Tag Archives: memories

Why theme parks are wonderful and awful

My name is Amie. I am 41 years old, I don’t have kids, and I still LOVE to go to theme parks.

My grandparents used to live in Southern CA, and I visited them pretty much every other summer, so that meant I got a trip up to the magical happiest place on earth almost every time I went to see them. And also Universal Studios, SeaWorld (which makes me too sad now), and Knott’s Berry Farm.

Because of this, going to theme parks as an adult makes sense to me. They are wonderful! But they can be really awful too—depending on a variety of things, and the type of people who happen to be there when you are. I happened to be there recently, and loved-hated it, like usual.

 The awful
Sometimes, people are dicks. People are especially dicks when it’s 90+ degrees, because Disneyland doesn’t have much shade, and they don’t have those awesome misting cool down stations like Universal Studios has. And people are even bigger dicks when they want their kids to get on rides before adults, and complain loudly about it when they’re behind you in line.

I get it—you’re spending upwards of $80 per kid, per day, per park. That would make ANYONE crabby, not to mention the $200 you shelled out to dress your daughter up like a princess, $100 for food and drink, another couple $100 for toys, souvenirs, hats, etc. It costs a lot of fucking money to go to Disneyland, and I appreciate that you’re stressed about it, and then get pissed when your kid doesn’t want to wait in a 2-hour line to sail through the wondrous world of Peter Pan. But hey! I’m here to enjoy it too. I really am. I’m not here just to jam up your day, man. Continue reading


Men Who Hate Women

Too bad I didn’t have this WW crown when I was working there. I could have summoned my inner Amazonian and kicked his ASS!

{Apologies to Stieg Larsson for borrowing his original book title}

I’ve had my mind on comics and comic book stores a lot lately, and so I’ve been thinking about the BEST job I ever had, ever. But because of one guy, it was also one of the most horrible workplace environments, ever.

In the mid-90s, I took a second job at a comic book/collectibles store to make extra money, and to try to forget about how bad my once-awesome-but-now-terribly-corporate video store job had gotten. I used to buy my comics there, and had discussed my rampant Clive Barker obsession with the owner several times, as he always seemed to have several signed books, figurines, etc. (as I found out later, he was good friends with Clive! SCORE). So, when I mentioned that I was looking for something part-time, he thought it would be awesome to have a chick working there who knew her stuff. It was a quick hire. I don’t even remember an interview, really. I had become so chummy with most of the staff that they already knew and liked me.

All of them I guess, except one.

For the purposes of this story, I will just call him “Dick.” It seems appropriate.

Dick had relocated to the fair city of Lynnwood from some small town in the mid-West, and as I came to find out, hated women. Not just a little, a lot. Or maybe it was just me? I guess I never quite figured it out. In any case, Dick was polite and accommodating when other employees or the manager/owner was around, but as soon as we were the only two in the store, he would have me do the most insane things, backed up with the excuse that “the owner” wanted it done. Continue reading


I wish I could find you again.

{note: This was written in 2002 when I was regretting losing touch with a friend who had gotten me through some really, really bad times. I frequently Google and search his name on Facebook, but have never been able to find him again. I really wish I could, if only just to say, “Thank you for being there.”}

I remember the first time I met you, and I lied about my age because I knew you were a little bit older, and I wanted you to like me. I was 13, you were 15.

I remember talking you for hours on the phone, about everything and nothing. You laughing and playing and jumping, me lying on the bed and twisting the phone cord around my hand. Sometimes, we’d fall asleep on the phone together, and then wake up and whisper ‘goodnight’ before hanging up. I talked to you almost every night, and I loved it.

I remember you picking me up when you got your license, and driving me down to your house. We’d hang out in your room and be silly and watch bad movies. I remember your birthday parties, your friends, your parents. I remember you being the only one who made me happy, who understood me.

I remember you stopping by to see me after visiting your brother. You’d tap on my window to wake me up and I’d let you in. We’d sit and talk, sometimes we’d gripe about things we hated in our lives, and try to figure out how to change them.

I remember you holding me when I told you he hit me. We cried together, and I wished you were mine. I remember that one, perfect kiss, your moment of confusion — then kind of laughing it off as a lonely mistake.

I remember meeting you for pizza. One last time, before you took the military plunge, before you left me and headed off for who knows what.

I miss you, Kelly. I wish I could find you again.


That’s the difference between you and I.

So here’s how my fan devotion usually works: I fall in love with a band during a live performance, and then I dedicate myself to being at EVERY show that band plays, because I’m terrified they will eventually get to big to play the small, local clubs anymore and a) tour a lot b) move to LA or NYC and c) play shows WAY out of my price range.

Thinking about this reminded me of a story about how I used to follow a particular band around Seattle (I swear to you, I am not talking about The Posies – this time, anyway), and coincidentally, I discovered after a few shows that this guy I had a giant crush on in High School was in the band. Remembering him to be cool as well as cute, I struck up a conversation and we began having friendly drinks at every show after the set was over…which was awesome, because at the time I was single, and so was he. Awesome, that is, until I mentioned to him that I was divorced.

“Divorced? Really. Huh.”

Having just asked for my phone number, he was still holding the paper in his hand when he said it. Then he crumpled it up and put it in his pocket, and I knew he would never use it. And sure enough, he didn’t. The next time I saw him, instead of being friendly, he decided to just lay on the insults.  Continue reading


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