It’s A Small World

Finally, and exhaustedly, we are home from Walt Disney World – a place my friend Cathe appropriately calls ‘The Happiest Damn Place On Earth.”  And after 8 trips to WDW in 7 years (and that’s with skipping 2 nonconsecutive years!) I can finally, completely agree with her.  We will be skipping additional consecutive years from here on out.

I had a very long drive home to reflect on why this visit with Mickey was different from our many others and still haven’t figured out why the Magic is gone.

Maybe it’s that the cast members are now openly grumpy (and I don’t mean the dwarf).  Where as everyone used to walk around with smiles that were convincing enough to make me believe they were truly happy that I graced them with my presence in the park that day, they now gripe and complain to each other and guests alike.  It’s their break time, or their hours have been cut, or somebody didn’t clear the ride before they went home last night.  I don’t know what this last statement means, but it might be a safety concern, so I’d stay off of the Snow White ride if I were you.

Their transportation sucks as much as it always did.  This has not once changed from visit to visit.

I’m just now seeing how low-tech the whole operation is.  I’m only a moderate technophile.  I think gadgets are cool, but they must serve a purpose.  And along those lines, I think I’m justified in suggesting that they outfit their bus drivers with Walkie Talkies, or telegraphs at least.  And in a day and age that I can get free WiFi everywhere from my local gas station to my kid’s baseball field, why in the hell must I pay $10 a day for DSL?   And it’s an additional $10 for the wire if I wish to take it home with me.  And if I did take it, I’d probably feel it was my duty to donate it to some museum of technologic artifacts.

Oh, and it was hot.  We’re usually at Disney in June, but have been in February, July, August, and October, too.  It’s never been as miserably hot as it was this time.  I had to take two vacation days from my vacation; days where I slept late and sent the LoveMonkey out into the Wide World of Disney with Tall Girl and the Short People.  I stayed behind and did fun, relaxing things, such as laundry.  There is no sarcasm here.  The laundry house was beside the pool, so I got in some quality floating time.

We broke up our trip home by stopping at Jacksonville Beach for the night.  None of us had ever been, nor will we make a huge effort to go back. 

But for all my bitching and complaining, I don’t want you to think we didn’t have a good time.  We did.  Right up until we had about 3 days of vacation left.  And then we wre all pretty much fried.

But Disney still has it’s Magical Moments.  No where else in the world can you lose your hat on a roller coaster and ever expect to see it again.  Tall Girl is greatful for how helpful the staff was in locating this for her.  And to save her the embarassment, I won’t mention on which roller coaster she lost her hat (Hint:  It rhymes with Boofy’s Garnstormer).

We did have the best food at Disney we’ve ever had.  We went expecting a couple of weeks of crappy park food, but actually ate quite well.  We’ve eaten at many of these places before without the same results, so it would seem that there has been some effort on their part to step up the quality.  If you’re visiting, I recommend Coral Reef, Cinderella’s Round Table, Teppan Ido, Tusker House, BoatWright’s, O’Hana, and Chefs de France.

And on the ride home, even though we spent the night at a beach none of us cared for – well, it was still a beach.  Sand and salt water for 16 hours was enough to make us feel the vacation was complete.

I must end this blog with a funny little story that happened at Disney.

On our 3rd day we visited Epcot – my favoritest non-water park in Orlando.  We rode Soarin’ early, and then got Fast Passes for Test Track.  We then spent the time waiting to ride Test Track in the World Showcase.  This year, I got closer than ever to finishing the Epcot Crawl.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Epcot Crawl, don’t feel bad.  It might be something LoveMonkey and I made up.  The World Showcase has 11 mock countries.  Each of them sells beers from the homeland.  For example, you can buy a Bass in England and a Spaten in Germany.  The Epcot Crawl is where you start at one end (either Canada or Mexico) and drink a beer in each country.  Maybe 11 beers on a hot, sweaty day doesn’t sound like much to you, but we’re light weights.  And also, each of the foreign beers carries more punch than the Yuengling I’m accustomed to (and that you can buy in the American Adventure part of the Showcase now – gotta love the end of the Budweiser exclusivity agreement!).

This year, for my own personal reasons having everything to do with retaining the contents of my stomach, I had to skip Italy, Japan, France and China.  But don’t worry, I picked them up on a return visit later in our vacation.

Anyway, that part of this story is only to give you an idea of just how…um…happy I was when we got to Test Track later in the day.   You must be told that I do not like Test Track because it’s a lame ride.  It’s a car (and a GM, which I’m not very fond of at the moment, to boot) that goes through a, well, test track.  You enter a car, drive through a course where they subject you to extreme cold (which is welcome on these hot days!), and extreme heat (which feels like AC on these hot days!), and a bumpy patch of road (which might be rather pleasurable if you’re sitting on the seam of your shorts in just the right way!).  Then they put you on a stretch of road approximately 300 yards long and push you up to amazing speeds of over 55 miles per hour.

Woo and hoo.  And for this we get Fast Passes.  But the kids and the LoveMonkey like it, so whatever.

But on the particular day that we rode Test Track, the universe arranged itself in an amusingly meaningless way.  The cars hold 6 people:  3 up front, 3 in the back.  LoveMonkey, Tall Girl and The Boy sat up front.  I sat with Short Girl in the back.  They assigned someone from the single rider line to sit with us to fill out the car.

Single Rider Guy sits down wearing a floppy fishing hat and sunglasses and being the friendly guy he is says, “Where are ya’ll from.”  I tell him we live in Raleigh, North Carolina.  I’ve learned that you must not take for granted that people know where Raleigh is. 

Single Rider Guy says, “Cool.  I’m from Boone.”  Single Rider Guy is taking for granted that I know where Boone is. 

“No way.  I grew up in Boone,” I tell him. 

He asks my name, and I tell him my name now, and go on to tell him who my dad was.  It struck me even then as curious that I would still try to identify myself through my dad.  But hell, he owned restaurants in a small town…I figured it was the more likely point of familiarity.  Then it occurs to me that this guy, despite his features being concealed by a floppy hat and sunglasses, could possibly be about my age.  I stop babbling about who I’m not long enough to say, “Wait, who are you?”

So it turns out that I rode Test Track with Jason Church – a guy I sort-of, kind-of knew in high school, who is now married to Emily Spinks – a girl I sort-of, kind-of knew in high school.  When we disembarked from the ride I met his father and his son.  Lovely, friendly people.

I spent the rest of the evening walking around Epcot with a sense of amazement that two people from the same small graduating class 17 years ago and 640 miles away could end up sitting side by side, and a small curiosity about how many other times it could have happened or will happen again without my even realizing it. 

 And to the annoyance of the rest of the Welsh family, I hummed It’s A Small World for the next few hours.  It’s what they get for dragging me away from the Epcot Crawl to ride Test Track.

Writing in past tents.

This was a weekend to learn to roll with the punches.  We, the family, decided we were due for a camping trip, since our last one was July 4th, last year.  After our normal Saturday hectivities, we loaded up my car and ambled our way towards Holly Point, only having to turn around once because I forgot to pack ketchup.

You should know, if you don’t already, that we can walk out our back door and 2 minutes later, be right on the lake.  You should also know that we have a very strange phobia of snakes and spiders.  We assume that we have bigger, more poisonous ones in our own back yard than the camp ground has in theirs, making a 10 minute drive more desirable than a 2 minute walk (10 minutes, with gear).

And so it was after 5pm that we hit the road last night.  We found a lovely little lot to pitch our tent (#37, if you’re still looking at the map).  And I do not mean to imply that we pitched the tent.  No, it was LoveMonkey who did all the hard work.  And a fine job he did, too.  When the last spike was driven into the ground and our old tent stood proud and strong, he rode off to register us at the front gate and I began dinner preparations. 

In no time at all, the fire was roaring, the bratwurst was unwrapped, and kids and dogs alike were salivating and whining about dying of hunger.  The second – and I mean second (I cannot express to you just how coincidental the timing) – LoveMonkey backed my car down into our camp site, the sky opened up.  No warning drizzles.

We all retreated to the tent where we expected to wait out the typical, spring time, tornado-bearing thunder storm and then return to our normal camping activities.  We watched the fire turn to mud and I began calculating whether I had enough charcoal to try this again and cook breakfast in the morning.  Quickly, I decided we’d have to supplement with fast food.

The kids got antsy, the LoveMonkey got sullen.  Toby the dog stretched out on a sleeping bag and made himself right at home.  I scratched Woody’s ears and thought about what a strange dog he truly is.  I read that Weimaraners were originally bred to hunt wolves, deer, and bear.  Woody, however, did not read that book.  He’s afraid of his own shadow.  At night, there are parts of our yard that are so dark and scary to him that he won’t even look in their direction.  When he smells what other dogs have marked, he scurries away.  He’s not afraid of other animals – quite the opposite.  Just their scent.

Back in the old days, because of the rarity of big game in his region of Germany, the Weimaraner easily adapted to become a bird dog and personal hunting companion.  Woody exhibits some of these traits.  For example, he’s like Velcro to his people – won’t / can’t leave our side.  And one day when I took him to Pet Smart, he nearly broke his nose trying to nip at the parakeets flying around behind a glass cage.  His feet are webbed, making him great for retrieving water fowl.  However, he’s frightened of water.  I don’t mean he just doesn’t like to swim – he’s as phobic of water as we are of backyard snakes and spiders.  If given a water dish that is too large, he won’t go near it.

But he’s a good great dog; the best I’ve ever had.  I love him.  He is my canine soul mate, even though he was cowering in the tent, hating the outdoor life, hating the rain, and wondering what the hell his crazy humans were thinking.  Just then, it dawned on every single one of us at the same time; It’s wet in here.

Very little investigative work was required to figure out that the tent was leaking from the top and the bottom.  Wet kids, wet dogs, and wet gear were loaded quickly and haphazardly into the car.  The tent spikes were salvaged from 6 inches of gravel and 3 inches of water (it turns out, we picked a nice bowl-shaped hole to camp in), packed in a plastic bag and thrown in with the rest of the gear.

And our 15 year old tent was pitched for the second time that night; this time, in the dumpster on our way out of the camp ground.

This would be a lovely place to end the story, but oh, no!  There’s more!

When we reached the only traffic light between our house and the campground, it was out.  Dead.  Caput.  This told us all we needed to know about the comforts of returning home.  Because the electricity was out (which happens way too frequently in our neck of the woods), our garage door opener was of no use.  I jumped out of the car, waded to the front door and entered the garage from the house so I could manually open the garage door so that LoveMonkey could back in and we could unload in a relatively dry environment.  No sooner did the children and the dogs pour out of the car did they remind us that they were near starvation.  This is where our night turned around.

We dried off (in the dark) and drove to our favorite Mexican restaurant, where we hatched a plan to camp anyway.  By the time we returned home, the electricity was back on.  We moved the coffee table out of our way in the living room and rolled out dry sleeping bags right in the middle of the floor.  The kids enjoyed watching TV until they fell asleep.  LoveMonkey and I enjoyed the crazy, family adventure.

And Woody still doesn’t know what to make of the whole evening, but is very happy that he got to sleep on the couch.

Obama declares National Pick Up Your Mat & Walk Day

Country can’t decide what to find most offensive

 

 

BY SERENA WELSH

FREELANCE WRITER

 

 

     A small number of people gathered in a cloud of breathy humidity inside the non-air conditioned sanctuary of Elm Street Chapel on Monday to discuss what some have described as the 44^th president’s most recent “blasphemous step in the direction of eternal damnation.”

      Rev. James Thompson, who heads the congregation of Elm Street Chapel every third Sunday, fears that by making miracles previously only dispensed by Jesus Christ, his Lord and Personal Savior, an “entitlement handed out all willy-nilly,” the President of The United States, and therefore the country as a whole, are committing the seventh Deadly Sin, which everyone knows is rarely ever forgiven.

     “We, as a society, begin to take for granted all the great works of [the] Messiah when big Government gets involved and starts deciding who is worthy of healing.”

     “What’s the incentive,” he asks as he wipes a bead of sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand, “[for a person] to lead a pure and holy life if your reward matches that of the back-sliders, working poor, and other heathens?”

     But David Zimmick, co-founder of Liberty & Justice For All, a left-leaning lobbying group based in Lacy, Washington guffaws at Rev. Thompson’s worries, and accuses the administration’s actions of being too little, too late.

    “Listen,” he commands between each spoon load of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food he’s fervently shoveling into his mouth.  “Obama can heal people, for Christ sake.  He shouldn’t limit that to one day a year.  He’s caving to the right wing minority for no other reason than to promote bipartisanship.  Screw bipartisanship.  People didn’t vote for him so he could play nice with Republicans.

     “Not to mention, why is he only healing the lame?  He should be raising the dead.  But I guess that’s not a priority for him because they’ve had their voting rights suspended in every state except Louisiana.”

     “Well, I totally support Zimmick’s right to his opinion,” says Robert Plant (no, not that one), professor of Conservative Studies at Central Florida Community College.  “But you’ve got to understand the financial implications of resurrection.  Healing the sick, even if only for one day, takes a colossal burden off the backs of the American tax payers.  For each person the president heals, that’s years of Medicare payments put back into the national coffers.  And the money insurance companies don’t have to pay out will reduce health care costs for the rest of us as well.

     “Like I was explaining to my class last night, raising the dead opens up a whole new can of worms for all of us.  We all know that healthy people don’t die.  If you bring back the sick or the clumsy, you’re going to see all those Medicare savings we were expecting just vanish.  Not to mention the nightmare of red-tape for the Internal Revenue Service.  What are they supposed to do?  Reimburse the death tax?  We can’t even calculate all the ways in which this would affect the treasury.”

     Plant, however, may be one of very few people who support Barak Obama’s National Pick Up Your Mat & Walk Day.  Sharee Day, the Houston native and currently-between-jobs former Administrative Assistant for the shipping and receiving division of a major U.S. medical waste management company, and long time member of Texans Against Religious Deference is “just plain sickened by this.”

     “All the way from the founding of our country to abolishing prayer in schools, we’ve worked hard to build a nation that embodies the first amendment.  Come on, man.  It’s 2009.  Where’s our freedom from religion?  President Obama’s constant and relentless messianic words, actions, and symbolisms have just set our country back a good four months.  At least.”

     Still, the Obama administration maintains that a day of healing is “the right thing, at the right time.”

     When questioned Tuesday during his Town Hall meeting in Waxhaw, North Carolina about why so many are opposed to National Pick Up Your Mat & Walk Day, Obama said, “I don’t know why there’s opposition, to be honest with you.  There will always be those who disagree with me, and if they’d be willing to commit an act of terrorism against our land, our citizens, or our military in order to get their point across, I’d be glad to sit down and discuss it with them.”

I drink because I hurt.

This morning I made a trip to the doctor’s office and left being treated for a possibly non-existant kidney infection.  The symptoms are there, but the dip stick came back clean for infection, but positive for blood.  My doctor (whom I love dearly) went ahead and perscribed antibiotics while she sends the sample out for culture.  If I grow some bacteria, I’m covered.  If I don’t, she sends me for a CT to look for stones.

WAIT!  Did I say that?  Am I really old enough that kidney stones are now something I have to worry about?  (Let’s overlook medical conditions and how their age limits don’t seem to apply to me, here.   I can’t believe on most days that I’m <somewhere> in my 30’s, much less talking about thinks like KIDNEY STONES!)

So I uttered the words for the first time, I think ever; Man I hope I have a kidney infection!

But the idea that something I’ve put in my body – presumably over a long period of time – has turned against me and formed pebble sized monsters inside me has really got me thinking about all that I do pour into this temple of mine.  Do you have any idea what the heart meds alone must be doing to my liver (which is still testing fine, by the way)???  And I HAVE to have those.  What about all the other stuff that is just for comfort, say, like, allergy meds, a Tylenol here, an ibuprophen there?

So tonight I completely made up the fact that 4 beers is equal to two extra strength Motrins in terms of liver damage.  Which was most likely to make me feel good until I fall asleep?  Well, undoubtedly, the typos contained herein will tip you off to which I chose.

“But why are you sore?” you might ask.  Actually, if you know me, you’re probably not asking because you are all too aware that I’m going to tell you in mind-numbing detail.

But alas, I have no detail.  The answer is simple:  I’m a wuss.  I walked my short kids around the zoo yesterday.  In my defense, I was carrying a pretty heavy camera backpack stuffed with all kinds of other stuff, too.

The morning started out foggy and unfortunately, by the time Mr. Sun came out to play my camera battery (which ?I short sightedly did not charge the night before) called it a night.  My camera died on the Zebras and most regrettably, the zoo does not keep their animals in alphabetical order.

So before that 4th beer kicks in, let me show you just a little of what I shot.

First, we came upon the sea lion tank.  I’m fairly certain this is a seal, though.

Next, we stumbled upon the otters.  But not literally.  Cute alert:

And then I ran across these beasts:

This little lady is named Terry.  She is 40 years old.  Are you reading this, LoveMonkey?  This is what I’m going to look like in 6 years.

Finally, here are a couple of boring animals that I have no particular fondness for.

A new day

Much has happened in the month since I last blogged.  Most of it feels way too personal to post here, but some vagueries are still to be doled out.

I’ve learned that I can indeed look away from a train wreck, even when it’s crashing through my house.

I am learning something about my own personal limits with the hopes that my next lesson is in how not to over step them.

I am finding my voice; not just as a writer, but as a woman who feels about 5 years stunted.

Also, I think I’m developing acid reflux.  Sorry that one isn’t as deep or profound as the rest, but it’s weighing equally heavy at the moment.

Until I have something worth sharing….ciao.

Never say never

The trophy is mine again.   And I will update tomorrow.

Call off the hounds

I have some very good reasons for my extended absence.

True to my NYE resolution, I’ve been engaging in more of the things that made last year pleasurable.

I’ve faithfully completed 1 knitting project per week (I know, we’re only in the 4th week).  I’ve read 7 of the books on my “I really want to read that one day” list.  I’ve spent more time with friends I’ve not seen in a while, and I’ve been exercising regularly.   It’s been relatively easy and if I can do all of that just 11 more times, I’ll have completed a full year. 

But my biggest news;  my novel is now – dare I say it? – finished!  I’m self editing at the moment, and then when it’s just exactly perfect, I will sit on it for a while and decide what I really want to do with it.   It is my baby and I want to protect it like my human children.  A life lived locked in a fire-safe vault seems preferable to being sent out into the world to be abused and rejected.  Thankfully, there is no Novel Protection Service that I need to worry about knocking on my door. 

But who knows?  Maybe when I’m finished polishing she will beg to be set free.  We’ll see.

Also in breaking news – Our home is still for sale.  I began the process kind of ambivalent to a move.  It would be nice, but I’m happy here, too.  And to a large extent, I still feel that way.  Except that I have cut my emotional roots from this house and will not feel a sense of loss when we leave.  I am ready for an adventure….Now if only I had a buyer….

I know what has to be done.

And knowing is half the battle, right?

Months ago I started my first novel.  Halfway into it, I stalled.  Or it stalled.  Or both.  I’m not totally sure.  I left one of the pivotal characters mid-stroke with his ass in the air.  Months later, I come back to find him still there.  Amazing stamina, that one.

But since “Finishing My Novel” was swimming around in there somewhere with my vague new years resolution, I’ve been mulling over what’s wrong with it.  It was so easy in the beginning, but then it seemed to have just stopped writing itself.

A lot has changed since I first began this writing adventure.  I’ve learned more about why I can write some things and why I cannot or will not write others.  That changes the direction of one sub-plot and replaces another one all together.   I’ve actually met one of my fictional characters now, too.  That changes a little bit.  And also, I’ve decided that all names must change.  They’re too freakin’ cumbersome.

In short, it’s a re-write.  But it should be an easy one, because I’ve got a great piece to use as a shell and fill in the pieces that need filled in.

I’m excited and invigorated.  I’m creating again.  I get to back up and take another running go at this thing and do it right.  I suspect a certain someone who must be in muscle failure right about now will also be glad to hear it.

And completely off topic, but before I forget – you absolutely have to know that Atomic Fire Balls, yes, those little individually wrapped hell pellets we used to buy for 25cents at the skating rink in 1982 now come in – are you ready for this?  Chewy!  Ferrara Pan produces them.  Look for them wherever fine candies and implements of oral torture are sold!

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot?

 

In some cases, the answer is an unequivocal “YES!”

But that’s not the only lesson 2008 has taught (or in some cases, re-taught) me.

A few other areas of study:

-          Don’t get into a pissing contest with the mentally ill.

-          Always trust your gut.

-          Trust, but verify.

I am happy to report that I have proof I have matured at some point in the last 18 years.  I recently ran across a similar list dated 1990 which includes such pearls as, Never attempt to stick your head out of the car window without first rolling it down.  What a crying shame that I do not remember the event that lead up to my penning this.

 

It turns out I’ve also come to know myself better, not just in the last 18 years, but in the last 12 months.  I’m beginning to suspect this is a lifelong process, and not an academy that will graduate me someday.

 

I’ve learned that I truly misplaced something with my unexpected retirement in 2004.  Not lost, just misplaced.  I have a need to be good at something again.  It need not (and better not) be the same thing.  But it must be something.  When my youngest offspring starts kindergarten in the fall, I will begin a course of study at a yet-to-be-determined University.  This is resolution number 1.  Except it’s more than a resolution.  It is so.

 

And I’ll leave you with my only other, intentionally vague resolution for 2009:  I will do more of the good things I did in 2008 and less of the bad.

 

Happy New Year, folks.

Nothing lasts forever…

…just like twin-peaks and men with a steady urine stream.

It wasn’t that long ago that I declared myself permanent victor in the M-FUF competition.  I swiped that trophy away from my love monkey and vowed there was never a chance of it returning to his side of the bed.

I should have known better.  You never, ever, say “never.”

He’s been sleeping with the trophy tucked under his pillow the last few nights for reasons that I could, but shouldn’t, explain here.  It’s his story to tell.  Unfortunately for you, he does not see the value in blogging.

Let’s just say it involves Munchausen-by-proxy, extortion, and a hollistic medicine that  grows on the east side of a goat turd found only in the Cambodian mountains.  I’ll never get that trophy back now.

But then again…