. We have ample parking, ramps and elevators to make your visit as comfortable as possible. We will gladly take your money, but bitch, if you use any of these features you can't ride shit. Thank you and enjoy your day here at Cedar Point, America's Roller Coast!... Ride on! "
~dana
