Bridge Troll Gets a Passport

I took the kids to Great America the other day.  I’d link to it, but I hate that place. It’s like the opposite of Great America.  They should have called their amusement park Horrible Siberia That is Super Expensive. But because I am a little delusional when it comes to outings with my children, I thought it would be fine. No, I thought it would be great.  The day started with the familiar buzz that comes from the cocktail of hope and delusion.  It’s the same cocktail they hand out at the gates of Disneyland.  It’s so clean and full of promise.  No one has spilled their soda or dropped their ice cream.  No one has skinned their knee running to the Tea Cups ride.  No one has been assaulted by a well-meaning Goofy and peed themselves in terror.  There is fairground music and the smell of caramel apples and churros in the air.  And you’re like, “Oh this is going to be great, I’ll get season passes!  We’ll come here all summer!”

But things went wrong, one after another.  At one point, Clyde dropped his cup of curly fries on the cement and I was so frustrated I simply scooped them up, put them back in the cup and handed them back to him. “This day  is sucking,” I texted my friend Jody.  Earlier that day I’d texted her: “Going to Great America with the kids!  So excited!!!”  Because she is my dear friend and a total enabler, she did not write back, “You stupid fool.”  But she knew, (because she has three kids too) that it would be a disaster.

Disaster it was.  The problem was mainly Clyde.  Clyde is not on any growth chart I’m aware of.  The way pediatricians explain growth charts and percentiles is that if there are 100 four-year-olds in a room, your kid would be (in the case of  say, Godzilla Ivy) taller than 75 percent of the kids in the room.  Clyde is not in the room; he is outside, face pressed against the glass like, Jesus Christ, I’m four too!  Let me in! He is two or three inches shorter than Ivy and at Horrible Siberia That is Super Expensive, this is a critical two or three inches.  It is the difference between riding the bumper cars and not riding the bumper cars.  It is the difference between Snoopy’s Wild Ride and no ride.  It is the difference between joy and pain.  The only thing we could all ride simultaneously was Logger’s Run.  Ivy took one look at it and burst into tears.  At that point, Hazel had been subjected to the carousel about five times because it was the only thing Clyde and Ivy could agree on.  So I made a Sophie’s Choice.  I decided to sacrifice one child for the good of the group.  I knew Logger’s Run would terrify Ivy, but I also knew she’d get over it. “Listen Ivy,” I said, “I’ll get you a treat and a souvenir if you’ll go on this with us.”  She weighed this against the fear and took the fear.  After the ride, during which Ivy mostly whimpered, I took them all to get a souvenir.  Hazel, because she is in love with a boy called Brendan, bought a keychain that read: I love BRANdon.  I pointed out the error and either she didn’t understand or thought it was close enough. As we were getting ready to leave the park, Hazel asked if she could get a scarf she’d seen on the way in. “No, you already got that ‘I love Brandon’ keychain,” I told her.  I could see the realization sinking in that she’d bought a keychain for keys she didn’t have, with words on it professing love for a boy she didn’t know. “No,” I said again.  And that is when everyone fell apart, seemingly simultaneously.  Clyde inexplicably got out of the stroller and lay down on the ground.  Ivy decided she’d like a lollipop after all (even though she’d picked as her treat – and had consumed already – cotton candy) and mom remembered that she bought a season pass to Horrible Siberia That is Super Expensive. So I dragged everyone to the season pass processing office, which is where they take your photo so you can’t give your pass to anyone else. Why would I need a season pass to a place I hate?  Because I have a bad memory and because I drink often and early from the hope/delusion cocktail.  Deep down, I knew that in a couple of weeks I would pack the kids in the car and text Jody: “Going to Great America with the kids! So excited!!!”

But the Horrible Siberia That is Super Expensive people at the processing office wouldn’t take Ivy or Hazel’s picture because they’d been face painted.  The face paint evidently obscures their identity.  Wait, what?  Here is the photo.  Not full camo paint.  Not Freddie Krueger keloid scarring.  Not Incredible Hulk full-face green.  Butterfly eyes.  That I paid $11 for.

In other news, today I got a passport photo, and afterwards I almost cried.  As you know crying is hard on this medication I am on.  I spent a lot of time getting ready for said passport photo.  I wore carefully blended eyeshadow called Cherish, from my favorite line Bare Escentuals.  I powdered my nose.  Actually I powdered pretty much any available skin surface.  I wore blush in case I looked washed out.  I blow dried my hair and put product in it.  When I left the house, I foolishly thought I looked good.  Fuck it, I did look good.  I even smiled for my passport photo – what I hoped was a dazzling beauty queen smile.  This is going to be the best passport photo ever, I thought. “No smiling, they don’t like that,” said the lady at the CVS.  Okay, no big deal.  So I gave her a demure Mona Lisa instead.  She showed me the preview. “That okay?” she asked, swiveling the monitor to show me. “I don’t think that’s me,” I said, “that is um a very mad homeless lady who got caught in the rain.  I’m wearing Cherish eyeshadow.  No one cherishes that lady.  Maybe I’m the next photo.”  She frowned. “The next photo is a Hispanic guy with a beard.” “Oh okay,” I said. “So do you want the picture of the rainy homeless lady then?” “Yes,” I whispered.

I immediately called my sister, who told me that despite eight layers of cornsilk powder, she looks, in her passport photo, like she has been smeared with Vaseline frosting.  “I never looked better than I did that day,” she told me.  “And yet, they handed me a photo of a monster.”  I posted my frustration on Facebook, and my friend Eric let me know that there is actually a filter on the passport camera called Bridge Troll, which explains a lot.

And how long with you be staying in Trollville? Until this shit expires I guess.

I wonder though, if you made yourself very very ugly for your passport photo, would the ugliness cancel out the Bridge Troll filter on the passport camera?  A two negatives equal an awesome kind of deal.  Maybe the camera would transform you into a beautiful goddess, making you Helen of Troy, the-face-that-launched-a-thousand-ships-stunning.  The lady at CVS would swivel the monitor around to show you, her hands trmebling in amazement, and the people in line behind you would gasp at all that passport photo beauty.  I think I’ll try that for my next passport, when the Bridge Troll expires.  In the morning, I’ll go to Great America and head straight to the face paint booth. “Would you like butterfly eyes?” they’ll ask me. “No, make me a bridge troll,” I’ll say, “I’m getting a passport photo later.”