Currently, awdang.com reads, “IT’S NOT MY FAULT. I had like six glasses of Dr. Pepper and three pounds of shell pasta with heavy cream in my stomach at the time, and I lasted for two and a half rides. I deserve a medal, is what.”

Pfft.

I am marrying a puker. A first-class certified upchucking schmuck.

As usual throughout most of my 33 years, I attended the Holy Spirit (formerly St. Blaise) Carnival. Tonight I dragged Justin and Stephen for some “death-defying” fun. About an hour before, though, we ate dinner at Pasta House. Stephen and I split a large order of pasta con broccoli, and dufus drank about four sodas.

We made it through the Ali Babba okay. This ride rocks back and forth and gains enough momentum to go in circles over the top. Then we rode the swings. The swings, for heaven’s sake! The next ride - Stephen’s final for the evening - was the octopus. I believe Six Flags calls it MoMo Monster or something equally juvenile. You sit in a pod at the end of what looks like a tentacle. The pod whips around with gravity as the entire “octopus”-looking ride runs in circles.

Okay, so we did ride three rides that went in circles. But c’mon.

Stephen and Justin rode together, and I wasn’t going to ride until the little girl in front of me was kicked out of line because she wanted to ride by herself. (Some carnies!) I threw tickets at the operator and told him the little girl (Isabelle) and I would go.

We were enjoying being whirled around when suddenly I thought to look at S & J’s pod - just in time to see Stephen lean over the side to get rid of the last of his dinner. Apparently I missed the original hurrah, which landed mostly on his t-shirt and jean shorts.

Poor Justin. That sucked.

To summarize: My fiance is a puker and I have no sympathy. Loser.

Snickering,
michelle