The Happiest Place on Earth

I'm going to continue giving you little stories on Thursdays until you tell me to stop. I'm trying to think of a clever little name for my story Thursdays, but I'm drawing a blank. If anyone thinks of anything, they would have my sincere appreciation! Here's another one my mom isn't aware of! I think 30 odd years later she can handle it, though. I think the statue of limitations is up. She can't ground me anymore, anyway...

I first visited Disney World in the spring of 1978, just a few years after it opened, with my marching band. This trip marked both my first flight in an airplane and my first stay in a hotel. We were camping folk, there had never been a need. I dutifully made my bed every morning, to the great amusement of my more worldly roommates.

I'm quite certain that it goes without saying that I was extremely excited. It probably also goes without saying that 'extremely excited' is understating it a bit.

Young? Check. Cute? Check. Uncharacteristically free from parental supervision? Check. This was a recipe for bliss. Just add The Mouse and enjoy liberally.

All the candy bars, magazines and light bulbs (yes, light bulbs) I'd sold to finance this trip were finally paying off. I was in Florida. In April. With my best friends. In the almost brand spankin' new self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.

There was no downside.

We explored Frontierland, Adventureland, Fantasyland and Tomorrowland thoroughly, as a pack of squeaky squealy teenaged girls. We expected wonder at every turn and we were usually not disappointed. We laughed until our sides ached, developing and nurturing inside jokes that continued to insure a giggle months after we'd returned home.

We marched in the afternoon parade and, as a part of this endeavor, were treated to a peak at backstage Disney. *shudder* We never spoke much of that. We saw characters without their heads on. They were, for the most part, excessively pimpled teenagers. It was like watching Jim Henson speak for Kermit. You know he's there, but you don't want to think about it. Very disillusioning. I shall speak of it no more.

Later that year, over the summer months, our family took another trip to Disney World with family friends. Now, having been there myself only months before, I considered myself sort of an expert on all things Disney. I didn't mind sharing my expertise. I'm a giver like that. I spent a lot of time assuring my travel companions that they needn't worry, I'd show them around. I had, if I haven't made it quite clear, a sort of inflated sense of self-importance about the whole affair.

The night before we were to head to Disney we were staying at a beach not far away. I snuck out of the camper once everyone was asleep to go to a bar. I was nearly sixteen and the drinking age in Florida at the time was eighteen. It was no problem at all to pass. It was a great bar on a pier right over the ocean. I don't remember the name of it, but I do remember that their claim to fame was their Bahama Mama. Drink three of 'em and you could write whatever you wanted on the wall. They made a damn fine Bahama Mama, I must say. At least by the standards set forth by my almost sixteen year old palate. I think I wrote something to that effect on the wall when I earned my turn with the Sharpie.


I returned to camp and no-one was the wiser.

That's not entirely true.

Dave knew.

Dave was the eldest of our friends' kids - which still put him at two years younger than me. Dave was not adverse to a little blackmail among friends.

Now anyone who's downed a couple few delicious fruity rum drinks in the course of an evening knows that the evening spent drinking them is WAY more fun than the morning spent recovering from them.

The families' plan was to be on the road early early so that we'd be at Disney when the gates opened. Not a huge problem for anyone but the drivers, since we were traveling in campers. Since the drivers had NOT snuck out to drink rum with boys the night before, it was not a problem at all.

MY problems began, as you can imagine, when I woke up. Looking good, feeling good. Dave whispered in my ear at the next rest stop, "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"And in return?"

"You wound me! I don't want anything in return! I just want you to spend the day with me at Disney. Show me the sights..."

"That's it?"

"Ride the rides with me..."

"I don't feel much like..."

"I sure would be sad if you didn't ride the rides with me. I can only hope I wouldn't let any information slip in my saddened state."

He had me by the short ones, kids. What choice did I have but to say yes?

We got to the park and developed a buddy system of sorts. My sister and Dave's sister would be buddies. Me, Dave, and his younger sister, Cass, would be buddies. Safety rules were discussed, tickets were distributed, meet up times were scheduled.

Being the senior member of my little group, as well as a self-proclaimed Disney expert, I assumed I'd be leading our little expedition. "I thought we'd start with..."

"Teacups" interrupted Dave.

"TEAcups?" I said, my eyes narrowing behind my dark shades and attempting to burn holes straight through him.

Cass started chanting, "Tea Cups! Tea Cups!" Dave joined in. Now this was just flat out playing dirty and he knew it. Cass was seven years my junior and I adored her. I could deny her nothing. Dave was not unaware of this fact. Teacups it would be.

Guess who took control of the wheel that controls the spinning in the teacups?


That was just the beginning of the price of Dave's silence.

He did what he could to torture the poor, stupid, know-it-all, hungover teen he held firmly under his thumb. But as a clear testament to the well-earned "Happiest Place on Earth" moniker, it was still a pretty darn good day.

Suck it, Dave.

Teacups indeed.

Clothes Make the Man. And the Woman.

When I first started waiting tables at the pizza shop, I was very nervous - always looked harried even when I wasn't (or shouldn't have been) - you get the picture. I was an old dog trying to learn a new trick. Then came Halloween and we decided to dress up. I bet you could guess what I dressed up as. I've given you enough hints.

It ain't easy, living like a gypsy...
Gypsies tramps and thieves...
I'm the gypsy - the acid queen...

I wish I resembled the first.
I only represent 66 odd% of the second (I've never stolen anything...)
The third was just thrown in for the power of three. (Honest.)


But I've digressed.

I donned my gypsy garb and was suddenly confident, competent and charming.

Even my boss noticed the difference.

It's true that when we get dressed up, we fall into the character that we're portraying. Well, it's true that I do, anyway. I read an article once that said your favorite Halloween costume - as a child or an adult - said a lot about who you were, or who you wanted to be.

Gypsy, or a pirate variation thereon, have always been my go to costumes of choice. I can usually pull either of those together on any given day out of things that get regular wear in my closet. I have bad hair - I like headscarves. I have big hips - I like long loose skirts. I have a good deal of estrogen - I like bling. What can I say?

I hadn't meant to spend so much time talking about Halloween in July.

Sorry.

Ahem.

I wanted to talk more about everyday dress-up.

Take yesterday, for example.

I was feeling Down. Frumpy. Old. Useless.

I'll stop.

No-one wants to visit that tangent...

So I looked at my wardrobe options.

I could dress to reinforce - and indulge - those feelings, or I could dress to fight them.

I opted for the latter.

I pulled out a pretty new maxi dress I'd been 'saving'. I would've saved it all summer and that would've been a darn shame. 'Cause it's a pretty dress. And you know what looks good with a pretty dress? A pretty summer maxi sundress? Well a big sunhat, duh. I told you I have bad hair. Sometimes I wonder if you're even listening. Sigh. I put on the hat and looked in the mirror. Almost... THERE we go! Big sunglasses FTW.

It looked good.

I had nowhere to go.

Then I realized I didn't HAVE to go anywhere.

I went to my deck - the only part of my house that I love - in my dress and my hat and my shades and I read.

I felt positively elegant. (I wasn't)

When I went to have cocktails (read: beers on the patio) later with friends (sans hat and sunglasses, as it was approaching dusk) I started lamenting on my dental and financial woes. My brilliant sister said, "We should get you on extreme makeovers! Then you'll get all the dental work free! And a bunch of other stuff, too!" On a day when I was feeling less elegant, I might have taken offense at how quickly they started rattling off the list of things that a show like that could do for me... but it was my day to be elegant, so it was water off a duck. A fancy duck. Then one said, and all agreed, that they couldn't send my picture in in that dress, though - because it was too darn pretty and wouldn't garner enough sympathy to result in all my free upgrades.

See?

It worked!

Dress the part/play the part.

I think today I'll be a princess.
(don't hold your breathe for pics)
Girls! Fetch Momma her tiara!

Act Your Age

Yesterday was one of those days when I felt old. Or maybe I just felt my age, I don't know.

While it is not unusual for me to throw off a flippant, "What do I know, I'm old" or "Well, back in my day..." or the occasional "You damn kids! Get offa my lawn!", I don't usually feel old. Or my age. Whatever.

I was chatting with someone recently about how - all through my thirties, if anyone asked how old I was I'd say, "23". I would immediately amend that with, "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. I'm 37 (or whatever my actual age at the time was)." I wasn't one to lie about my age - I'm still not - 23 just seemed like the appropriate answer. I think maybe I FELT 23. Sometimes I think I still DO. 23 was not a particularly stellar year for me. It wasn't a particularly anything year, so it's not like I wanted to freeze time. I think maybe I just have the soul of a 23 year old. When I was younger than 23, I wanted to be older and when I was older than 23 I claimed - at least initially - to be younger.

That's usually a good thing.
Until it's time to go clothes shopping. There are young clothes that I love but look silly on me and old clothes that I reject, leaving me headin' on down to frumpy ville.

Except when you're beat over the head with the fact that you're not.
Bifocals and dental issues, for Pete's sake, this is grandma stuff.

Yesterday was one of those days.
Of course there will be an additional fee, Mrs. Howard. Well of course there fucking well will. Let me grab my pocketbook.

Today will be better, I think.
I damn well hope.

How old are you? On the inside?

I Hab a Cold Id By Dose

And a cough in my chest.

And I'm tired and a little achy.

I saw this sign yesterday in a museum and couldn't resist a pic.

Where is my medicinal grade heroin? Hmm? I need some dang relief!

I guess the sign in the museum is from around the same time period that big C Coke still contained little c coke.
Which must've been kind of like a super-serious energy drink. Red Bull gives you wings? This stuff'll take you to the moon. And you'll never stop talking about it...

So perhaps, a hundred odd years ago, faced with a cold similar to mine, a doctor might prescribe heroin for my cough and plenty of liquids. Like maybe Coke.

Now I'm just lying here all achy and slow-headed and drinking water and popping Vitamin C.

Progress sucks.

In Pursuit of Happiness

The One Minute Writer's writing prompt today was 'Independence'. The task was to write for one minute on something from which you would like to gain independence. Turned out I had more than a minute's worth to say on the topic.

Without further ado:

My Declaration of Independence from Societal Ideals

We hold these truths to be self evident - that all men and women are created equal. As such, it should hold that neither the worth of an individual nor the amount of respect they deserve is determined by the size of their waist, the size of their bank account, or the number of candles on their last birthday cake.

Furthermore, as a woman, the value of my thoughts and opinions are not in any way related to my ability to be deemed attractive by middle class white males (who tend to set the standards) or any males, or, for that matter, anyone at all. This quality is often referred to by an adjective that begins with an 'f' and ends with 'ability'. Should I need to again make reference to it, I shall refer to it as fability. Because I'm also declaring the right to make up words as I go along if it so suits my personal pursuit of happiness.

And I have the right to pursue happiness.

I have the right to wear sleeveless tops and dresses, even if I do not have guns that resemble those of our first lady. Even if I have something that more resembles pillows than guns, I have the right to bare them without apology. Same goes double for shorts. Maybe a little more than double.

IT. DOESN'T. MATTER!

It doesn't make me in any way less.

The house I live in - the neighborhood I live in are not reflections of me. You can't know anything about me just by knowing my address. Am I more worthwhile if I live in a more affluent neighborhood? Am I trash if I live in one that is less affluent? The answer to both is a resounding, "NO!" It's just a house. It doesn't say anything about me. It's where I keep my stuff.

And it's just stuff!

He who dies with the most stuff, still dies.

The age issue points us right back to fability (it would've been a shame to coin such a fine word and never use it again, no?). Does my worth decrease as my perceived fability decreases? Certainly society points us in that direction. A gray hair? For heaven's sake, cover it, lest someone think you've left your twenties behind! Wrinkles? Avoid or hide them at all costs! Make the world think you're at least a decade younger! Sagging boobs? Well, hoist those puppies up, wouldja? Have a surgeon hoist 'em up, better yet. If people see you for who you actually are, you will cease to be relevant!

I declare independence from this train of thought!

All men are created equal. That includes (but is in no way limited to) those of us who, for a reason (or two, or three) have outlived our fability. Fability has nothing to do with worth. It has nothing to do with respect. Happiness is worth pursuing. Perceived fability is not.

Give me Liberty, or give me - a candy bar.

I deserve one, for Pete's sake.

So do you.

Jackalopes and Indian Frank

Last Thursday I gave you a story about my youthful travels. You said you wanted more, so here's another. A few years older, but still painfully naive...

As I recall, Frank was a boy with dirty blonde ringlets that fell well past his shoulders. He wore, through our brief acquaintance, what my friend Ellin always referred to as a dirtbag hat; leather or suede with a wide, loose brim. He spoke softly and confidently. I thought he was beautiful. I thought lots of boys were beautiful, so it wasn't a particularly grand compliment.

I met Frank while camping with our family and some friends in South Dakota. South Dakota, as you're probably aware, is home to Mt. Rushmore. Which I thought was kind of overrated. But I was fifteen that summer and pronouncing things overrated, bourgeois or simply dull was sort of my job. And I was good at it.

To my way of thinking, the best thing about Mt. Rushmore was the souvenir T-shirt that pictured the four presidents carved into a mountain and read: Even the Nicest People Get Stoned. Mom didn't think that was as appropriate for a young teen as I thought it was. Back at band camp that August, I would've been a rockstar in that ringer T. Not appropriate. Whatever. Appropriate is overrated.

South Dakota, like many of the more rustic regions of the United States, is also heavily populated by jackalopes. If you're too citified to be aware (or if you've never eaten in a large chain steakhouse), a jackalope is a hybrid between a jackrabbit and an antelope. It looks for all the world like an everyday rabbit, but with a lovely little set of antlers. They were quite ubiquitous, as evidenced by the vast availability of specimens that taxidermists had carefully preserved in various natural poses and were selling in every gift shop. Mounted heads of the unfortunate horned bunnies were pretty readily available as well.


I believed in them utterly.

Why should I not?

I'd seen proof.

Who would go to such vast lengths to perpetrate a hoax? I couldn't grok the motivation behind it.

So it was in this place - this land of stoned presidents and jackalopes - that I met Frank and his golden curls.

Frank was an Indian.

A Native American.

I know this because he told me.

I couldn't think of a reason a slightly older teenaged boy might lie to a slightly younger teenaged girl who was hoping to catch a glimpse of a jackalope in it's natural habitat before heading back to her suburban home.

No reason at all.

Nope.

Not a one.

I listened to his tales about his life and his people in wide-eyed wonder, fascinated. I asked him questions and he provided quick answers for every one of them.

He was dreamy.

And so exotic.

I believed every word he said like it was the gospel itself.

Naive? Well - um - yeah.

Stupid? I wouldn't be so quick with that call. I got to spend several evenings in the company of a beautiful blonde Native American with bountiful curls and a million stories.

How many people get to say THAT?

That's My Dad

Today is my father's 80th birthday. I say that - I type that - and I know the picture it paints. My dad fits a couple of the stereotypes, I guess. I haven't been thrilled with his driving lately. He has either suffered a major hearing loss or honed selective hearing to an art form. He is not a bigot, but he is not adverse to an ethnic slur now and then - he doesn't understand what the fuss is about - he's not saying anything bad, he's just calling people what they are.

Sigh.

I don't want to talk about those things, though.

That's a generation.

That's not my dad.

I don't want to talk about the ways that he fits the stereotype of someone his age.

I don't want to talk about the Great Depression or the Korean War or any of the other things he experienced as a boy or a young man. Those things may have had a profound effect on who he became, but they are his stories to tell, not mine. Those are stories about a boy and a man, but I want to tell you stories about a dad. And he didn't become a dad until I entered the picture.

He was a teacher by trade. He was not big on long lectures, but he was very good at teaching by example. Here are some of the lessons he taught me:

On Responsibility:
We grew up camping. We stayed in National Parks more often than not. On one particular occasion, we had planned to leave one park early in the morning to head to another. This was far from an unusual event. But on this particular day, when we went to check out, it was so early that no-one was manning the booth. There was no-one to pay. We really needed to hit the road to stay on schedule.

So we did.

We drove off and saw the sights and did the activities that were planned for the day.

When we were done, instead of moving on to our next planned destination, we went back. Back to the place we'd stayed the night before to pay our debt. He probably spent three times as much on gas as the actual bill was, but he was not going to leave it outstanding and he certainly was not going to leave it unpaid.

Me? I would've written a check and slid it under the door. Or maybe I would've written a check at my next destination and mailed it off. More likely I would've waited till I got home and then sent off a check, if I remembered.

Dad? No way. He couldn't have slept with an outstanding debt. He couldn't have slept not knowing for sure if they received his payment or not.

He delivered the cash in person and apologized for taking so long (several hours!) to get it to them.

That's my dad.

On Pride:
One day Dad and I were sitting on a bench in front of a store waiting for my mom to finish shopping. An older gentleman came out of the store and joined us on the bench. The three of us sat there quietly, watching the cars go by. A new van drove past and the old fellow let out an appreciative whistle.

"That is one fine looking vehicle."

"Sure is" responded my dad.

"It sure would be great to be able to drive around in something like that."

"Sure would."

Shortly after that, the old fellow's wife came out and they crossed the parking lot together. I turned to my dad and said, "Why did you say that?"

You see, my dad had just recently purchased a van of that very same model.

"Wasn't anything to gain by it. He would've felt bad if he thought he was envying something I had. Better to let him think I'm in the same boat he is. Besides, I didn't lie. It IS a fine looking vehicle and it IS great to be able to drive around in it."

Well, heck.

He had me there.

I knew if it had been me I would have probably very excitedly pointed out that I HAD a van like that! I would've bragged on the special features and then would've probably even found something to bitch about because - while it was a nice van, it wasn't the BEST van. I would've found a way to be both prideful AND envious.

Not dad. He has no time for either of those emotions. Nothing to gain by it.

That's my dad.

On Charity:
My dad believes in helping those in need. He works tirelessly for his local food bank, so we can assume that feeding the hungry is a goal of his.

Once, on a Christmas trip to New York, we came across a woman sitting in front of the train station. She was obviously cold and did not appear to have the use of her legs. Two small children huddled next to her under a thin blanket. She was begging for money to feed them. My father stopped and took a pack of peanut butter crackers out of his back pack and handed them to her.

"Thank you sir! Thank you! God bless you sir!" she called to him as she quickly divided the crackers up among her children.

I was feeling all warm and glowy over the kindness my dad had demonstrated and was just about to tell him so when he said rather smugly, "Let's see her buy drugs with THAT!"

Cynical charity. Gotta love it. And a lesson learned. While she was asking for money, it wasn't money she needed - it was food. That was the need he met.

That's my dad.

On Being a Teacher:
Dad taught at my high school. Did I have him in class? As a matter of fact, I did. Was high school the worst three years of my life? Yeah, pretty much.

As a teacher, Dad was tough.

I talked to him about it one day when things had gone particularly badly for me. "You know people don't like you."

"I'm not here to make people like me. I'm here to teach them math. I'm never going to be voted teacher of the year by my current students. But look at this."

He took me to his desk and pulled out a worn-looking envelope. He handed it over to me. I read a testimonial from a student who 'hadn't liked him much' in high school but was so appreciative of everything he'd taught him once he got to college. I was astounded. First, that a student had bothered to write this letter; second, that maybe it all WASN'T a great big popularity contest; and third, that my father had kept this letter. That it mattered to him. It would've been easier to go for the instant accolades - easier and a lot more pleasant (for him as well as for me) - but he was going for something more lasting.

Bless his heart.

That's my dad.

On Algebra:
Once you know the formula, you just plug it in and crank it out.

That's my dad.

Happy birthday, Dad. You taught me well.