Happy Hallowe'en!

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Disney Death March

After talking with K for an hour and a half, my mind was reeling. Either this man had the most interesting life of anyone in the history of the world or he was the craziest motherfucker I'd ever met. There is a fine line between genius and madness, but it's important to stay on the right side of the line. I reminded myself many times during the course of our conversation that you can't catch crazy, and found K to be a genuinely delightful person. But, still, nice can't trump being a wack-a-doo.

K remembered his golf tournament and eventually bid his farewells, promising to meet us the following day to repeat the process, and we were free to explore. All the sights and sounds of Disney beckoned but, frankly --- after our near-death experience just getting there and the psychedelic experience of K --- I was ready for a nap.

Unfortunately, my husband --- normally the sweetest and most considerate of men --- becomes a vacation despot. On our last trip, we walked until my feet bled. The time before that, we visited literally EVERY church in Quebec. And some outside the city, as well. And if you haven't been to Quebec, all I can say is it has a LOT of churches.

So, in preparation for this trip, I started priming the pump early. I reminded him every day of my weak and arthritic ankles. I reminded him of my arthritic back and my bulging discs. I made an effort to look particularly aged and feeble. I pointed out that, while he is a Greek god among men, I am a nag destined for the glue factory in very short order.

(His answer was to ban my flip flops and to buy me very lightweight, flexible running shoes. "Now," he said, smiling, "there is no reason you can't keep up with me. Isn't this great?!"

"But, they're little leather coffins for feet! I can't put my feet in those all day long! My feet can't breathe! I'll get blisters!"

"No, no," he reasoned, "you'll get used to them. It'll be better for you. You'll be able to walk for miles."

I got the message. I might wear the shoes, but he wouldn't make me like it. And I figured I was now due some Disney loot in exchange. This could be working out to my advantage, after all.)

Now we were here, with two parks to cover in one day, Hurricane Wilma threatening, and Scott with a surfeit of energy to expend. I made one final plea for mercy, then the Disney Death March began.

First, we got tickets for the Mission: Space ride. This was a mistake, but we'll come back to that later. While we waited for our ride time, we headed around the International Pavilions to sample the food at the International Food and Wine Festival. This was actually good, and less expensive than the Norwegian smoked fish fest Scott had been planning. Strangely, the Norwegian pavilion had been taken over by the Disney Princesses, who were taking all their meals there. EVERY table was booked. We were assured that a seat would not be available for breakfast, lunch, OR dinner until sometime in November.

"What," Scott wondered, "would a kid eat at a Norwegian restaurant?"

My guess, macaroni and cheese.

However, the special Festival booths had some really great food. And booze. Which I reckoned I'd be needing before too long.

Rounding the far side of the lake, I had my first inkling that we were going to stand out from the "average" guest. There, near the German pavilion (I think, they all blur together after a while), was a miniature train set-up.

"Quick, take my picture like I'm a monster menacing the village!" my husband growled, his face a rictus of evil, leaning over the railing, his hands raised in enormous claws.

Always happy to oblige, I whipped out the camera and started shouting directions. "Look more terrifying! LOOK MORE TERRIFYING!" I was Cecil B. DeMille, and I was getting the best performance of Scott's life!

Then I saw the woman over his shoulder. The one who was looking at me like we should not have been allowed in the park. Ever.

"Uh, he's menacing the village," I shrugged, blushing.

We made our retreat to the champagne kiosk, then promptly pounced on Fox, from Pinocchio. I had decided that I only wanted to associate with the bad characters, and this guy definitely fit the bill. I wanted to pose like I was dragging him away by his tail, but was too shy when I got up close to him. From a distance, you can kind of pretend that it really is Fox, but up close you can tell that it's a person looking at you from the mesh covering the eyes. A tired person. A patient, tired person.

A Disney villain I can manhandle, no problem; a real person, well, I've gotta know you for a while before I can be THAT bossy.

Suddenly, from the Colonial American pavilion, we heard the fife and drum. "Hurrah! They're conscripting colonists for their army! Let's go watch!"

We then got into an argument about whether they were conscripting or impressing civilians, but it ended up they were just doing a little schtick. It got me thinking, though, how cool it would be if, every once in a while, a few of the nations would band together and invade, say, France. They're used to it, and it would be educational and entertaining all at the same time.

Needless to say, this earned me a few more strange looks from the other tourists, but then it was time to head over to Mission: Space for our first ride of the day.

Really, the only good thing I can say about Mission: Space is that Gary Sinise is your captain. And he is very easy on the eyes. Despite what my husband says. He looks all tired and worn out and like he couldn't run very fast. I like that.

What I DON'T like is a stupid ride that straps you into a pseudo-cockpit then tilts your seat all around while flashing twirly pictures on a big video screen in front of you.

Yes. I have motion sickness. Yes, it was horrible. No, I didn't puke, but not for lack of trying, I assure you.

This was not a good start to our day. But, it would only get worse from here.....

Heart of Disney

We were waiting in a parking lot.

We were supposed to meet him here, but we had no idea what he looked like. He, on the other hand, knew that Scott would be wearing a loud plaid shirt and I would be wearing my orange Longhorns baseball cap. He could be anywhere, watching us, without our even being aware. The back of my neck prickled.

"So...uh....what time did he say he'd meet us?" I ventured.

"Shhh," my husband hissed, "I think that's him now."

Well over six feet tall, gaunt, with searing blue eyes that seemed to look within my soul and find me lacking in some indefinable way, he loomed before us. Our connection. Our link.

Our Disney hook-up.

"Let me tell you how this is going to go down," he barked, "you will follow me to the gates. You will stay directly behind me at all times. We will enter the park together. We will spend some time together at the park so that my employers will know that I have not sold you these passes. I will then leave to attend my golf tournament. Do you have any questions? No? Good, let's go."

And, suddenly, we were Seaman Marlow, following Mr. Kurtz into the Heart of Darkness.

K, as I will call him to protect his anonymity and avoid a lawsuit, is the relative of a colleague. She warned us that, while a nice guy, he is a little crazy. To put it mildly.

I had time to reflect upon this as we careened down back roads and short cuts into the Magic Kingdom. Speed limits, turn signals, and maintaining safe distance meant nothing to this man, and I began to wonder if free passes into the Happiest Place on Earth were really worth it, given the obvious price of life and limb we were being asked to pay.

Oh, how I wished I had remained a Christian. Oh, how I wished I still started each day with a beer and a bottle of cheap wine. Prayer and drunkeness were the only things I could believe would save me now.

Scott, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Unleashed from my incessant nagging about his driving by the necessity of keeping up with K, he made token mutterings about doing 65 in a 25 zone and cutting off SUVs as K whimsically changed lanes, but I could tell his heart wasn't really in it. From the corner of my eye, I could see him smile.

At last we reached the park. K began to tell us his life story as he walked with us to the gates, mentioning that he had at one time been a race car driver. This I was fully prepared to believe. The rest, I'm not so sure....

Tears Are NOT a Substitute For Spray Starch

So, we were on our way to Brunswick! Scott would be sitting in on the interviews for his replacement and I would be taking a little look see at the place we'll be calling home in four short months.

Things were actually going very well. I had carefully orchestrated every aspect of packing, even laying out various shirts and cargo shorts that I know are Scott's favourites, to help him decide what to take with a minimum of fuss and muss. The only things I did not worry about were Scott's dopp kit (he keeps it hidden somewhere that I can never find) and his suit things for the interviews (he knows best how he wants to present himself and I'm never able to guess what suit and tie he'll want on any given occasion.) We had pretty weather for the drive --- lots of sun, not too hot --- and the traffic was light.

As we neared Statesboro, Scott suddenly announced that he needed to take a turn around the city and find a department store, having just realized that he'd forgotten to bring a tie. We laughed in relief as we found a Goody's and a JC Penney's within walking distance of one another --- we'd be sure to find something he'd like, and thank goodness he'd realized in time for us to actually stop and buy a replacement!

Oh ho, we chortled, flapping the tongue of the tie at each other, standing in the checkout line. Rascally tie, it won't get the better of us, we chuckled as we continued our drive to Brunswick. Tie! we exclaimed gleefully during dinner, knowing that for once we had our shit one-hundred-percent together, no surprises here, no sireebob!

Scott was in a fine mood the next morning, preparing to meet his boss for breakfast before leaving for the interviews. He winked at me in the bathroom mirror, waving the recalcitrant tie at me with a little kiss. This would certainly be a Good Day. I smiled sleepily then rolled over for another couple hours of blissful, luxury hotel rest.

Then I heard a gasp.

Then muttered curses.

Then a sob.

Sitting bolt upright, I thought to myself, That idiot forgot his socks, I just know it!

"Sweetheart, what is it, what's the matter?" I called to my husband, who by now was struggling for breath. "Did you forget your socks? Do I need to run out somewhere while you're at breakfast and buy you some socks??" Thinking to myself, Where the hell am I going to buy socks at seven in the morning?? And a lot of other mean things, besides.

"I...I...I don't want to talk about it. Just leave me alone!" came the strangled reply.

Now, in the history of the world, this response has never been met by any wife with less than all-consuming curiosity. Now I MUST know, at ANY cost. "Tell me right now what is going on, did you forget your damned socks again?"

"No.....MY PANTS!"

Oh, yes, we were really on top of that TIE, thank God, and the SOCKS; THOSE were covered. The easiest things in the world to physically remove from a waiter or bellboy, sure, THOSE we had. 36 inch inseam dress trousers, though....that was going to be a problem, even for someone with my ingenuity and unscrupulous cunning.

As soon as I could catch my breath, from my immediate and prolonged laughter at my husband's expense, I asked him if he'd brought any khaki trousers. We were, after all, on our way to a Disney vacation, so his outfits were heavy on the cargo short side, but hopefully at least one pair of trousers had made the cut, just in case of dinner at a nice restaurant or a sudden whim to attend church.

And thank god! He had packed ONE pair, his most favourite pair, which I had JUST rescued from an assault from movie-popcorn butter with extreme intervention via stain remover. The day was saved! He wouldn't be in a full suit, but he could --- just maybe --- pull off a casual, sport coat effect, with the new tie serving to anchor the khaki trousers to the gunmetal grey suit jacket. Hurrah!

Working quickly, he started warming the iron and setting up the ironing board. He threw the pants onto the board, then began ironing as if his life depended upon it.

"Hey," he growled, "there are bleach stains ALL OVER these pants! What have you done to my pants??"

"Nothing! I just...used some stain remover..." Could I have used that stain remover a little over-zealously?? Could it really have left those bleachy stains ALL OVER those damned pants?? I only used it on the front, where the butter......

"Hey!" Scott glared at me accusingly. "I thought you said you got the stain out of these?!"

"OF COURSE I DID!" But he was right; the heat of the iron had, somehow, brought the stain out with a vengeance. My husband collapsed, limply, over the iron. Only his muffled cries assured me that, still, he lived.

Of course, life goes on, even if you are an unfortunate law clerk with no kind of housekeeper for a wife. He put on his stained, bleached trousers and marched out the door to meet with his very particular boss --- who is a bit of a dandy and truly believes that clothes make the man --- several Ivy League candidates, and his own Fate.

"So, how did it go?" I asked when I picked him up that afternoon.

"Oh, it was fine. The Judge was wearing a sport coat and khakis. So, where do you want to have lunch?"

And that, friends, was the end of that. But only the beginning of a very strange trip, indeed...

My Life, This Weekend

Ok, I have to just interrupt myself for one second to say that the weather man, who looked like a very sedate older gentleman, just started his report with, "The latest pain in the rear is Hurricane Wilma...." Now, I ask you, is that any way for a weather man to talk?? First the postal employees stopped wearing proper uniforms, now local news personalities are talking like gang members.

Anyway, the reason I'm watching the news at all is that we leave tomorrow for a day in Brunswick and then on to Orlando and the House of Mouse. So I am glued to the weather because, without a doubt, we are going to have nothing but rain, rain, and more rain because of the damned hurricane. And it is only par for the course that the family vacation would be scheduled for the rainy season, 'cause that's just how we roll around here.

It all started when my husband decided out of the blue --- on the basis of one throw-away comment from yours truly --- to purchase a discount vacation package to Orlando. We haven't taken a proper vacation in four years, so it was an extremely sweet thing for him to do, except that we just had an unexpected vet bill. But then we had to get the brakes fixed, as he then decided we should just drive our own car, rather than rent.

Unfortunately, having made the mistake of taking care of our car once, it decided that it liked the attention and so the alternator promptly bit the dust. After an extremely complicated process, the repair was made, but Scott really did it, though, when he decided to throw in an oil change while he was at it. The car, demanding bitch that she is, suddenly decided that she needed a new battery and tires. Having gotten those, however, she went completely power mad, requiring a new something-or-other that --- as my husband explains it, and I have to trust him 'cause I don't know --- on any other model would be a separate $25 part, but on OUR model is an all-in-one unit, the sum total cost of which was in excess of $400.

Well, now that all THAT work had been done on the car, we just decided to go whole hog and buy new hubcaps! Sand and paint the rust spots! Replace the rear brake cylinders! Cost is not an issue at this point, it's only money! When all is said and done, we will have put a grand into this car, which is more than we've spent on it in the last three years, I grant you, but still, right before vacation??? That's just mean.

So there's the initial cost of the package, plus the grand for the car, plus the fuel for the drive, PLUS the cost of two vet visits with complete shots in order to be able to board the dogs while we're away (this does not include the cost of the first, surprise emergency vet visit mentioned earlier).

But it doesn't even stop there, because no sooner had the dogs discovered that THEIR needs were going to be met when they BOTH came down with some sort of horrible itchiness that needed to be addressed IMMEDIATELY, it was just too pitiful to watch, and I've had poison ivy so I know how it feels. And since the Horrible Itch was flea-related, it was clear that their flea collars just weren't cuttin' the mustard and I had to spring for the extremely expensive lethal chemical flea medicine. So there's another $500, and we haven't even boarded them yet!

And then I realized today that I am disgustingly fat and all of my clothes are completely unfashionable, so I had to go buy some new clothes so I won't look like a dumpy housewife while strolling through the Magic Kingdom. 'Cause, you know, then I'd really stand out. Fortunately, I hated almost everything as soon as I got it home, so at least we can deduct most of the panic-packing costs as soon as I can make my returns, but this discount vacation is costing us an arm and a leg!

All of this is running through my mind, along with the long check list of chores I need to do and errands I need to run before we leave, which I haven't been able to do yet because the car has either been not working or actively under repair for the last two weeks. Not a good traveler under the best of circumstances, this is driving me out of my mind.

And the cherry on the top of this stress sundae is that my poor Beloved, whose sole wish was to take me on a vacation he heard ME express a desire to take, keeps asking me if I'm excited about our trip and all I can think of is dollar signs. I feel like a real heel.

Brutus Was So Excited to Go to The Morris Last Sunday!

He brought along his favourite buckeye for the day, although we warned him that food and beverages are not allowed in the Museum. He didn't think it'd be a problem, as buckeyes are poisonous and therefore inedible.

He didn't like it much when we pointed out that he, too, is a "poisonous nut".

When he was done pouting, we spent a happy afternoon wandering through the galleries. Scott and I particularly liked the Eudora Welty photography exhibit. Brutus really liked the Georgiana paintings and practically had to be dragged away!

Overall, a very good day, and NO CLOWNS!

Outlander vs. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Outlander has magical time travel; HP has magic.

Outlander has a blonde witch, Geillis Duncan; HP has a blonde witch, Fleur Delacour.

Outlander has a Loch Ness monster; HP has mermaids.

Outlander has a black mineral spring hidden under a monastery; HP has a black lake hidden in a cave.

HP has Inferi; Outlander has a lynch mob.

Outlander has divination via a bowl of water; HP has divination via a bowl of memories.

Outlander has a dangerous horse, Donas; HP has a dangerous hippogriff, Buckbea....er, Witherwings.

HP has a gentle giant, Hagrid; Outlander has a gentle-ish giant, Wee Angus.

Outlander has an impetuous red head, Jamie Fraser; HP has impetuous red heads Fred, George, and Ron Weasley.

HP has a clever herbologist, Hermione Granger; Outlander has a clever herbologist, Clair Beauchamp Randall Fraser.

HP has the complicated and evil Professor Severus Snape; Outlander has the complicated and evil Captain Jonathan "Black Jack" Randall.

HP has werewolves Greyback and Remus Lupin; Outlander has a pack of wolves.

HP has a castle, Hogwarts; Outlander has a castle, Leoch.

In HP, Harry plays a hazardous game: Quidditch; in Outlander, Jamie plays a hazardous game: political intrigue.

HP has a kindly headmaster, Albus Dumbledore; Outlander has a kindly horsemaster, Alec McMahon MacKenzie.

Outlander has lots of sex and rogering; HP has lots of snogging, and probably some students named Roger.

Sometimes My Husband is Unwittingly Funny

For example:

Today, one of his female colleagues confided to him that she suffers from endometriosis. Not knowing exactly what this is, he mentioned that an old friend of his, Pat, had the same thing.

Which would have been fine, really, but Pat is a man. And Scott kept using the masculine pronoun.

And he wonders why people think he's odd.