My Affair With Walt DisneyPart 3

So we are nearly done with the Disney thing, as I know you're all repeatedly bashing your head against your desk/laptop/toddler.

During the Wishes fireworks deal in Magic Kingdom at night, they project huge pictures on the castle during the show. OD and The Son had a picture as large as 2/3 of the side of the castle, but I didn't get the shot because I was on acid.

 
(WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR A RANDOM TANGENT. The Son got an Iron Gym recently, and he just did a bunch of pull-ups on it, and then sauntered through the dining room where I am typing and said, "That's the most I've even been able to do. Puberty's hitting me like a freight train" and walked out of the room.  REMINDER - never mention the blog or anything in it in front of my kids if you know me - this happened recently and YD nearly gutted me like a fish.)

Getting ready to see Belle at dinner, after OD did her hair and makeup.

Ariel, the nicest princess of them all - the other princesses at Norway dinner were kind of bitchy. I know, standing and smiling for pictures will suck the sweet right out of you, but at $35 for a plate of the worst beef tips ever just to meet a princess, a little nice will go a long way. YD didn't notice - they were all wonderful in her estimation, so I guess it was worth $140 of bad beef tips.  (No.  Not really.)

Safari Daddy and Little Belle on the way to dinner  - Rock Star Moment.  Everyone walking by would say, "Well hello Princess!"  Hello, ego booster.

CH and I, a couple of cold Blue Moons in our hands, safari hat is off, and some of the best seats in the house for the Fantasmic show (thank you, Tour Guide Mike!).  This was our last night at Disney, and I'm a little verklempt thinking about it now.  So relaxing.  So warm.  So Not-Going-To-Work.  *sigh* On second glance, we both look a little high in this picture.  Which we are not.  Drugs are highly discouraged at Disney.


So now we come to the Low Point of our trip.  Leaving.  We got up at about 6:30 a.m. and took a cab to the airport.  Our cab driver texted and made calls while he was driving, drove about 80 mph, and by the time we got to the airport, YD was carsick.  We walked in the airport, and ran to the bathroom, and she threw up.  We gave her some Dramamine, which we planned on giving her for the plane ride because she gets a freaked out about that, and she threw that up.  And then another.  And then started telling me how now that she was throwing up, she just knew that it wouldn't stop and that it was going to happen on the plane and that the plane was going to be really bad and that she was sick and she just didn't think it was going to work out.  We left the bathroom and she threw up in a brown paper sack I had, we made our way back into the bathroom, and I am holding said bag in one hand and holding her hair back in the other, when I notice the brown bag is leaking on her back.  Oh Dear God.


I start freaking out because I can see that she is working herself up into a panic.  We MUST board this plane.  I am using my soothing voice, telling her how it's all going to be fine, and the Dramamine will kick in soon and she will feel so much better.  She tells me she is NOT going to be fine, and she is sick now and the plane is going to be awful and then she throws up again to let me know she is not screwing around.  I start persuading her that if she has a little bit of Sprite or ginger ale on the plane her stomach will settle down and she'll be okay!  I will buy her:  gum, a teen magazine with Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber in it, a stuffed animal, a pony, Justin Bieber, but we have to get on THIS PLANE! 


They are boarding our flight.  YD will not leave the bathroom.  She has dug in at stall #4.  She will not leave because she will not throw up on the plane.  I use the happy voice, I coax her out of the stall, I tell her it's in her head now, that she's got herself so worked up she is making herself sick.  We are in line to board, and she says, "Oh yeah, well I am going to throw up now" and grabs the (new) brown bag out of my hand.  She throws up.  I am a terrible mother, because I no longer feel bad for her, I'm just exhausted.  I say - really, I say this, and I'm not proud of it - "Go ahead.  Keep throwing up. Maybe if we're lucky you'll poop your pants, too."  She looks up at me.  I stare back at her.  We are both out of ammo.  We clean up and get on the plane. 

It's important to note that at this point, there is a woman on the other side of the planter at which we are parked and having our vomit discussion.  I know she hears the poop comment. A few moments later, I see her slowly turn her head, as in, "Oh my God, I HAVE to see the bitch who made the poop comment, but I don't want to draw her attention." 

YD gets an airsickness bag, I get a Bloody Mary.  She is asleep before takeoff, and I'm shaking with my new case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Curse you, texting cabbie!  We arrived at home in the Quad Cities without incident, and were greeted with great joy.

  And thus concludes My Affair With Walt Disney.  I love you Walt.  I'll be back.

George the Superpet misses me when I'm gone. Although he had fun at the neighbors with their two labs and small, spunky daughter.

My Affair With Walt DisneyPart 2

For those of you who didn't see SNL this weekend, I love this skit, and it is appropro to this post:


For the record, I absolutely love Kristen Wiig, and I am ready to be her body double and life stand-in whenever she needs me.  Her Cinderella reminds me of one of my neighbors.

So let's wrap up this Disney thing - here are the highlights:

Upon arrival, the old dude loading up the Disney Magic Express photobombed my kids.  Check out the rabbit ears he threw on Oldest Daughter.  My kids were in awe.  As was I.  Well played, old Disney dude.

Daytime view from our balcony overlooking Epcot...the nighttime view was the Illuminations show over Epcot with lasers and fireworks.  I had a cold glass of chardonnay and my familia around me on two nights that we just took in the show from our balcony.

Me, kicking everyone's ASS on the Buzz Lightyear ride!  Look at my intensity.  Don't kid yourself, I WILL shoot you.

Pretty happy kid.  I was SO cynical about Disney, really I was, but it is a little bit magical.  There, I said it.  Are you happy Walt?

Oldest Daughter and The Son, enjoying their soaking on Splash Mountain.  Sit in the front, Suckers.

CH, showing that just because he wears a senior citizen safari hat doesn't mean he isn't batshit crazy.  Notice OD and The Son, who purposely staged their picture like they were having a serious conversation and oblivious to the five-story plunge.  Because my family is normal like that.  We plan our ride pictures.

The body on the left is BEFORE you have children.  The body on the right is AFTER three children.  We won't even talk about the incontinence.

But getting back to the picture, this is OD and I after our River Rapids ride with our wet butts.

OD and The Son, mad because the Rockin' Roller Coaster had a two hour wait.  This is the only ride we didn't make it on, because the first day we were there and we had fast passes it was broken, and when we came back it had the long wait.  Guess we'll have to come back.

Since there are so many pictures in this post, I have to break it up into two.  Look for the final (Thank God) installment of Disney Monday night.

My Affair With Walt Disney, Part 1

So I guess it's been about 10 days since I returned from Flo-Rida and I have finally accepted that my vacation is over and I have to get on with my life.

But I don't have to like it.

Before we embarked on this trip, you could say I was a Disney cynic.  My lowest form of insult was to say that someone was wearing an embroidered Eyeore sweatshirt, because I didn't understand the Kingdom Walt Built.  It is a bit magical and pixie dust and all that bullshit.  It really is.  And I'm glad I spent Oldest Daughter's first semester of college to go.

I'm not sure who let me wear these huge Bermuda shorts, but they should be shot.  I do have varicose veins, but come on.  On my spring shopping list?  Shorter shorts.  I look like Zac Efron on the basketball court in High School Musical.  This is our first "official" pic on the trip.  We are taking Tour Guide Mike's advice, getting there early, and ready to storm the gates.

Then we made a fatal error.  We chose Space Mountain as our first ride.  If you recall, Space Mountain is a very jerky roller coaster almost entirely in the dark, twisting and snapping and going downhill very fast.  Current Husband, Oldest Daughter, and The Son thought it was fantastic, and went back a few times.

Their ride was very different from my ride.  In this photo, Youngest Daughter is taking a break from screaming bloody murder and asking why I'm doing this to her.  I am leaning forward in my seat, reassuring her, and cracking my spinal column around every blind, dark turn while I try to maintain physical contact with her so she doesn't completely lose her shit.  Needless to say, YD didn't get back on this ride.  Or any other roller coaster in the park for the duration of our trip, for that matter.

The Son getting some Chipmunk Love. 

Obligatory castle shot.  I forgot to suck in my gut and CH has his sexy safari hat on, designed to keep his pink newborn skin form burning.  The kids are so proud.  See your future, Darling Offspring.  Love your future.

Our first princess.  Look at Aladdin, the cocky bastard. 

Second princess.

Third.

Fourth.

Are you detecting a theme here?  And we are only halfway through our princesses.   The Son and CH were loving this action so far - the princesses kept beckoning The Son - "Come over and take a picture!"  He almost did it until Cinderella called him "little prince"  - I could read his face "LITTLE PRINCE?  WTF, CINDERELLA?  I'M TWELVE!"  And game over.

I will tell you that if this is about my love affair with Walt Disney, it was really a three-way with Tour Guide Mike.  Thanks reader Pat, he was worth EVERY PENNY of the $21.95 I spent.  We rode every major ride in every park at least twice, and never waited more than 20 minutes for a ride.  There were three hour lines on some of the rides we did TWICE, and it's all because I read what Tour Guide Mike had to say.  The family mocked me at first, but by Day Three they were all, "What does Mike say about this ride?"

So maybe Mom does know what she's talking about after all.  Huh.


 

Retraction on Chip and Dale

Hello Wifers!

I'm back from sunny Florida, in one piece, slightly bronzer, with shin splints and memories of YD puking in the airport, but I have been converted from a Disney cynic to a drinker of the Disney Kool-Aid.  You got me, Walt.

I'll be boring you with the report of our trip in later posts, but for now, I have one important retraction to make - I made fun of Chip and Dale in an earlier post, calling them "second rate" characters.  When I was in Disney, I heard a number of Cast Members telling guests that "there are over 1200 characters at Disney World, and all of them are important!"  A Cast Member can tell me that and I'll sort of roll my eyes and mutter, "whatever, get me first tier princess and a vodka tonic", but when I see THIS:

(This adorable girl is the property of Pat, ADITW reader)

I have to say "Bring me the chipmunks and one of those kick-ass hats!  (And the vodka tonic.)  And for the love of God, someone buy that darling girl a pony!"  So flippin' cute, no?  And that is where Disney gets you.  Happy faces.  You can have shin splints and lower back pain and be sweating like a hog and eat the worst $35 Beef Tips EVER in a fake Norwegian castle, but once that little (or teenager-ey) face looks at you with their eyes all lit up and their smile from ear to ear, they've got you.  I never really had a burning desire to go to Disney, but now that I've been there, I'm sure we'll go back.  And I already have the first 20 of the 150,000 cans we'll need to collect to do it.

T Minus 3 and Counting

First of all, thanks for your Estro-mail, it actually worked!  Who-hoo!

Tour Guide Mike just sent an e-mail to me, actually begging me to pack.  Which is funny, because I haven't started.  Let me give you the schedule from now until our flight leaves:

Saturday -
9 a.m. - Blogging when I should be packing.  Coffee tastes bad.  Pissed.
9:30 a.m. - Taking Oldest Daughter to mall for V Day boyfriend gift.  His mom nixed a hermit crab, so we're back to square one.  And really, what is her problem?  Why can't a teenage girl give her boyfriend crabs? 
10:00 a.m.  Stopping by Target to pick up my copy of vampire porn Breaking Dawn.
11:30 a.m. - Pick up younger kids from their sleepovers
12:00 - Take The Son to his basketball game.  Watch said game.  Embarrass myself and others.
2:00 - Practice finale dance for the elementary school Variety Show of which I'm in charge.  Note that I have no rhythym and cannot dance.
3:00 - Iowa State plays basketball and all other things cease.
6:00 - Friend coming over to watch vampire porn Breaking Dawn, because we took our teens to it in the theater and couldn't really get into it because our teenage daughters were watching Edward getting it on, and it was a little awkward.  Tonight it's all us, baby.
10:00ish - Friend possibly leaves, but now I've been drinking. 
TIME TO PACK!  Put underwear and socks and bathing suits in bag, take Aleve, go to bed.

Sunday
Noon - 4 p.m.  Rehearsals for the elementary school Variety Show
5:00 p.m.  OD's boyfriend coming over for dinner, actually cooking this time
7:00 p.m. - Leave dirty dishes on counter so I can pack.  Yell at people about dishes.
8:00 p.m.  Begin tucking kids in, they start telling me about makeup tests and things they will have to do tomorrow.  Help them cram for makeup tests.
10:00 p.m. - Make extensive To-Do list that I will promptly lose.

Monday
6:30 a.m.  Wake up, drive middle schoolers to school, go to work all day.
5:00 p.m.  Take kids to string lessons.
6:00 p.m.  Pedicure (this may not seem like a necessity, but trust me, it is)
7:00 p.m.  Take kids to piano lessons.
9:00 p.m.  Begin panicking and weeping about how unprepared I am for trip.  Stay up into the a.m. hours muttering to myself like a crazy person while everyone else sleeps soundly.

Tuesday
9:00 a.m.  Get dog issues settled
10:00 a.m. FREAK OUT COMPLETELY
11:00 a.m.  Leave for airport
1 p.m.  Begin apologies

This is likely EXACTLY how this is going to play out.  But admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, no?

Have a great weekend!  Come and pack for me!  Or better yet, come over to watch Breaking Dawn and eat guac and chips and margaritas.  I won't be packing anyway.

JulieAID: Send Me Your Estrogen

With all of this Disney trip planning, I've been feeling a bit like this guy from THIS story in the LA Times:

For future reference, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese meal will totally get me off the tower.  You might even be justified in suspecting that I got nekkid and on the tower just to GET a QPwC.  (Diet Coke with that, please.)

So Wifers, I am writing with a request.  Since I am now peri-menopausal and have been getting my period about a week early every month, I thought, "Sweet, that means I will get it the week before we go to Disney, because that would be early!"  But here we are, the Friday before we leave (we leave on Valentine's Day, don't rob my house) and NOTHING.  Let's pick exactly where I would like to be on Day 2 of the Raging River:

1. On an airplane with four nervous children (including Current Husband) and the Fasten Your Seat Belts sign on.
2. In my lovely, crisp, white, away-from-home bed at Beach Club Resort.
3. In my Mommy Tankini at Stormalong Bay on white towel of said resort.
4. In the Tower of Terror.
5. At Princess dinner in Norway.

Seriously, Universe.  Early EVERY DAMN MONTH SINCE OCTOBER.  By a week.  And now?  Nothing.  I'm sure this is probably a karma thing, and I get it.  I deserve it.  But how about if we schedule paybacks for March?  How about in April during my birthday and the four-day high school musical with Oldest Daughter in it?  But I'm begging you, Universe - not in an airplane or port-a-potties.

(NOTE:  For those of you who are smiling smugly and saying, "She's so pregnant!" - No.  She is not.  She has lovely nickel coils jammed up into her fallopean tubes, and "interactions" are at an all-time low due to the fabulously sexy cold I had for the last two weeks.)

"I'm sorry about your personal hormonal issues, Julie.  What can I do?"

ANSWER:  I want your estrogen. 

Please send your Estro-mail to adayinthewife@gmail.com, with your donor estrogen attached.  I will use your estrogen to female myself up, and then donate the unused estrogen to hairy men in a Big Johnson t-shirt who show butt crack and crumple their beer can and throw it out the window while driving.  WE ALL WIN.

After the estrogen arrives, and it is Day 2, I will happily take your donations of Quarter Pounders with Cheese.  With Diet Coke, please.

Thanks Wifers, and have a great weekend!

Snow Flight and the Seven Days

We are T-MINUS seven days and counting, and I am getting a grip.

Let me just say for the people who are rolling their eyes and saying, "What is she bitching about?  She's going to Disney!  You could have a cold sore or a bounced check or hammer toes, so SHUT. UP. already!" and I get that.  You are correct.  I could be a victim of hammer toe or some other podiatry nightmare.  But here is the deal - I'm feeling intense pressure to make this THE BEST EFFING DISNEY TRIP EVAH! because it could very well be the only time we go.  There are lots of places I'd like to go other than Disney, and the clock is ticking on Oldest Daughter leaving the nest (T-minus three years, six months on that one), so it's Make-It-Count time!

It's Disney, so it seems deceptively easy from the outside.  But the more I read, the more complex I realize it is.  Planning these trips is not for the weak.  I know this is not news to many of you, but I naively thought last week, "Aw, we should do a Cinderella Royal Palace Lunch!" and then last night I read an article that gave specific instructions on how to make the phone call six months ahead of your desired date at 7 a.m. to Disney and to cut off the Cast Member who finally answers the call and say, "Julie the Wife, Party of 5, 8 a.m."  The part that cracks me up is, "You have time to be polite AFTER your reservation is booked, but right now you are fighting every second with someone who wants YOUR time slot!"  I'm waiting to see the guide that says,

 "You NEED your FastPASS to the Toy Story ride, and that other kid's grandma has two kidneys and she can live on one, so you've GOT TO DO WHAT YOU'VE GOT TO DO!!  CUT! THAT! BITCH!"

So I guess what I'm telling you is that there wasn't a snowcone's chance in hell that I was getting into the Cinderella Organized Mom Lunch, but I did manage to score the second-to-last reservation for the week at the Akershus Royal Banquet Hall dinner at 8 p.m., aka Second Rate Princess Dinner.

I also discovered that with my Disney Rewards Visa I get a private character Meet and Greet with photo, but I'm sort of expecting it to be either Chip or Dale or the dog from Up (which wouldn't be that bad) or Bashful.

This trip is like a game where I'm unlocking different levels the more I play.  I actually got out of bed at 1 a.m. this morning to order a Belle dress on eBay that will be delivered on Friday so I can try to get into the Bibbidy Bobbidy Boutique and not have to go to the $200 costume level.  I'm completely obsessed.

My name is Julie the Wife, and I'm going on my Virgin Trip to Disney.  I'll report back tomorrow after 3 hours of sleep and four Red Bulls.

Disney 2: Crime and Punishment

You people are cracking me up!  I've had so many contacts from people via e-mail and such to help me out of my Disney hell that I am writing Part 2 today instead of Sunday so I don't stress anyone out.  This is long.  Almost as long as the articles on the Tour Guide Mike site that I am not mature enough to navigate.

First, let me say, IT ENDS WELL.  So far, anyway.

Here is where we left off - Walt Disney had me addicted to sleeping pills:

Mr. Disney, that Parisian-looking sailor shirt is tres chic. 

Will you plan my vacation to your small country in Florida?

So at that point I was staying off-property and trying to hit about seven major parks in approximately 96 hours with about $3000 of tickets.  This is when the drinking began. 
Per my friend Tricia's suggestion, I signed up for TourGuideMike.com, which is a good resource despite needing to read the equivalent of three volumes of War and Peace.  TG Mike convinced me that we need to stay on-property because our experience will probably be better.  CH and I don't either one respond to stress well, and we tend to get all bitchy with transportation in cities larger than 100,000, so this seemed like a good plan.

We had a family meeting and asked the kids where they really want to go.  After a unanimous vote, we decided to forego Sea World and Universal this time and just do Disney.  After hours of searching, CH and I finally agreed on a place to stay.  I tend to be more hotel-ish, where CH leans more toward the side of Survivalist Camp.  I gave a little more ground and agreed to do the cabins at Fort Wilderness, mostly because they promised smores and campfire songs around a big bonfire at night and we could have a separate bedroom from the kids in the cabin.  The other big bonuses were No Rental Car, No Driving, Shuttle from the Airport, and Park Tickets in the package.  Yay for decisions!

I got a Disney Rewards Visa last fall so I could get the $200 gift card and the member perks when you visit the Big D.  We purposely keep our limits low and avoid using credit because CH listens to Dave Ramsey, which honestly makes my life a little hellish at times with his whole reasonable "Stay out of any debt at all costs" mentality.  I looked up the account online so I could see how much money I needed to transfer to the card to make room for the big Fort Wilderness purchase, and guess what I found?  Someone stole our account number and had charged thousands of dollars in cosmetics on it!!!  Du Bastardo!  I had to call Chase and send them a picture so they could see that I am clearly not using cosmetics, and they apologized for my lack of foundation know-how and suggested a brow shaping, and cancelled the account.  This was on Wednesday.  I had to wait until Monday to get the new account number to book the trip.

It's Monday!  Yay!  I transferred enough money to get me a lifetime of brow shaping to the card and pulled up my "Saved Vacations" on the Disney website.  It was with glee that I hit "BOOK THIS TRIP", until the pop-up screen said,

"We're Sorry!  This Resort is Booked!  Can we suggest an alternative reservation at Animal Kingdom Lodge for only $75000?"

But....but....I MADE A DECISION.  Do you Cast Members know how HARD it is for me to make a decision?  Now what am I going to do?  What?  Spend the next four hours of work time trying to untangle my personal vacation and credit card mess?  Okay, if I must.

I call the Mothership and get a Cast Member, who cheerfully butchers her own name so I can't understand it, and asks how she can help me.  I tell her how our credit card number was stolen so I had to wait and get a new card and now my cabin is gone as my sacrifice to someone else's beauty.  She gets some information, and after a few minutes, she tells me that while Fort Wilderness is in the Value Resort category, she has something that has become availabe in the Beach Club Resort, which is two steps up in the Deluxe Resort category, and we can have a Garden View room!  Yay!  With two quick service dining plans a day, and tickets to the parks, and the shuttle and the awesome pool, and hey, it's even a little bit less than the Survivalist Camp! 

"Here is my Disney Rewards Visa number, SHOIEFHHW, let's do this!"  So she runs it and says, "Oh, I'm sorry, your card declined." and I say, "Well, WNNELEND, I don't see how because I just transferred my daughter's first semester of college on that card," and she said, "I understand.  We do need full payment today because your trip is happening in less than three weeks.  Let me talk to my supervisor."  So she talks and comes back and says, "We will use your $200 gift card to hold the reservation until 10 p.m. tonight, but then we'll have to release it because we just can't hold these."  And I said, "But FDJNEU:S, if it hasn't posted then it will post at midnight" and she said "Why don't you call Disney Rewards Visa and then call us back?" and I said, "Well why not?  My boss LOVES paying me to talk to Disney!"  PLEASE NOTE:  I didn't say ANY of those snarky things, because truly, the Disney phone Cast Members are really really nice and helpful and always sound suspiciously cheerful.  I swear they have a Margaritaville machine at every customer service phone cubicle.

I call Disney Rewards and tell them the whole story about how the credit card was stolen for someone else's beautification while I look like I have sleep apnea and low iron, and how I lost Fort Wilderness and then miracle of miracles I found Beach Club and now it is slipping from my grasp because of the slowness of this transfer.  The very nice person on the line said that because of the size of my transfer it takes two business days instead of one, and that I could call back tomorrow and they would put me on hold while they call my bank and verify that we have the funds and then call Disney back.  She then said, "Trust me, they want you on the property, I doubt they'll cancel the reservation."  Which was nice and all, but my luck so far wasn't that great.  I called Disney back and spoke with my third representative, also unreasonably happy, and she audibly cringed and then grinned and said, "Well, I guess we'll just have to see what happens tomorrow!  If the reservation cancels tonight at 10 when we close we'll just re-book you tomorrow."

Really?  REALLY, UNIVERSE?
Can you work with me on this one?

And guess what? It did!  The card cleared, the trip booked, someone is wearing fantastic cosmetics in a club somewhere, and all is well.  The kids are excited, and the only thing left to go terribly wrong is a huge ice storm in the Midwest on the day we leave and our flight is somehow cancelled or massively delayed.  And with my air travel luck, that may just happen.

Until then, I am going to believe in Magic.  And read articles on Tour Guide Mike.

How Walt Disney Got Me Hooked On Sleeping Pills

Well, it’s booked. We’re making our pilgrimage to the Mecca of America, Disney World. And let me tell you, it has nearly killed me from the stress.

Let me preface this by saying that I am admittedly one of the more disorganized people I know. I lose things. I skim over the small print. I have trouble staying focused on the goal. Worst of all, I am a Master Procrastinator. These may be okay qualities to have for a creative type – big ideas, quirky and off-the-beaten path presentations, etc – but these are NOT good qualities in a Disney trip planner.

TIMELINE:  How I planned my trip to Disney

• 1996 - I got pregnant and thought, “Hey, we should take this kid to Disney someday.”
• 2002 – I got pregnant for the third time and thought, “Jesus, I will NOT lug three small kids to Disney.”
• 2008 – Youngest Daughter started kindergarten and I thought, “Maybe we should think about Disney.”
• 2009 – Ordered Disney trip planning DVD. It arrived. I stuck it in a drawer with report cards and kid art.
• 2010 – Put house on market, got full time job, small life implosion not conducive to Princesses.
• October 2011 – Bit the bullet in October and booked plane tickets to Orlando for Valentine’s Day.
• November 2011 – Had sister book hotel rooms off property, as she could get me a Family Rate.
• December 2011 – Had kids open Christmas gift saying, “Yay, we’re going to Disney!” Didn’t quite get the screaming/tears/hysteria we were hoping for – it was more of a “Huh. You finally did it. Great.” Those damned Disney commercials that I’ve been tearing up watching for the last year as the kids freak out just created unrealistic expectations in my own children.
• January 2012 – Five weeks to departure – The Delusion is broken.

I start thinking maybe I should look at the cost of park tickets. We don’t get to Orlando until about 6 p.m. on Tuesday, and leave first thing on Sunday, so we really have four full days in town. We only want to hit Magic Kingdom one day and maybe another Disney park, but the kids will want to go to Harry Potter Land at Universal, and Current Husband wants to go to Sea World. We should be able to do that in four days, right? The cost of tickets for a family of five on that multi-park plan is about $3000. I REPEAT, JUST THE TICKETS TO THE PARKS COSTS THREE EXTRA LARGE.

But hey, we’re making that up in the room, right? Because they are so cheap! But we do have to rent a car while we’re there, because Disney has it rigged that you can’t get transportation to Disney from anyone but them. And then there are meals. And parking. I decide to look around the website a little bit.

OH DEAR GOD. I’VE FAILED. I’VE FAILED AT THE ONE THING MOMS SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO.

CONFESSION: 

My name is Julie the Wife,

and I’m Disney Challenged.

I go to Facebook to complain and whine that I don’t know what the hell I’m Disney Doing, and a friend suggests I go to http://www.tourguidemike.com/. I do it, I buy the plan, and then I wait while they send my results. I can see that what they have is extremely helpful, to people other than me, but apparently now besides the Disney website to read, I have about 500 articles on the Tour Guide Mike site, all with secret codes and special instructions. What is my dining plan? What is my transportation plan? What is my Character Meet and Greet plan? What rides am I going to personally want to be on, and what time of day will I need to get in line? As I said, I know Tour Guide Mike is awesome for people who know how to point and shoot these weapons, but I can’t tell you what we are eating for dinner tomorrow night or where my black t-shirt is, so we’re both going to need a crystal ball for those decisions.

I said on Facebook that planning your first Disney trip is like having sex for the first time: Confusing, scary, and possibly overrated, but everyone expects you to do it. I’m starting to think I’ll use the same coping strategy this time – Close my eyes, brace for the unknown, and when people there ask me what I think, I’ll smile and say I came.

End of Part I. Stay tuned for Part II of the Disney Adventure, Crime and Punishment Version.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 47

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.

 Today's topic:
Sexy Halloween
It's that time of year...full of black (feral) cats, Reese's peanut butter cups, and pedophile-friendly Halloween costumes.  When Oldest Daughter forces me to listen to her Love In This Club radio station, I get to listen to ads for Halloween costumes. 

"Hey Partiers!  We have the sexiest Halloween costumes in town!  Sexy schoolgirls, sexy police officers, sexy house cleaners, sexy mothers, sexy nursing home residents...we've got them all!  And guys, you can buy your costume here too!  But bring your girlfriend so we can outfit her in the tightest, shortest costume her body will allow!"


I have to say, I really loathe sexy costumes, because even though I am single-handedly bringing sexy back, I am against exploitation as a hobby.  At least outside of the privacy of my own home.  However, anyone can see that these costumes exist to serve dual functions, therefore making them worth every penny of the $80 or more price tag.

 This costume gives its wearer the obligation
to spend her night telling everyone in the bar
about the crimes against Native American women,
including rape, smallpox, and alcoholism
...and to BE SEXY.

In this costume...well, in this costume

you are just going to hell. To BE SEXY.

If you are the luckiest girl in the room,

this one might land you in bed with Hugh Hefner,

six other women (including twins!)

and the worst crabs you've ever seen.

So Effing Sexy!

This costume is not only advertising

that you will cook, clean for,

and sleep with up to seven men,

or that height is not an issue for you,

but it also says, "Welcome Pedophiles and

Men Who Collect Disney products!"  SO SEXY!

 I don't know about you, but the nurses I've seen in the last 10 years are more likely to be wearing SpongeBob scrubs, but this costume will reap rewards beyond the $65 price tag.  Not only are you seen as nurturing, and as a working girl, and possibly Swiss, but you are likely carring antibiotics.  A win-win in this getup. 
Because it's SEXY!

And isn't that really what Halloween is all about?  Bring sexy?  I think CH is going as Ernie and I'm going as Bert, which says, "Give me the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and I might share, but no one is getting laid tonight."  So. Very. Sexy.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and a Sexy Halloween to you all!

It's Not a Job, It's an Adventure

So I have some news in the Day of this Wife - I have ALREADY quit The Job I Can't Blog About. Yes, that's right, I'm a quitter, and I could not be happier about it. Ten pounds of hair, a couple of bald patches, four periods in two months, face sagging off of my skull and 100 Prilosecs later and I am almost free. My last day is next Wednesday, and if you listen closely you might hear the sound of jubilant laughter followed by the screeching of tires pealing out of a parking lot. I would like to add that the people I worked with were fantastic, truly, but enough is enough. I just started The Job I Can't Blog About on August 1, but I am a lucky, lucky girl, because I found what could very well be The Best Job Ever.

Best Job Ever came to my attention last Monday, because Current Husband was spending most of his days looking for jobs for me. CH was not a big fan of The Job I Can't Blog About, as it dramatically increased The Wife's stress level and cut back on his Getting Laid Time. When men don't get laid, they spring into action. CH found the job on Monday, I sent my resume on Tuesday, I got a call on Wednesday, I had my interview on Thursday, an offer on Friday and gave my notice on Monday. Best Job Ever is about me selling tools one uses to make wool hooked rugs to individual artisans and distributors across the country, making the Facebook, Twitter, and website pages for the equipment (hello, social media time!), creating a product catalog, and traveling once a month to trade shows for rug hooking. That's right, people...

I've taken a job as a hooker.

And I couldn't be happier about it.  Obviously being a hooker is going to bring in more money, and there is profit sharing in the hooking field.  CH has already reaped the benefits of my new hooking career, which I begin on November 1.

As long as we are talking jobs, let me tell you about the Career Fair I attended today as a representative of my current company.  First let me point out that perhaps the person who just gave their notice after working there for two short months is not the person you want working your career fair.  As I walked out of the building at The Job I Can't Blog About, six different people told me to take their resumes with me and pass them out to other companies.  I told a number of people attending the career fair that I know of a position opening up next week at my company, so maybe I found my own replacement.

If you really want to get depressed, hang out at a career fair for a couple of hours in this economy.  There are some really well put together people who seem to have a solid background in their field who cannot find a job.  There seems to be a preponderance of very competent looking single mothers who can't get a living wage or a position with benefits to take care of their kids.  But I am not here to depress you, Wifers.  I'm here to be snarkily delicious, so let me give you my Top Hints of What Not To Do At a Career Fair:

1.  Do not tell the person in the booth you hate their company.  I honestly had a guy walk up, say he hated my company, and then take an application and ask if he could drop it off later.  Um, sure?  Do you want me to slap you when you turn it in?

2.  Do not say that you saw the position you just asked about in the paper and that we will never hire anyone at the salary listed.  And again, she took an application, filled it out, and dropped it off with me later.  Good luck in your job search.  Honesty is important....except when you are unemployed and trying to find a job.  A little less criticism, a little more smiling.

3.  Do not say that my company would not be in existence without the ball bearings/fexor valves/paper rolls your last company produced.  And then, you guessed it, took an application and filled it out.

4.  Do not wear any clothing that has Disney characters embroidered on it.  I swear to you, I would rather see you in a plain t-shirt with a forearm tattoo that says "Fuck Tha Police" than a sweatshirt that says "Tinkerbell" on it.

5.  Do not tell me you missed out on picking up a job posting because you were outside smoking.  My parents smoke, and I love them dearly, but in an employment situation you might as well say, "I'd like to have frequent breaks, smell badly, go through Nicotine withdrawal, and die early for your company."

6.  Do not walk with determination to my booth, throw down your resume, and walk away.

7.  Do not look at the job postings on the table and say, "This better not be another job requiring a Goddamned degree."

8.  Do not put your hand in the bowl of Hershey's kisses, grab as many as you can, stick them in your pocket, and then ask for an application.  Those kisses might as well be paper clips or blank checks.  Take one, and move along.

9.  Do not rant about how crappy your last job was.  Or I might be forced to write "Potential Shooter" in the Position Desired box on your application.

10.  Do not tell me we have no jobs that interest you, and then ask me for an application to show your unemployment officer.  Need more unemployment benefits?  Fine.  But let's all be a little more subtle about it.

Don't get me wrong, Wifers.  I am extremely sympathetic to serious people looking for employment.  It's a tough world out there, and I wish I could make it a lot easier for a lot of people.  I also know it's no fun to feel like you are stuck in a job you hate.  BUT.  If you are a Tink-wearing kisses-stealing anger-spewing company hater, fresh off your Career Fair smoke break, you just aren't going to get my gold star on your application.  And I'm not even the HR director, but I'm collecting the first impressions for him.  Also?  Remember that a smile goes a long way.

And I am smiling, honey.  Oh yes I am.  Have a great week! 

    

Shilo is going to kill me

Young child with dreams
Dream every dream on your own
When children play
Seems like you end up alone.

I've never been a big doll person. When I was a child, and my mother was concerned that I wasn't playing outside with the other kids, I would say things like, "Who needs friends when you have a book, Mom?" She would smile and walk away, and then a half hour later I'd find her sobbing at the kitchen counter with a rum and Coke.

I didn't play with Barbies, I didn't play dress-up, and I didn't want to be a ballerina. However, I did have an imagination, and along with it, my imaginary friend named Tony. I don't remember Tony, but my parents do, and I'm sure in their minds it is categorized as "That Creepy Tony Phase" when they considered calling in a priest.

This is one thing Neil Diamond and I have in common. Neil had an imaginary friend growing up, and she was the inspiration for the song "Shilo". Before Neil could have his pick of the real babes, he had to make up an imaginary chick. I wonder if he would dress in a size 4T sequined shirt and tight black pants during his playtime with Shilo? These are the questions I want answered. With visuals.

My youngest daughter has a HUGE imagination, and is waaaaayyyyy into playing dolls. She is a Girlie Girl with a capital "ME!" She has a full battalion of American Girl dolls inherited from her older sister, a Bitty Baby, a box of Barbies, a box of Littlest Pet Shoppers (our name), a box of Polly Pockets, and boxes of Puppy in my Pocket, Kitty in my Pocket, Jungle in my Pocket...you get the picture. She doesn't just have one imaginary friend - they are ALL her imaginary friends.

Why does she have so many little creatures at her disposal, you may ask? It's because she must rule everything around her. If she cannot bend the rest of us to her will, she goes to her room, dresses in her best princess outfit, builds a circle compound on the floor of her little people, and runs them ragged. It's like Jonestown, except Jim Jones is dressed in pink satin and feather boas and won't share the Kool-Aid with anyone else.

Shilo, when I was young
I used to call your name
When no one else would come
Shilo you always came,
And we'd play...

A few weeks ago, she had a friend over. The friend walked in the door and was immediately whisked to Jonestown, sequestered, and pinked out. The Imaginary World commenced. I could hear them busily setting up the scene. I took the opportunity to pilfer some of the kids' Nutter Butters and read a book. Soon, the girls came into the room requesting snacks.

THEM: "We're hungry."
ME: "How do we ask for food?"
THEM: "We're hungry NOW."
ME: "How about a please?"
THEM: "Please." (They then exchange a knowing glance and giggle.)
ME: "What?"
THEM: "Oh nothing!" (More giggling.)
ME: (Playing nonchalant) "So what are you playing?"
THEM: "We are playing this really fun game where we are sisters and we live alone in a house because both of our parents have died in a car crash. We are princesses and we can have whatever we want!"
ME: (Figuring out my odds if they both turn against me) "But isn't it sad to not have parents?"
THEM: "Oh no, it's very fun! We always have dinner in our best dresses and never say please and eat in the living room!"

I gave them their snack and made them sit at the kitchen table, but I did not turn my back to them.

They were hit with Disney Princess Syndrome (DPS).

DPS generally occurs in little girls between the ages of three and seven who have been exposed to more than three Disney movies. The symptoms include a rash of regal behavior, breaking out in song, feverish outfit changes, and coughing up scenarios that include the subtraction of parents and the addition of princes. According to Walt Disney, the only way to be a Disney princess is to be an orphan, or at the very least, lose your mother. I give you Cinderella, Snow White, Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty (whose parents are alive, but she is removed from them), Belle, Ariel, and Jasmine.

If you are lucky enough to lose your mother, DPS tells you that this small bump in the road will surely be followed by beauty, charm, smarts, grace, character, the ability to manage conflict and take the high road, and eventually the trifecta of a prince, royal wedding, and a kingdom.

My daughter has seen all of the Disney Princess movies, and all of the Barbie movies with the same recurrent, motherless, marry-a-prince plot. She seems to watch me with thoughtful, calculating eyes.

Shilo when I was young
I used to call your name
When no one else would come
Shilo you always came
Come today

No, Shilo. Stay away. I saw the movie Child's Play. I'm going to write the next Disney movie. It's going to show a motherless girl who could have been a princess, but she is in prison for dealing meth. She works in the laundry room and no one tells her about periods. It will be called "Shilo and the Girls in Block B." The plot twist is that the mother lives, manages Shilo's release, takes the high road, forgives Shilo and teaches her how to be a princess without a prince. Because that's what the REAL, LIVE moms do.