Ok, this is a little random, but I wanted to share with you all what's been going on with me lately. Just one week ago I went to a Doctor of Functional Medicine here in the Cleveland area. I was feeling so fatigued I literally could barely drag myself out of bed in the mornings; on the weekends I didn't even bother, usually sleeping fitfully until two or three in the afternoon and still feeling so tired I just wanted to go straight back to bed as soon as I got up. I had a continuous headache and neckache, and all my joints ached. My ankles felt so stiff when I first got up it was difficult even to walk to the bathroom! No matter what I ate and how I tried to exercise --- which was kind of a joke, b/c I was really just too tired to even try most of the time --- I never lost a pound. Needless to say, that just made me feel depressed and unmotivated to continue with any weightloss program.
So, in desperation, I made an appointment with this doctor, based on the recommendation of people from my morning job. She took a very complete medical history from me, taking note of even the smallest throw away comments --- the initial visit lasted almost three hours (try getting THAT from your average MD!). After talking with me, the doctor recommended a ton of labwork, then advised me to stick with whole, unprocessed proteins, vegetables and fruits, and high quality unprocessed carbs like starchy vegetables. Diet soda, sugar, wheat/gluten were forbidden, and she put me on a prescription level omega 3 capsule, to address inflammation throughout my system.
Well, it hasn't been easy, I assure you, particularly with Valentines Day right the first week! But....
OMG, the changes I see/feel ALREADY! It is truly incredible. My joints don't hurt! After my caffeine withdrawal (I was drinking 4-6 diet sodas per day, plus tea and/or coffee --- now I'm drinking pretty much just water) I haven't had a headache! I feel so alert all the time, and no mid-afternoon slump! And I think I'm even losing some weight; according to my POS scale, I've lost almost 8 lbs already. And since I'm eating real food, I'm not constantly hungry. In fact, I'm eating a little less than I should, as I usually don't need to eat the recommended 2-3 snacks per day.
If anyone is interested, the program she's got me on is similar to the one recommended by Dr. Schwarzbein in her book The Schwarzbein Principle. I will say, you do have to be very motivated to stick with it b/c there are no easy outs with the diet --- you have to be prepared to cook real meals, every meal. But if *I* can do it --- I'm actually learning to cook for myself, can you believe it?! --- anyone can. Just to be able to get up in the morning and not feel like I'm 80 is worth more to me than the comfort of any candybar, junk food, or soda could ever be!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
My Favourite CafePress Stores!
http://www.cafepress.com/worldpeaceworld
Super cool Law of Attraction based designs, which will help you remember to breathe and believe in your highest good throughout your stressful day. The "Trust" baby onesie would make the BEST gift for the Yummy Mummy in your life.
http://www.cafepress.com/LeaZukas
http://www.cafepress.com/LeaZukas
Exceptional designs based on the artwork of Lea Zukas, a collage artist from Dallas TX. Coincidentally, she also runs the above storefront. She's going to take over the world, so be sure to buy one of her shirts or other fine items so you will be recognized by other members of the regime when they start lining everyone up against the wall.
http://www.cafepress.com/dogsdeserve
http://www.cafepress.com/dogsdeserve
Ok, this has a very dear place in my heart, as chained/penned dogs is my pet cause. (No pun intended!) I didn't even know a group existed to address this extremely heartbreaking and important issue until I ran across their storefront. Items purchased support their work to bring attention to the plight of chained and forgotten dogs, and to get the word out to introduce legistlation limiting the number of hours dogs may be chained/penned per 24 hour period.
Lest you think this is just bleeding heart liberalism on behalf of animals, alarming statistics show that attacks on humans by dogs are usually made by chained and penned dogs, who become highly territorial when confined to such limited spaces. In addition, children make up the majority of victims, because they are generally attracted to animals and unable to discern aggressive warning behaviours. So, for the sake of dogs AND people, please check out DDB's storefront and website; you'll be glad you did!
Monday, January 29, 2007
I Had That Dream Again....
....That one where I'm at the most awesome mall EVER, and I'm looking for rollerskates, then I start talking to this super-cool girl with multi coloured ponytails, and they have the skates I want in stock....
It's the best!
It's the best!
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
An Essay, by Che
Entitled, How I Spent My Fourth of July Holiday.
My Dad took me and Yma for a long walk. A VERY long walk.
Two days later my pawpads swelled up to frightening proportions, and I had to go to the vet. He says I have soft feet, and that I have been licking my sore pads too much.
Now I'm a member of the Dish Network.
Dad says our television reception has never been so great, he's going to cancel the cable. Haha.
I'm going to bite him when he's not looking.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
If I Didn't Know I Was Married Before....
I certainly would now.
I just asked my husband to smell spoilt milk, whilst he was sitting on the toilet demanding I come to see the enormous hairball he had just retrieved from the shower drain.
Ah, us and our glamorous life.
I just asked my husband to smell spoilt milk, whilst he was sitting on the toilet demanding I come to see the enormous hairball he had just retrieved from the shower drain.
Ah, us and our glamorous life.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Stella The Dog Psychic Chihuahua
Did I ever mention that I believe Che and Yma are psychic? For one thing, they always seem to know when I still have a biscuit in my pocket. And they can sense when Scott is home from work even before he gets to the door! True!!
I think they have psychically nudged me to find this ebay item, as they would like to have their own careers in fortune telling. At $25 a reading.
Which they can do many, many times per day.
Expert Psychic Reading Stella The Dog Psychic Chihuahua
Visionary Advice From Amazing Top Dog Psychic
Item number: 9514750105
Seller: psychicchihuahua ( 0 )
Member since Jan-22-06 in United States
Current bid: US $25.99
Time left: 6 days 13 hours
7-day listing
Ends May-06-06 12:00:00 PDT
Item location: norwalk, CT United States
Ships to: Worldwide
Summary
It's well known that animals can sense our emotions, thoughts and feelings. There are numerous, proven instances of animals sensing events far in advance of their occurrence. STELLA THE PSYCHIC CHIHUAHUA is one such creature with exactly that ability! ; It was as a Puppy that STELLA first showed the Mysterious Gift of Prophecy and Divination, when STELLA opened and Read the Tarot. When asked questions, STELLA used the Cards to Give A Reading. Amazingly, that first reading soon proved Absolutely Accurate in Every Respect! ; STELLA has shown, Time and Time again, that the Psychic Ability transcends race, creed, culture and species. STELLA delves right to the core of the all of our most Important questions! Relationship issues? Career worries? Money problems? Make use of the astonishing abilities of STELLA, THE PSYCHIC CHIHUAHUA to get the answers You Need! ; Now, for the first time on eBay, you may bid on a very special reading by Stella.; As the winning bidder, you will be entitled to send an e-mail for Stella with five questions about love, money, career, family, your pets, or whatever are your most pressing issues.; Stella will respond with a reading answering your questions via e-mail within 24 hours.; We guarantee that you will find the experience most fulfilling and exciting.; Best of luck in bidding!
I swear, some days this blog just writes itself. Good luck bidding, and please note that the above paragraph --- including the extraneous semi-colons --- is the sole property of Stella The Dog Psychic Chihuahua. If you abuse her rights, SHE WILL KNOW.
I think they have psychically nudged me to find this ebay item, as they would like to have their own careers in fortune telling. At $25 a reading.
Which they can do many, many times per day.
Expert Psychic Reading Stella The Dog Psychic Chihuahua
Visionary Advice From Amazing Top Dog Psychic
Item number: 9514750105
Seller: psychicchihuahua ( 0 )
Member since Jan-22-06 in United States
Current bid: US $25.99
Time left: 6 days 13 hours
7-day listing
Ends May-06-06 12:00:00 PDT
Item location: norwalk, CT United States
Ships to: Worldwide
Summary
It's well known that animals can sense our emotions, thoughts and feelings. There are numerous, proven instances of animals sensing events far in advance of their occurrence. STELLA THE PSYCHIC CHIHUAHUA is one such creature with exactly that ability! ; It was as a Puppy that STELLA first showed the Mysterious Gift of Prophecy and Divination, when STELLA opened and Read the Tarot. When asked questions, STELLA used the Cards to Give A Reading. Amazingly, that first reading soon proved Absolutely Accurate in Every Respect! ; STELLA has shown, Time and Time again, that the Psychic Ability transcends race, creed, culture and species. STELLA delves right to the core of the all of our most Important questions! Relationship issues? Career worries? Money problems? Make use of the astonishing abilities of STELLA, THE PSYCHIC CHIHUAHUA to get the answers You Need! ; Now, for the first time on eBay, you may bid on a very special reading by Stella.; As the winning bidder, you will be entitled to send an e-mail for Stella with five questions about love, money, career, family, your pets, or whatever are your most pressing issues.; Stella will respond with a reading answering your questions via e-mail within 24 hours.; We guarantee that you will find the experience most fulfilling and exciting.; Best of luck in bidding!
I swear, some days this blog just writes itself. Good luck bidding, and please note that the above paragraph --- including the extraneous semi-colons --- is the sole property of Stella The Dog Psychic Chihuahua. If you abuse her rights, SHE WILL KNOW.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Strange Incident of the Bee in the Night
A terrible thing happened the other night, and it happened because I was trying to put something over on my husband.
I was sneaking to bed --- sneaking, because I had stayed up past 0430. Scott knows I get cranky when I stay up that late, so he really gives me crap when I do.
So, I snuck out of the bathroom, shutting off the light as I went. My plan was to get undressed in the spare room, so I wouldn't wake my husband. Only, somehow, I got confused where the door was and walked straight into the WALL.
With my FACE.
To illustrate this, stand up and take one good-sized, purposeful step in any direction. Notice how much speed you've picked up without even trying. Now imagine the unstoppable force that is your face coming to a sudden and unexpected stop by connecting with the immoveable object that is your house.
NOW you're getting the picture.
I staggered backwards, literally seeing stars. And completely confused, of course, as to what had happened --- expecting a door, I find a wall. I managed to get the bathroom light on and grabbed a handtowel to staunch the bleeding; I was conscious enough to select a red one.
Batting a couple of those annoying cartoon birds out of the way, I stumbled to the bedroom to wake Scott, being a complete coward and too scared to assess the damage on my own.
"'Ott. 'OTT!!" I choked through my mouthful of towel and blood. "'Ott, 'ake uh."
"Wha..." my beloved murmured from the land of Nod.
"'Ake uh, I ur eye ow, OW!" ::gurgle::
"What did you do now?!"
QUINN ::more gurgling::
SCOTT ::sympathetic wincing, followed by a leap into action::
When all was said and done, it ended up that the force of the blow caused me to bite THROUGH MY OWN LIP!! Scott gave me an icepack, asked me if I wanted to go to the emergency room (which didn't sound like a great idea; showing up at 0500 with a split lip, who's gonna believe I did it myself??), then put me to bed.
I'm pretty sure the inside cut could have used some stitches, but who the hell wants to get stitches inside their mouth?? Not me!!! I'm mainly feeling it in my pride, and my lip is ENORMOUS, but it looks like it's already starting to heal.
I also spent the rest of the night dreaming that I had knocked all my teeth out. So much for my secret life of deception, huh?
I was sneaking to bed --- sneaking, because I had stayed up past 0430. Scott knows I get cranky when I stay up that late, so he really gives me crap when I do.
So, I snuck out of the bathroom, shutting off the light as I went. My plan was to get undressed in the spare room, so I wouldn't wake my husband. Only, somehow, I got confused where the door was and walked straight into the WALL.
With my FACE.
To illustrate this, stand up and take one good-sized, purposeful step in any direction. Notice how much speed you've picked up without even trying. Now imagine the unstoppable force that is your face coming to a sudden and unexpected stop by connecting with the immoveable object that is your house.
NOW you're getting the picture.
I staggered backwards, literally seeing stars. And completely confused, of course, as to what had happened --- expecting a door, I find a wall. I managed to get the bathroom light on and grabbed a handtowel to staunch the bleeding; I was conscious enough to select a red one.
Batting a couple of those annoying cartoon birds out of the way, I stumbled to the bedroom to wake Scott, being a complete coward and too scared to assess the damage on my own.
"'Ott. 'OTT!!" I choked through my mouthful of towel and blood. "'Ott, 'ake uh."
"Wha..." my beloved murmured from the land of Nod.
"'Ake uh, I ur eye ow, OW!" ::gurgle::
"What did you do now?!"
QUINN ::more gurgling::
SCOTT ::sympathetic wincing, followed by a leap into action::
When all was said and done, it ended up that the force of the blow caused me to bite THROUGH MY OWN LIP!! Scott gave me an icepack, asked me if I wanted to go to the emergency room (which didn't sound like a great idea; showing up at 0500 with a split lip, who's gonna believe I did it myself??), then put me to bed.
I'm pretty sure the inside cut could have used some stitches, but who the hell wants to get stitches inside their mouth?? Not me!!! I'm mainly feeling it in my pride, and my lip is ENORMOUS, but it looks like it's already starting to heal.
I also spent the rest of the night dreaming that I had knocked all my teeth out. So much for my secret life of deception, huh?
Friday, March 24, 2006
The North and The South
Scott and I went to a new restaurant the other night, only to have this random guy come over to our table and start talking to us. Turns out it was a manager, doing a table-side customer satisfaction survey. He was happy to discover we are (temporarily) transplanted northerners, as he himself was from New Jersey.
Unfortunately, he had in the course of his seven years in Georgia picked up the southern habit of standing around smiling at people. Not really saying anything, just nodding and smiling.
Which for northerners is pure torture. Do I keep looking at you? Am I supposed to say something now? Would it be impolite for me to finish my dinner, or just get up and walk away from you? How long are you going to keep standing there??? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST BACK OFF, MAN!!
I started a temp job a few weeks ago, and everyone is very nice, but they're so damned friendly, I don't know what to make of it. Back home, people just aren't that nice; they don't look you in the eye, and they sure as hell don't say hello to every person they see. Back home, if someone is talking to you on the street, they are either schizophrenic or they have one of those headphones on for their mobile.
Back home, I make friends by being sarcastic and funny; I know if I make a joke about W, the crowd will be putty in my hands. Down here, even the college kids have W stickers on their SUV's. Hippies are about as rare as hen's teeth, and the few goths I've seen look like they really are just doing it to piss off their parents.
There's just nowhere for loudmouth liberal bohos like me and Scott to fit in. I know they have to be around somewhere, but I can't see them through the crowds of gently smiling and nodding southerns in my way.
Unfortunately, he had in the course of his seven years in Georgia picked up the southern habit of standing around smiling at people. Not really saying anything, just nodding and smiling.
Which for northerners is pure torture. Do I keep looking at you? Am I supposed to say something now? Would it be impolite for me to finish my dinner, or just get up and walk away from you? How long are you going to keep standing there??? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST BACK OFF, MAN!!
I started a temp job a few weeks ago, and everyone is very nice, but they're so damned friendly, I don't know what to make of it. Back home, people just aren't that nice; they don't look you in the eye, and they sure as hell don't say hello to every person they see. Back home, if someone is talking to you on the street, they are either schizophrenic or they have one of those headphones on for their mobile.
Back home, I make friends by being sarcastic and funny; I know if I make a joke about W, the crowd will be putty in my hands. Down here, even the college kids have W stickers on their SUV's. Hippies are about as rare as hen's teeth, and the few goths I've seen look like they really are just doing it to piss off their parents.
There's just nowhere for loudmouth liberal bohos like me and Scott to fit in. I know they have to be around somewhere, but I can't see them through the crowds of gently smiling and nodding southerns in my way.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Friday, January 27, 2006
Free Yoga DVD Visit The Yoga Online yoga website for lots of great yoga information including a free Video / DVD download
These guys are very sincere, check it out for yourself. I'm sure you won't be disappointed.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Happy Birthday to Me
An elderly married couple is taking the very first plane trip of their lives. Unfortunately, the entire flight is troubled with severe turbulence; up, down, back, forth...the couple are terrified and ill the whole time. Finally, they land safely. The wife turns to the husband and says, "That's the last time I fly United."
My husband gave me the best present for my 40th birthday; he bought me a ticket to Ohio, to spend a long weekend with my girlfriends.
I haven't seen them since our move South in August, so this was a treat beyond imagining. We ate a LOT, and we spent long hours talking and drinking wine. When we got bored with that, we went shopping. Heaven!
However... (There's always a "however", isn't there?)
I am a poor traveler. Beyond poor, actually. I get extremely anxious. When I'm anxious, I get snippy. No, I get MEAN. This is why I carry sedatives with me at all times. And this trip was, bar none, the worst travel experience of my life.
On the way to the airport in Columbia, SC (approximately an hour plus drive from our place in Augusta) we realized that the transmission on the effing car was going. AGAIN. The entire drive was an agony of "will we make it, won't we make it", and in fact we got to the airport with only a half hour for me to check in and board.
This might be plenty of time for the average traveler, but I need at least two hours, just so I can be sure I have time to pee every time I pass a restroom (just another weird travel quirk I have), get something to eat, peruse the magazines, etc.
I was so late, I couldn't even check my bags. Since I had elected to carry my incredibly cute vintage luggage, this was a problem. They are small and absolutely adorable, but seriously must weigh about 30 pounds apiece. And now I had to haul them from the parking lot, through the terminal, to the gate, to the plane side baggage check.
Where I discovered that the plane I would be taking was one of those tiny little pseudo planes.
"Send it back," I howled, "I want its mother!"
To no avail. But I did get marked as a trouble maker, which is always comforting in this age of undercover air marshalls with concealed weapons.
Well, anyway, I made it ok. The real trouble didn't start until the flight home.
I got to the airport in plenty of time, checked my cute but heavy luggage, had my pick of the magazines, and settled in for a restful wait at the gate. The first leg of the trip, from Columbus to Cincinnati wasn't too bad. There was a some turbulence, and the guy beside me wouldn't share the armrest, but that part of the flight was only an hour, so ok, not intolerable.
Cincinnati to Columbia, though....ugh. Started out ok, my seat mate was a college aged guy, one of a group of three; his buddies were seated behind us. He made a joke during the safety demonstration, I laughed; I couldn't find the switch for my personal light when the cabin lights went off, he assisted me. We had established a rapport, which was exactly what I wanted; now that we were friends, the armrest was mine!
Then we took off. And the plane immediately started bucking like a wild bronco. Reading was out of the question. Then the plane...dropped... I actually moaned in fear, prompting the woman across the aisle to pat my arm, and the business man diagonally from me to loudly explain "to his companions" that turbulence was just like a boat crossing waves, REALLY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT HAHA EVERYTHING IS JUST FINE.
It's a boat on the waves, it's a boat on the waves, I repeated to myself, as the plane continued its mad gyrations.
Then, the motion sickness set in.
I happen to get motion sickness from everything. (See posts regarding recent Disney vacation.) I get motion sickness from watching movies in an Imax theatre. I get motion sickness if I have to look back and forth between two software programs. I get motion sickness turning the car around in a parking lot.
Because I get motion sickness to such a, well, sickening degree, I always carry candied ginger with me. And ginger Altoids. And I drink a lot of ginger ale, which is great for washing down saltines. So it's not like I'm not prepared. But on this trip, my candied ginger and my ginger Altoids were in my bag. Under the seat in front of me. Which I couldn't reach without leaning over. Which I couldn't do without throwing up.
Curses. Many, many curses.
Ah, well, I muttered to myself, I will get some ginger ale and crackers from the flight attendant when they bring the cart around.
Bong! The Captain lit the seat belt sign. Well, you know, re-lit the sign, just to call our attention to the fact that he had something to say. And what he had to say was, basically, turbulence is bad, moving around the cabin is unsafe, so no food service for you.
No food service! That means no ginger ale! That means no saltine crackers! I checked my watch. 45 more minutes to Columbia. Argh.
So, for the next 45 minutes I fought my constant urge to be violently ill, I checked my watch compulsively, I cursed the entire air travel industry, and I literally cried with fear as the plane continued to buck and roll and threaten to fall from the sky. I couldn't help it, the tears just leaked out from beneath my lashes. I was crying very stoically, but crying nonetheless.
The guy beside me, the nice young college guy?
SNORING. SOUND ASLEEP. COULD NOT HAVE CARED LESS.
How I envied him. I tried to sleep, but had to keep opening my eyes to fix on the "X" of the Exit sign, in order to keep from throwing up.
The final horror, however, occurred after the flight was --- FINALLY --- over. As soon as we taxied to the gate, I collected my stuff and stood in the aisle, desperately waiting to deplane. Then I smelled the most foul, evil odour; one of the college boys had farted. But not just farted; it was the mother of all farts. I was certain I would not make if off the plane before being well and truly sick over every single person in my vicinity.
But I did, of course. The one good thing about those puddle jumpers is you get to deplane onto the tarmac, which means you get to be out in the fresh cold air immediately; you just have to make it to the cabin door and you're home free. So I took a minute to stand in the rain and just breathe.
And to decide then and there that the next time I got on a plane would be for my fiftieth birthday. And not a minute sooner.
My husband gave me the best present for my 40th birthday; he bought me a ticket to Ohio, to spend a long weekend with my girlfriends.
I haven't seen them since our move South in August, so this was a treat beyond imagining. We ate a LOT, and we spent long hours talking and drinking wine. When we got bored with that, we went shopping. Heaven!
However... (There's always a "however", isn't there?)
I am a poor traveler. Beyond poor, actually. I get extremely anxious. When I'm anxious, I get snippy. No, I get MEAN. This is why I carry sedatives with me at all times. And this trip was, bar none, the worst travel experience of my life.
On the way to the airport in Columbia, SC (approximately an hour plus drive from our place in Augusta) we realized that the transmission on the effing car was going. AGAIN. The entire drive was an agony of "will we make it, won't we make it", and in fact we got to the airport with only a half hour for me to check in and board.
This might be plenty of time for the average traveler, but I need at least two hours, just so I can be sure I have time to pee every time I pass a restroom (just another weird travel quirk I have), get something to eat, peruse the magazines, etc.
I was so late, I couldn't even check my bags. Since I had elected to carry my incredibly cute vintage luggage, this was a problem. They are small and absolutely adorable, but seriously must weigh about 30 pounds apiece. And now I had to haul them from the parking lot, through the terminal, to the gate, to the plane side baggage check.
Where I discovered that the plane I would be taking was one of those tiny little pseudo planes.
"Send it back," I howled, "I want its mother!"
To no avail. But I did get marked as a trouble maker, which is always comforting in this age of undercover air marshalls with concealed weapons.
Well, anyway, I made it ok. The real trouble didn't start until the flight home.
I got to the airport in plenty of time, checked my cute but heavy luggage, had my pick of the magazines, and settled in for a restful wait at the gate. The first leg of the trip, from Columbus to Cincinnati wasn't too bad. There was a some turbulence, and the guy beside me wouldn't share the armrest, but that part of the flight was only an hour, so ok, not intolerable.
Cincinnati to Columbia, though....ugh. Started out ok, my seat mate was a college aged guy, one of a group of three; his buddies were seated behind us. He made a joke during the safety demonstration, I laughed; I couldn't find the switch for my personal light when the cabin lights went off, he assisted me. We had established a rapport, which was exactly what I wanted; now that we were friends, the armrest was mine!
Then we took off. And the plane immediately started bucking like a wild bronco. Reading was out of the question. Then the plane...dropped... I actually moaned in fear, prompting the woman across the aisle to pat my arm, and the business man diagonally from me to loudly explain "to his companions" that turbulence was just like a boat crossing waves, REALLY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT HAHA EVERYTHING IS JUST FINE.
It's a boat on the waves, it's a boat on the waves, I repeated to myself, as the plane continued its mad gyrations.
Then, the motion sickness set in.
I happen to get motion sickness from everything. (See posts regarding recent Disney vacation.) I get motion sickness from watching movies in an Imax theatre. I get motion sickness if I have to look back and forth between two software programs. I get motion sickness turning the car around in a parking lot.
Because I get motion sickness to such a, well, sickening degree, I always carry candied ginger with me. And ginger Altoids. And I drink a lot of ginger ale, which is great for washing down saltines. So it's not like I'm not prepared. But on this trip, my candied ginger and my ginger Altoids were in my bag. Under the seat in front of me. Which I couldn't reach without leaning over. Which I couldn't do without throwing up.
Curses. Many, many curses.
Ah, well, I muttered to myself, I will get some ginger ale and crackers from the flight attendant when they bring the cart around.
Bong! The Captain lit the seat belt sign. Well, you know, re-lit the sign, just to call our attention to the fact that he had something to say. And what he had to say was, basically, turbulence is bad, moving around the cabin is unsafe, so no food service for you.
No food service! That means no ginger ale! That means no saltine crackers! I checked my watch. 45 more minutes to Columbia. Argh.
So, for the next 45 minutes I fought my constant urge to be violently ill, I checked my watch compulsively, I cursed the entire air travel industry, and I literally cried with fear as the plane continued to buck and roll and threaten to fall from the sky. I couldn't help it, the tears just leaked out from beneath my lashes. I was crying very stoically, but crying nonetheless.
The guy beside me, the nice young college guy?
SNORING. SOUND ASLEEP. COULD NOT HAVE CARED LESS.
How I envied him. I tried to sleep, but had to keep opening my eyes to fix on the "X" of the Exit sign, in order to keep from throwing up.
The final horror, however, occurred after the flight was --- FINALLY --- over. As soon as we taxied to the gate, I collected my stuff and stood in the aisle, desperately waiting to deplane. Then I smelled the most foul, evil odour; one of the college boys had farted. But not just farted; it was the mother of all farts. I was certain I would not make if off the plane before being well and truly sick over every single person in my vicinity.
But I did, of course. The one good thing about those puddle jumpers is you get to deplane onto the tarmac, which means you get to be out in the fresh cold air immediately; you just have to make it to the cabin door and you're home free. So I took a minute to stand in the rain and just breathe.
And to decide then and there that the next time I got on a plane would be for my fiftieth birthday. And not a minute sooner.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Pack of angry Chihuahuas attack officer in Fremont
Friday, December 30, 2005
(12-30) 08:56 PST Fremont, Calif. (AP) --
A pack of angry Chihuahuas attacked a police officer who was escorting a teenager home following a traffic stop, authorities said.
The officer suffered minor injuries including bites to his ankle on Thursday when the five Chihuahuas escaped the 17-year-old boy's home and rushed the officer in the doorway, said Fremont detective Bill Veteran.
The teenager had been detained after the traffic incident, Veteran said.
The officer was treated at a local hospital and returned to work less than two hours later, Veteran said.
It was the third time this month a Fremont officer was bitten by a dog while on duty. Neither of the other officers were seriously injured.
URL: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/news/archive/2005/12/30/state/n085627S38.DTL
Honestly, you really don't want to fuck with those little guys. They are FIERCE, god bless their tiny hearts.
(12-30) 08:56 PST Fremont, Calif. (AP) --
A pack of angry Chihuahuas attacked a police officer who was escorting a teenager home following a traffic stop, authorities said.
The officer suffered minor injuries including bites to his ankle on Thursday when the five Chihuahuas escaped the 17-year-old boy's home and rushed the officer in the doorway, said Fremont detective Bill Veteran.
The teenager had been detained after the traffic incident, Veteran said.
The officer was treated at a local hospital and returned to work less than two hours later, Veteran said.
It was the third time this month a Fremont officer was bitten by a dog while on duty. Neither of the other officers were seriously injured.
URL: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/news/archive/2005/12/30/state/n085627S38.DTL
Honestly, you really don't want to fuck with those little guys. They are FIERCE, god bless their tiny hearts.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Et tu, Scott? or Why Women Shouldn't Run the Gift Exchange
Scott and I were driving to the far side of town, in a frenzy of last minute Christmas shopping. HIS last minute shopping, mind you, because I finished mine before we moved in August. (I'm annoying like that.)
We were shopping for his office gift exchange, which operates like a White Elephant or Yankee Swap. On the way, we discussed various items that might be nice and still within the budget of ten dollars. Time and again I attempted to steer him towards gender neutral gifts, such as BBQ tools and hot sauce, or at least a DVD that might appeal to a man.
Finally, Scott asked me why I was so insistent on this point, to which I replied that guys always get short-shrifted with the whole gift exchange thing, because women always buy for other women, and the guys get stuck with potpourri and body lotion or Christmas decorations.
I personally witnessed a man at my former place of employment end up with an item we "affectionately" called Strip-Search-Santa, and I will note that he never even took it home; it just drifted around the office all year long, assaulting the eyes of everyone unfortunate to run across it. Mind you, a woman would have thought it was cute; a man, not so much.
The following year another man was blessed with a pink Disney Princess Tree, a gift all the women thought was absolutely hilarious, but again, men don't share the same sense of humor. At least he had a small daughter he was able to take the tree home to.
Scott nodded knowingly as I relayed these horror stories. "Yeah, I'll never forget the year I got CANDLES in my gift exchange, I..." He stopped in horror, with the sudden realization that he had already revealed far, far too much.
"Hey....HEY! Are you telling me that those candles you gave me that year...the candles I thought were so beautiful and thoughtful...were a RE-GIFT???" I shouted in disillusionment.
He hung his head and shame, then took me shopping for new lingerie to make up for his faux pas. The truth is, I still really liked the candles. I just wanted new lingerie. Shhhhh....
; )
We were shopping for his office gift exchange, which operates like a White Elephant or Yankee Swap. On the way, we discussed various items that might be nice and still within the budget of ten dollars. Time and again I attempted to steer him towards gender neutral gifts, such as BBQ tools and hot sauce, or at least a DVD that might appeal to a man.
Finally, Scott asked me why I was so insistent on this point, to which I replied that guys always get short-shrifted with the whole gift exchange thing, because women always buy for other women, and the guys get stuck with potpourri and body lotion or Christmas decorations.
I personally witnessed a man at my former place of employment end up with an item we "affectionately" called Strip-Search-Santa, and I will note that he never even took it home; it just drifted around the office all year long, assaulting the eyes of everyone unfortunate to run across it. Mind you, a woman would have thought it was cute; a man, not so much.
The following year another man was blessed with a pink Disney Princess Tree, a gift all the women thought was absolutely hilarious, but again, men don't share the same sense of humor. At least he had a small daughter he was able to take the tree home to.
Scott nodded knowingly as I relayed these horror stories. "Yeah, I'll never forget the year I got CANDLES in my gift exchange, I..." He stopped in horror, with the sudden realization that he had already revealed far, far too much.
"Hey....HEY! Are you telling me that those candles you gave me that year...the candles I thought were so beautiful and thoughtful...were a RE-GIFT???" I shouted in disillusionment.
He hung his head and shame, then took me shopping for new lingerie to make up for his faux pas. The truth is, I still really liked the candles. I just wanted new lingerie. Shhhhh....
; )
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Saturday, November 19, 2005
My Enneagram Results....Hmmmm....
Main Type | Overall Self |
 |  |
| Enneagram Test Results
Your variant is social |
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
It's a Small World, But There's a Lot of Love
Once upon a time, there was a fetching young lady who was named, coincidentally, QuinnBee.
QuinnBee was, in the words of the brilliant Laurie Notaro, a Stoopid Girl, who had traveled many miles for a visit with her so-called boyfriend, who had moved to the Bahamas and had invited her to Florida for a long weekend.
QuinnBee thought her so-called boyfriend really sucked in the first place for moving to an island without even consulting her, but there were stars in her eyes that prevented her from seeing that he was, in fact, a first-class asshole. So, off she went.
One of the bright ideas that the so-called boyfriend had was to travel many, many miles in a convertible to see the Magic Kingdom. The stars in her eyes prevented QuinnBee from seeing that all the fancy lace undergarments she had brought for a so-called romantic weekend would be one-hundred-percent uncomfortable for walking around an amusement park for an entire day, but that's what stars are wont to do. So, off she went.
Her so-called boyfriend was very mean and jerky all day long, and QuinnBee was beginning to get the idea that something was very, very wrong. But the stars in her eyes prevented her from seeng that, when he suggested going on the It's a Small World ride, it might be solely to get her in a place where she would be completely incapable of making a scene. So, off she went.
And, of course, her so-called boyfriend broke up with QuinnBee on It's a Small World, and she had to cry very quietly to herself so as not to scare all the little children, and she kept crying through the rest of the very long day, and her nether regions were numb from the inappropriate panties that didn't do a damn bit of good keeping her so-called boyfriend from breaking up with her, and she cried the whole long drive back to West Palm Beach in the middle of the night, because she was a very Stoopid Girl.
But at least she didn't have those pesky stars in her eyes anymore.
"Aww," said my husband, "that is the saddest story I have ever heard."
"You're not kidding. Those panties were a bitch," said the formerly Stoopid Girl. "So, you wanna go on It's a Small World? You can laugh at me with the full picture, that way."
"Sure! Hang on, though, I need to go in here for a minute. I'll be right back."
Off Scott loped, while I sat and people-watched on Main Street. I saw lots of parents and kids, and more than a few Stoopid Girls who might, someday in the future, look back and think, Why did I ruin Disney by going with that moron? Worse, seeing little mouse-ear veils and top hats bobbing through the crowd, Why did I ruin Disney by marrying that jerk then having my honeymoon there?? Why, why, why?! But you never know, when you've got stars in your eyes, do you?
Now, I LOVE my husband, and from the first time I saw him I had a HUGE crush on him. But the truth is, I didn't marry him because I felt butterflies in my stomach. I married him because he is good and cheerful (most of the time) and responsible. He gets me, I get him, and while it may not be a romance novel every day of the week it is OUR love story and it seems to work just fine. I always feel a little defensive, as if --- in this day of PASSION! and ROMANCE! --- mere love and respect is not enough, but I believe that we married for all the right reasons and we'll be together long after more torrid affairs have burned themselves out.
"Ok, I'm back. It's a Small World, here we come!"
So of course the lines were long; the ride's a classic after all. Scott kept begging me to entertain him by telling the sad story of QuinnBee again.
"When did he break up with you?" he asked, "At the beginning of the ride? Or in the middle?"
"Um, pretty near the beginning, because I remember crying and crying and thinking I was going to throw up if I had to keep listening to that fucking song."
"That's rough," he commiserated, but really he seemed like he was laughing more than anything.
"You are very sadistic, did you know that?"
But why shouldn't he laugh? It was a long time ago, and I wouldn't tell it if it wasn't a funny story. I mean, c'mon, how pathetic do you have to be for your so-called boyfriend to break up with you on IT'S A SMALL WORLD??? I smiled up at Scott and thought, Just wait, I'm gonna punch you right in the hip.
Then it was our turn to enter the little boat and visit a world of happy, singing marionettes. We oooed. We ahhhed. Scott turned to me and pressed a small box into my hand.
"QuinnBee, will you marry me, again?"
I opened the box to find a small sterling ring, with a "B" and a tiny Mickey logo made of glittery little stones.
"I just thought that, since some other guy ruined this for you, I'd try to make it better again."
Ohhh, yeeeaaah, THIS is why I married him: he is the sweetest, nicest person in the whole world.
He went on, excitedly describing his plan to surprise me and how he managed to pull it off. But I kind of lost track of what he was saying, looking at the little ring nestled on my finger.
Actually, I couldn't even see that well, from all the damn stars in my eyes....
QuinnBee was, in the words of the brilliant Laurie Notaro, a Stoopid Girl, who had traveled many miles for a visit with her so-called boyfriend, who had moved to the Bahamas and had invited her to Florida for a long weekend.
QuinnBee thought her so-called boyfriend really sucked in the first place for moving to an island without even consulting her, but there were stars in her eyes that prevented her from seeing that he was, in fact, a first-class asshole. So, off she went.
One of the bright ideas that the so-called boyfriend had was to travel many, many miles in a convertible to see the Magic Kingdom. The stars in her eyes prevented QuinnBee from seeing that all the fancy lace undergarments she had brought for a so-called romantic weekend would be one-hundred-percent uncomfortable for walking around an amusement park for an entire day, but that's what stars are wont to do. So, off she went.
Her so-called boyfriend was very mean and jerky all day long, and QuinnBee was beginning to get the idea that something was very, very wrong. But the stars in her eyes prevented her from seeng that, when he suggested going on the It's a Small World ride, it might be solely to get her in a place where she would be completely incapable of making a scene. So, off she went.
And, of course, her so-called boyfriend broke up with QuinnBee on It's a Small World, and she had to cry very quietly to herself so as not to scare all the little children, and she kept crying through the rest of the very long day, and her nether regions were numb from the inappropriate panties that didn't do a damn bit of good keeping her so-called boyfriend from breaking up with her, and she cried the whole long drive back to West Palm Beach in the middle of the night, because she was a very Stoopid Girl.
But at least she didn't have those pesky stars in her eyes anymore.
"Aww," said my husband, "that is the saddest story I have ever heard."
"You're not kidding. Those panties were a bitch," said the formerly Stoopid Girl. "So, you wanna go on It's a Small World? You can laugh at me with the full picture, that way."
"Sure! Hang on, though, I need to go in here for a minute. I'll be right back."
Off Scott loped, while I sat and people-watched on Main Street. I saw lots of parents and kids, and more than a few Stoopid Girls who might, someday in the future, look back and think, Why did I ruin Disney by going with that moron? Worse, seeing little mouse-ear veils and top hats bobbing through the crowd, Why did I ruin Disney by marrying that jerk then having my honeymoon there?? Why, why, why?! But you never know, when you've got stars in your eyes, do you?
Now, I LOVE my husband, and from the first time I saw him I had a HUGE crush on him. But the truth is, I didn't marry him because I felt butterflies in my stomach. I married him because he is good and cheerful (most of the time) and responsible. He gets me, I get him, and while it may not be a romance novel every day of the week it is OUR love story and it seems to work just fine. I always feel a little defensive, as if --- in this day of PASSION! and ROMANCE! --- mere love and respect is not enough, but I believe that we married for all the right reasons and we'll be together long after more torrid affairs have burned themselves out.
"Ok, I'm back. It's a Small World, here we come!"
So of course the lines were long; the ride's a classic after all. Scott kept begging me to entertain him by telling the sad story of QuinnBee again.
"When did he break up with you?" he asked, "At the beginning of the ride? Or in the middle?"
"Um, pretty near the beginning, because I remember crying and crying and thinking I was going to throw up if I had to keep listening to that fucking song."
"That's rough," he commiserated, but really he seemed like he was laughing more than anything.
"You are very sadistic, did you know that?"
But why shouldn't he laugh? It was a long time ago, and I wouldn't tell it if it wasn't a funny story. I mean, c'mon, how pathetic do you have to be for your so-called boyfriend to break up with you on IT'S A SMALL WORLD??? I smiled up at Scott and thought, Just wait, I'm gonna punch you right in the hip.
Then it was our turn to enter the little boat and visit a world of happy, singing marionettes. We oooed. We ahhhed. Scott turned to me and pressed a small box into my hand.
"QuinnBee, will you marry me, again?"
I opened the box to find a small sterling ring, with a "B" and a tiny Mickey logo made of glittery little stones.
"I just thought that, since some other guy ruined this for you, I'd try to make it better again."
Ohhh, yeeeaaah, THIS is why I married him: he is the sweetest, nicest person in the whole world.
He went on, excitedly describing his plan to surprise me and how he managed to pull it off. But I kind of lost track of what he was saying, looking at the little ring nestled on my finger.
Actually, I couldn't even see that well, from all the damn stars in my eyes....
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Disney Death March, Part Two
The first raindrop hit me square in the head.
"Shit, that's rain."
"You shouldn't say 'shit' at the Happiest Place on Earth," my husband chastised me.
"Bugger, that's rain." Cleaner language it may have been, but it did not change the fact that we were in for a bitch of a storm.
"This is GREAT!" Scott crowed. "Now all the tourists will go home! We'll get on any ride we want! You can't ask for anything better than this!!" His pace quickened, pulling me forward to the more popular rides, the ones with the longest lines.
I mumbled more curse words as I wrapped myself in my cheap rain poncho, the one I had brought with me in case of just this situation. Having traveled with Scott for nigh on seven years, I have learned that you'd best bring any number of things, as you simply never know what might happen and --- believe me --- the day will NOT be cut short for anything as trivial as hunger, rain, or injury.
As was reiterated to me in short order when, hurrying to the Haunted Mansion, my flip flop hit a particularly slippy* type of paving, and down I went.
"Uhn!" (Me, hitting the pavement.)
"What the....are you ok? I TOLD YOU NOT TO WEAR THOSE FLIP FLOPS!! C'mon, let's go!" (Scott, dragging me along by my arm for a short distance.)
"Grumble, grumble." (Me, making a few comments on my husband's questionable parentage, sotto voce.)
On he went. I was now totally soaked excepting for the small section covered by my discount poncho, which was the approximate thickness and durability of cling film. Satisfying myself with small, expressive sighs of discontent, I followed.
The rain continued, the ride lines got shorter and shorter, and our fellow travelers looked more and more miserable, huddled together under any overhang available. The bathrooms began to resemble emergency shelters: crying children clutched to their parents' bosoms, clothing and backpacks strewn wherever unused space could be found.
Scott, by contrast, could not have been happier. This was just what he had been hoping for, and he hadn't even had to purchase an overpriced Mickey poncho! We zipped onto Pirates of the Caribbean and sallied straight through to the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad with no wait whatsoever.
The second time I fell, I thought to myself, Stay down. Just stay down, and it'll all be over. They'll come get you in a little golf cart, and they'll drive you to somewhere private and warm. They'll give you a band-aid for your toe, and maybe a Stitch doll so you won't sue. Just...stay...down....
But like the punch drunk fighter who won't throw the match, even if it means the Mob will be on him for whatever is left of his honourable life, I trembled to my feet. "Please. Don't hurt me anymore."
"Oh, sweetie, it's okay!" my dear, beloved husband cooed. "But hurry up now, we still have to see It's a Small World and The Country Bear Jamboree and Buzz Lightyear and..."
After that, it was all a rain-soaked blur. I should have stayed down....
* This is Pittsburghese for "slippery".
"Shit, that's rain."
"You shouldn't say 'shit' at the Happiest Place on Earth," my husband chastised me.
"Bugger, that's rain." Cleaner language it may have been, but it did not change the fact that we were in for a bitch of a storm.
"This is GREAT!" Scott crowed. "Now all the tourists will go home! We'll get on any ride we want! You can't ask for anything better than this!!" His pace quickened, pulling me forward to the more popular rides, the ones with the longest lines.
I mumbled more curse words as I wrapped myself in my cheap rain poncho, the one I had brought with me in case of just this situation. Having traveled with Scott for nigh on seven years, I have learned that you'd best bring any number of things, as you simply never know what might happen and --- believe me --- the day will NOT be cut short for anything as trivial as hunger, rain, or injury.
As was reiterated to me in short order when, hurrying to the Haunted Mansion, my flip flop hit a particularly slippy* type of paving, and down I went.
"Uhn!" (Me, hitting the pavement.)
"What the....are you ok? I TOLD YOU NOT TO WEAR THOSE FLIP FLOPS!! C'mon, let's go!" (Scott, dragging me along by my arm for a short distance.)
"Grumble, grumble." (Me, making a few comments on my husband's questionable parentage, sotto voce.)
On he went. I was now totally soaked excepting for the small section covered by my discount poncho, which was the approximate thickness and durability of cling film. Satisfying myself with small, expressive sighs of discontent, I followed.
The rain continued, the ride lines got shorter and shorter, and our fellow travelers looked more and more miserable, huddled together under any overhang available. The bathrooms began to resemble emergency shelters: crying children clutched to their parents' bosoms, clothing and backpacks strewn wherever unused space could be found.
Scott, by contrast, could not have been happier. This was just what he had been hoping for, and he hadn't even had to purchase an overpriced Mickey poncho! We zipped onto Pirates of the Caribbean and sallied straight through to the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad with no wait whatsoever.
The second time I fell, I thought to myself, Stay down. Just stay down, and it'll all be over. They'll come get you in a little golf cart, and they'll drive you to somewhere private and warm. They'll give you a band-aid for your toe, and maybe a Stitch doll so you won't sue. Just...stay...down....
But like the punch drunk fighter who won't throw the match, even if it means the Mob will be on him for whatever is left of his honourable life, I trembled to my feet. "Please. Don't hurt me anymore."
"Oh, sweetie, it's okay!" my dear, beloved husband cooed. "But hurry up now, we still have to see It's a Small World and The Country Bear Jamboree and Buzz Lightyear and..."
After that, it was all a rain-soaked blur. I should have stayed down....
* This is Pittsburghese for "slippery".
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
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.....
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.....
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