Monday, April 18, 2016

Where Dreams Come True!

Greetings, WYMOP readers!
I just got back from three nights in Disney, and the following blog post was thumbed into my phone over the course of all the bus rides I took to and from parks in the past day and a half.


  • Open the @$#&ing door!
    • She was just a little girl, and it had been a long day, so some tired grumpiness was to be expected and excused. It was a surprise, however, when the 4-year-old in the hall behind us screamed at her mother to, “Shut up and open the @$#&ing door!” I hung back to listen in, hoping to God to hear a slap—or, at the very least, some fairly strong arm grabbing, or even threats of punishment. But no, nothing but someone trying to reason with a child young enough that people still give her age in months, who assumed—rightly so, from what I heard—that rules and consequences are for other people.

      Honestly, Stranger Mother, if all you were going to do was reassure your daughter for ten minutes that yes, she can get away with whatever she wants, you could have saved is all that time spent listening to your brat scream and just opened the @$#&ing door in the first place.
  • “Match the Feces to the Species”
    • No kidding! On our way out to dinner the first night, all fuddled from flying, driving, checking in, and unpacking , we passed a small stand on the way to the shuttle bus. The gentleman behind the counter wore a big smile, while the front of the counter bore a sign reading Match the Feces to the Species, and had several bowls, apparently containing his samples, upon it. We were on the move, so I didn't have time to stop. What a disappointment of was to come back from dinner only to find the Kaka Kiosk  (Poo Parlor? Shit Shack?) closed for the evening. I kept my eye on that counter for the remainder of the trip, but never again did I see any sign of used-food goodness.
  • Baby Vomit Refresher Course
    • Waiting in line is a bit like a giant exercise in togetherness: you make sure your mouthwash and deodorant are working, and just hope everyone around you is being as courteous—you can tell in an instant if someone hasn't. You apologize if you accidentally poke someone, and try to be understanding when someone pokes you—but when an open space opened spontaneously around me like a musical number was about to start in an old Dick Van Dyke movie, I was confused. I was even more confused when I felt liquid heat spatter against my naked shins. I spun, looking for the source of my discomfort—and discovered I shared my impromptu clearing with a woman and her adorable baby . . . a baby she was currently holding at arm's length, facedown, and above a steaming splat of what appeared to be half-digested chicken noodle soup. It's been years since my own child vomited on me; for those of you who think you nostalgically miss those days, I'm here to tell you, unequivocally: you don't.
  • King of the Mound
    • We were staying at the Animal Kingdom Lodge, which meant looking out the window to see African wildlife walking by all the time—except for one morning. One morning we saw four zebra standing still. Three of them were out on the grass by the access road (two of them actually lying on the grass, prompting me to refer to them as lazebras) looking deeper into the park at a fourth. This fourth stood atop a small mound, his back to the others, though they were clearly looking his way. It was as if the three were hunkered together, sneering at the outcast. The “outcast,” however, completely ignored the three, though they would occasionally move to a new position (yes, even the lazebras) about the loner. At the end of the day he was still there, and they were still sneering at him, so in a vaguely Eeyore-sounding voice, I said, “I'm king of the mound! You all want my mound, but there's only room for one up here, and I'm the king!”

      The next morning on our way out of the hotel, the boy and I saw the four zebras all on a single group—the three former sneerers lying on a rough circle against the base of the mound while the king stood in his place at its peak, such as it was. To my surprise and delight, a rough approximation of Eeyore came from my son! “See?” he said. “I knew you’d come crawling back . . .”
  • And His Hair was Perfect
    • A day or two before the trip the boy (age 13) got himself a haircut. Now it's not short, by any means, but it was neater and we could see his eyes. I was pretty happy and complimented him on it—whereupon he pointed out that I have no hair, and so was jealous. I didn't mind: we throw friendly little digs at each other like that all the time. I pointed out instead that while he’d be working on that hair all the time—keeping it looking good—I would be skipping on ahead to have fun. He claimed to have perfect hair, hair that behaves beautifully and needs no special upkeep. I laughed . . . until our first morning in Orlando, when I saw him wake up, pull his head from beneath the pillow, and run his fingers through his hair—leaving it perfect.

      Son of a bitch.

      I watched him every morning, both before and after his shower, and at all times his hair was a quick finger-comb from perfection.

      Son of a bitch!
      • Splash Mountain Note: On day three we went to the Magic Kingdom and rode Splash Mountain right off the bat, twice in a row. We received multiple soakings each time, and the boy was wearing a baseball cap. Everyone around us was a mess, drowned rats every one. Here's my chance, I thought. There's no way he made it through this without a massive case of hat head! We were half dry when he removed his cap to reveal a truly terrible case of hat head . . . which he ran his fingers through, allowing each strand to fall perfectly into line.

        Son of a bitch!

And now I have to go to bed. Talk to you later!

No comments:

Post a Comment