CARNIVAL SNACKS

Is it possible to visit a carnival and not partake in the thrill of eating Carnival Food? Seriously. Have you ever gone and not eaten anything? And yes, cotton candy counts.


If I had to say what my favorite attraction is, I'd have to answer, THE LINE at the snack bar.
Out of all the things to do at a carnival, the snack bar seems to be the safest. Perhaps that's why the snack bar always has the longest lines. 
Myself? I get in line within 8 minutes of arrival. The truth is, I'm not hungry then, but by the time I get up to the window, I will be.
Check out some Carnival Snacks:

**Fried Twinkie**

Someone in front of me in THE LINE once asked me if they sold frozen yogurt or fruit. The entire LINE  broke into hysterical laughter, pointing at the poor woman--obviously a novice. Plan on ingesting 600 grams of fat, minimum... and that's while your in LINE. No worries though, you'll walk it off as you drift from ride to ride...that's what I tell myself. Being a Jewish woman, I view exercise a bit differently than others. To me, a vigorous hike is the walk from the mall parking lot to Nordstroms. When there's a sale, I consider it a marathon and bump up the walk to a trot.

A little known Carnival Sociologist (AKA Carniologist) Flander Ufpenheimer (the f is silent) did a study that determined the following: 


No matter who you are, where you came from or which political party you identify with--once in the snack line, you become part of THE LINE. 


Your identity blends in and you are now considered a LINK in what I fondly call, THE CHAIN OF FAT. I hate to say this, but glance around when you're in THE LINE and consider this: 


1)the clothing your chain is wearing and

2) the size of the other 'links' in your chain.


I'm sorry to say that many judgments are made about a person based strictly on THE LINE you're seen in. Regardless of who you are in life, the bottom line is this: YOU ARE YOUR LINE. When someone sees you in THE LINE, you will automatically appear as a LINK, rather than your individual self. (See pic  below . I did not wear that outfit to the carnival. It was THE LINE, I tells ya. THE LINE.)

Me On Far Right

I recently went for a dental hygienist job interview and the employer and I hit it off ... when it was over, he implied the job was mine 


That evening, to celebrate, I took the kids to the carnival. 


Yes. I got impatient.


Yes, I was cocky.


Risking it all, that night I indiscriminately chose the shortest line. It just made sense. It was a Thursday evening. No one I knew would be at the carnival. No one except my almost employer. Who wants a dental hygienist with a fried twinkie stuffed her mouth and an order of nacho in her hand.


Hey, I'm telling the truth. Go to the carnival, see if I'm wrong. In the parking lot, check the bumper stickers:


 YOU ARE YOUR LINE.       


THINK BEFORE YOU LINK.         


GOT CHAIN?     


and the always popular  MY CHAIN LINKED AN HONOR STUDENT. 

I know for certain,  I'm not the only one who has read the infamous, "Easy Rider. A Manual For The Carnival Novice."


Abe Cohen was so impressed with THE LINE dynamics, he changed his name to ABE LINKIN' During his presidency, (and this is a little known fact) he frequented Carnival Chains to stay in touch with the people. This famous quote was first heard as he advised a fellow link how to deal with a stinkin' linkin' ( LINE slang for someone trying to cut in front of THE LINE):


"Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm."  
                                                                                                          --Famous Abe 'Linkin' Cohen quote

Abe Cohen Linkin' triying to avoid recognition in THE LINE by wearing various disguises.
    


When my book, 


THE BEAUTIFUL EVIL, 


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becomes a best seller, I'm going to need a disguise, as well.


                        No disguise:

 The Once-I'm-Famous disguise for "THE LINE."

So, next time you go to the carnival, see you on the funnest ride of all:                                    

The SNACK LINE

The Hall Of Mirrors

"The Hall of Mirrors is a traditional attraction at carnivals...The basic concept behind a hall of mirrors is to be a maze-like puzzle. In addition to the maze, participants are also given mirrors as obstacles, and glass panes to parts of the maze they cannot yet get to. Sometimes the mirrors may be distorted because of different curves, convex, or concave in the glass to give the participants unusual and confusing reflections of themselves." wikiup

Do women actually want to tour the hall of mirrors, anymore? I remember the days when a size 8 was considered skinny. These days, women starve themselves to become a 2. Young women's smaller sizes now dip into the minus numbers. I don't care how much fun it is to find your way out of a maze or to see yourself hundreds of times from every angle. Unless you're a size 0 or less, ride the merry-go-round instead.


We all have an idea of what we look like before we enter The Hall Of Mirrors. And we know that the curvy mirrors should make us laugh. I don't know about you but when I look into any mirror, I believe that it's telling me the truth. Even if there is a BIG sign with an HUGE arrow pointing at the curvy mirror that says, "NOT REALLY YOU, ROBBI. YOU'RE NOT FAT." I believe otherwise. Signs lie. Mirrors don't. Ask around.


The only things that I could possibly compare my experience in The Hall Of Mirrors with are the Victoria's Secret dressing rooms. The combination of the pounding heat from the too-bright lights juxtaposed with the unmistakably bad mirrors--it's a nightmare. If you didn't hate your body before you went into the VSDR cubicle, you will when you come out. And for Godssake, don't look in the mirror behind you. 

 

I've said this once and I'll say it again, DO NOT LOOK IN THE BACK MIRROR at Vicky's Secret, no matter how much your best friend offers to pay you. 


If your feeling down, bloated or simply in a mood to look at your backside in a mirror, get yourself to Macy's. These, ladies, are the good mirrors. Why Victoria's Secret has to rub your nose in your cellulite, I don't know. I'm there to buy something to look hot in, instead, I end up feeling like an rhinoceros in a mouse's bikini.


It's not difficult to look good in a Macy's mirror. I've seen women line up to get in. I've seen women drag other's out to make a place for themselves (these are usually the PMS group.) I've seen women sneak lovers in, just to look hot during love-making. Trampling? It's happened. Women don't just shop at Macy's; they recharge.


I think a carnival ride ticket costs about $1.00 a piece. Usually, each ride calls for all your tickets except for one--no matter how many you buy. Six to ten may be the minimum for a ride, I'm not sure. But this I am sure of, I'm not about to pay $10.00 to enter The Hall. Seriously. Hell, I wouldn't go in for free.


I base this decision from the only time I did go into The Hall. I lost my innocence there--hey, hey, hey! I meant, I used to think I looked pretty damn hot, pre-hall.( FYI, I lost the other innocence on spring break in Miami.)


"Mom, look how much fatter you look." Mirror 2. The Hall of Mirrors.


"How much fatter? Are you saying I'm fat?" I squawk.


The carnie at the entrance must have heard Bri because, out of the blue, he calls to me, "You ain't fat, baby."


"Yeah, thanks for that," I call back. Teeth or no teeth, he did compliment me.


I peer at my reflection. Size 8. I looked remarkably huge. "This is fucking unbelievable! I'm as big as a pregnant cow." I yell loud enough for anyone in or near The Hall to hear. Laughter echos throughout the hall, ricocheting from mirror to mirror. Everyone's having a big, fucking laugh. They don't know that a size 8 used to mean you were hot. 


"Mom! You said fuck," Four year-old Nicky says.


"I made a mistake. Don't you guys use that word."


"But you said it,mom." his identical twin, Bri, adds.


"I'm a grown up," I snap. I broke at mirror 2. I wanted out immediately.  "Merry-Go-Round anybody?" 


"Yeah! Let's go, Mom!"


"Let's make a hand chain and see how fast we can get through the maze. It's a race."  


We grab hands; I stare at the floor as the boys lead me out.

Marilyn Monroe drops to the floor, aghast, upon seeing herself in the curvy mirror.

Later that day, Daddy comes home. 

"Bri and Nicky went on the kiddie roller coaster today, all by themselves." I say, proudly.

"Wow!" Daddy says, enthusiastically. He likes these sorts of macho milestones. "That's so great. You guys are becoming so grown up. Did you have a good time at the carnival?"


For a moment, the room fell silent. Both boys were deep in thought. I had no idea why.


"We had a great time!" Bri says nonchalantly and looks at Nicky.


"Yeah, and The Hall Of Mirrors was fucking unbelievable." 


And out the door, my oh-so-not-grown-up twins ran.

       

The Bumper Cars

I know, I know! Everyone loves the bumper cars. It's almost as if the bumpers were the most sacred of all the rides, simply because you can smash into other people's cars, without consequences.  Which I suppose is fun, if that's your thing. The idea of  no consequences--that, I like. That's why I wrote erotica for all those years. I could slip into a story, be up to no good and escape unscathed. Sweet, huh? Anytime of the day or night. 

Writing erotica isn't as easy as it sounds. The research alone is time consuming and sometimes downright  exhausting. I started writing erotica as an assignment given by my therapist. The reasons why are personal, the payoff priceless. 

One morning, while reading the paper, I saw a small ad for an escort service. What happened was comparable to one of those songs that you can't get out of your mind, say like, any Barry Manilow song. Click the arrow below. I dare you. See how often this song comes into your mind today. (Plus, whoever did the video made it quite enjoyable.)

The escort ad kept looping in my mind all day long until, I couldn't take it anymore. There was only one way out. I called the escort service. Of course, the escorts were for men who were looking for women. Who cared. I asked if there were any women who liked women. No... but the owner's best friend, a beauty of a woman, liked women...

The charge? $300 for 2 hours with her. As a writer, one has to self-invest. I rented a room in a nice hotel in San Francisco and met her in the bar. I'd had a couple of calm-my-nerves shots of tequila (I don't drink often) before she arrived and was very, very relaxed when she showed up.(BTW, she was extraordinary.)

I don't remember how we got up to the room... We were in the bar. I blinked. We were in my in my room, on the bed, kissing...


"Her name was Lola, She was a dancer."

Sorry. I watched that damn Manilow video and am doomed to hear this song loop through my mind the next week or so.

...kissing, kissing. Her soft, moist...

Penthouse liked my story and published it at $1/word. They wanted 1000 words. Sweet. (my investment paid off.)

After, my two hours were up, she called the service and said the 2 hours were up and she was leaving. She hung up...turned to me... and stayed an extra hour, on the house.

The consequences? I got audited that year. Thank god, I'd asked for a receipt.

For A Good Time Visit The Carnival In My Mind