I'm in this really cool class called "Stiletto Boot Camp". It's a 10-week course designed to make normal chick writers into mainstream women's magazine writers. It's just what the title implies: boot camp for getting published in rags like Redbook, Marie Claire, and Cosmo.
One of my first assignments was to do a service article. Service articles give a reader a list of things to do that will empower them or inform them. For instance, I did an article on "The Top Five Vitamins you Should be Taking Now"...
Fluffy stuff, but it's fun.
I had to keep mine sort of tame as it was my first assignment, but what I really wanted to write was "The Top Five Guys Every Woman Needs to Date Before She Turns 35". So, I'm doing it here.
The Top Five Guys Every Woman Needs to Date Before She Turns 35
1. The financial mogul
This guy is your typical MBA, ivy-league, blond-haired, blue-eyed ex-frat boy who was raised in the south, has impeccable manners, hits it big in the banking industry, and is looking for a well-bred trophy wife. This guy reeks of new money. He's also clearly in the state of a homosexual panic, as backed up by his impeccable taste in window treatments and the act of french-kissing his champion Labrador Retriever, which makes you extremely uneasy and nauseated. You date him for a few months, enjoy the free 5-star restaurant meals, and bat your eyes until he lets you drive both his Range Rover and his Mercedes convertible. Then, you stop taking his calls.
2. The abstract expressionist
This guy is the one with the mop haircut, the pensive eyes, and the brooding disposition. The first time you meet him, he calls you rubinesque and offers (i.e. begs) to paint you naked. He doesn't own a couch, but he has an easel, a carton of Marlboro Lights and a seemingly unending supply of tickets to the Steppenwolf theatre. He's basically living off Mom and Dad's cash flow until he gets his first big gallery exhibit. Which is basically forever. You date him for the poetry, sensitive artist "thing", and the compliments on your bone structure. Then, you promptly dump him.
3. The tattooed Italian guy
This guy is tough on the outside, sweet on the inside. He's like a pair of Manolos. You can't really see yourself wearing the shoes every day, nor will you get them as they're not quite your style, but they're fun to try on for a few minutes, anyway. Nice and polite, but with that machismo undertone. He wears enough leather to embarrass you in public. You wonder how he can have that much skin covered in ink and still hold down a normal job. You enjoy the canoli and martinis and say ciao.
4. The Man Still in the Closet
This is the gay guy who pretends he's not. He's the one who holds his cigarette like your mother, compliments you on your gorgeous chandelier earrings, and asks you what type of moisturizer you use while pointing out some dryness around your delicate eye area. He is fun to hang out with, but when he tries to kiss you goodnight, it's like you just kissed Hillary Duff and you want to run home so you can shower at least four times from the ickiness. You consider being an almost-fag hag, but weigh the pros and cons and decide to bolt. Faster than you can say Bravo.
5. The Boy
This is the pretty boy. The one 8 to 10 years your junior. He's just nice to look at. Period. It works for a while, until one day you're in the car, REM comes on the radio, you proclaim that you saw the Green tour when you were a senior in high school, and he says, "I was 10." Um, yeah.
There are more. Like the ones who rip your heart out and run it over with their trucks. Those are the ones who build character, though, while the five above are the fun ones. And, they say dating is supposed to be fun, after all...
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
Tessie and the Resurrection
Fate has stepped in, and as a result, I am now a new pet owner. It all started two weekends ago when my guy and I were playing baseball with his son outside my apartment (I live in the Field of Dreams, for chrissake). We noticed a dog on the second floor balcony of a neighboring apartment. The poor thing was trying to scratch her way out. Porches in my complex are screened in, and she had already destroyed a panel. When she saw us, her efforts became even more focused. I found out later that her owners had left her on the deck for over 13 hours (this is a 6-month old puppy, I must add). She ripped through the screen, then propped herself up like she was going to jump. I immediately freaked out, guy-I-date ran over to her, and before he could get there, she did just that...she jumped. Beautiful, brown little boxer baby just jumped off the deck like a kamikaze pilot. Poor thing just wanted to be away from where she was. She fell on her shoulder and it looked pretty broken when he got to her. He scooped her up, brought her back to my place and we doted on her for an hour while I desperately tried to track down her absent owners.
After we found them through my leasing office, I learned a few things about the owners. Dude owner is not only a deadbeat and hasn’t paid his pet fee, but he also is delinquent on rent, and there have been complaints before about his pet handling skills. Nice. As a side drama, my ex-cop neighbor answered her door sometime last year to a bloodied face of dude’s live-in girlfriend caused by an “argument”. I swear to Christ, I live in Jerry Springer’s backyard.
Now, I know the Ted Bundy-type abusers. These are the guys who are handsome and charming on the outside, dress well, act "normal" to the outside world, but are manipulative beyond belief and sing a different song behind closed doors. I've experienced that type in my life, for sure. They all have that “devil’ thing in their eyes. It’s your classic fratdaddy look with the Ted Bundy interior. This guy is one of those guys, and I seriously want to cause bodily harm to him as a result. You know that if he’s beating his girlfriend, he’s definitely smacking the puppy around without any conscience whatsoever.
After the kamikaze episode, it was the girlfriend who picked the dog up from my apartment, and she really didn’t say much at all. In fact, she barely could look me in the eyes. She’s your textbook abused woman, truth be told. Beautiful face with no trace of makeup (he probably doesn’t let her wear it), disheveled hair, cute figure with abnormally baggy clothing (textbook). She never once looked me in the eyes, instead averting them to the ground pretty much the entire time. I talked to the couple a few times. With the combination of their body language, the fact that the dog cowered every time dude approached her, and then my newfound knowledge about what these people were all about, I was peeved.
Now, I know I can’t do much for the girlfriend except befriend her a bit and hope that she wakes up in time to leave that bastard. I have opened my door to her in case she needs someone to come to, but that’s pretty much the extent of what I can do. Well, that, and I told my ex-cop (yet always connected) friend down the street, but who's keeping score, right? As for the dog, though, she’s now mine. I pushed a bit to take her off their hands, and I got her last Friday night. I’m not looking back. She’s beautiful, well-tempered, and so appreciative of her new digs. She rides in the car like a human, chases after tennis balls like a bunny, and has the best, most loving personality. I can’t wait to see her grow up.
So that is the story of how Tessie Larue came to be. Easter weekend 2006. For Christians, it's a weekend of celebration for resurrection. For Tessie, it was just that. She fell out of the sky, really. Kind of like a fated gift from the heavens. And now she has a shot at a great life. And, I've got a new shot at getting back what I've lost in the past canine-wise. At least I’d like to think so.
After we found them through my leasing office, I learned a few things about the owners. Dude owner is not only a deadbeat and hasn’t paid his pet fee, but he also is delinquent on rent, and there have been complaints before about his pet handling skills. Nice. As a side drama, my ex-cop neighbor answered her door sometime last year to a bloodied face of dude’s live-in girlfriend caused by an “argument”. I swear to Christ, I live in Jerry Springer’s backyard.
Now, I know the Ted Bundy-type abusers. These are the guys who are handsome and charming on the outside, dress well, act "normal" to the outside world, but are manipulative beyond belief and sing a different song behind closed doors. I've experienced that type in my life, for sure. They all have that “devil’ thing in their eyes. It’s your classic fratdaddy look with the Ted Bundy interior. This guy is one of those guys, and I seriously want to cause bodily harm to him as a result. You know that if he’s beating his girlfriend, he’s definitely smacking the puppy around without any conscience whatsoever.
After the kamikaze episode, it was the girlfriend who picked the dog up from my apartment, and she really didn’t say much at all. In fact, she barely could look me in the eyes. She’s your textbook abused woman, truth be told. Beautiful face with no trace of makeup (he probably doesn’t let her wear it), disheveled hair, cute figure with abnormally baggy clothing (textbook). She never once looked me in the eyes, instead averting them to the ground pretty much the entire time. I talked to the couple a few times. With the combination of their body language, the fact that the dog cowered every time dude approached her, and then my newfound knowledge about what these people were all about, I was peeved.
Now, I know I can’t do much for the girlfriend except befriend her a bit and hope that she wakes up in time to leave that bastard. I have opened my door to her in case she needs someone to come to, but that’s pretty much the extent of what I can do. Well, that, and I told my ex-cop (yet always connected) friend down the street, but who's keeping score, right? As for the dog, though, she’s now mine. I pushed a bit to take her off their hands, and I got her last Friday night. I’m not looking back. She’s beautiful, well-tempered, and so appreciative of her new digs. She rides in the car like a human, chases after tennis balls like a bunny, and has the best, most loving personality. I can’t wait to see her grow up.
So that is the story of how Tessie Larue came to be. Easter weekend 2006. For Christians, it's a weekend of celebration for resurrection. For Tessie, it was just that. She fell out of the sky, really. Kind of like a fated gift from the heavens. And now she has a shot at a great life. And, I've got a new shot at getting back what I've lost in the past canine-wise. At least I’d like to think so.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Technicolor and a Place to call Home
When I moved from the big city to the cornfield a few months ago, a friend of mine asked me, “what are you going to write about THERE?” As if the cornfield was vanilla compared to the hustle and bustle of the big city and my brain would shrivel up in the midst of a seemingly simple lifestyle. I thought for a second that my friend could be right. I even panicked a little. Maybe there wouldn’t be enough to write about. Maybe it wouldn’t be as exciting of a life as the big city provided me.
It wasn’t until today that I realized that my friend was wrong. I’m busier now than I was in the city. I have family here, and I’ve made more friends than I ever did in the big city. The people here are three-dimensional, and I love that. The big city was a place for acquaintances and occurrences, I’ve learned. Not for anything of substance - at least for me. It was like a year vacation, really. A damn good one, but looking back in hindsight, the friends I made there were like the ones you meet at summer camp. Short-lived and bound to fizzle within a few months of my departure. Simply put, they were my martini friends. I love martinis, but I don't want them every day.
The Technicolor that the city provided is now starting to be replaced by the people around me. And, they're proving just as colorful - if not more so. My life has continued to gain momentum in the cornfield that I never really expected. When trying to figure out where I’d land and live years ago, my Dad told me something that didn’t quite stick until now. Life isn’t about geography. Home is where you make your home. Home is about the people around you, not the geography of where you live.
Poignant.
I’ve always loved Midwestern people, as I’m one of them. I was born here and left when I was one, but the cornfield mentality never left me, I guess. And, I'm damn proud of that. Especially when my city friends ask how many mullets I've seen today and I find myself getting slightly defensive in their stereotyping. When I talk about my upbringing in Atlanta and tell someone I'm from the south, I don't really own it like I should. I suppose because it’s true what they say...you can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the girl. I guess I'm living proof.
I live in an apartment complex, as I’ve done several times before, only this time – as a Midwesterner – I’ve realized that the people here are way more friendly than they were when I was living in apartments in cities like Atlanta or Boston. People here find you. I know several of my neighbors now, only because they all came over and introduced themselves without any prompting from me. One of my neighbors is a cute blonde, presumably in her late 30s. She’s got manicured nails, perfect hair, and a handsome live-in boyfriend. I was expecting her to be a Mary Kay saleswoman, so needless to say, I was shocked to find out that she’s in construction and that she is an ex-cop. I asked her why she gave up being a police woman, and she said, simply, “Because I shot and killed a 16-year old boy.” How’s that for interesting. She also has two different types of cancer – both back a second time from a few years in remission. She informed several of us in the complex that the cancer has returned, only because she didn’t want us “freaking out that her hair was falling out” from the chemo. She did so with a smile on her face, unassuming and trying to make us feel comfortable in the wake of her inner turmoil, I'm sure.
And, I thought I had problems.
My other favorite neighbors are two 20-something boys. I call them boys, because that’s what they are. They like to have parties and surf down their stairwell on baking sheets. Their stairwell happens to be above my living room, so this makes for interesting noise at 2 in the morning. I know this is what 20 year old boys do, so I try to let it go. Plus, they’re generally good boys, they do a lot of apologizing for the noise, and they always invite me to their keggers. It’s sort of a validation, seeing as how I’m old enough to be their very young and unwed mother.
My Dad tasked me with a three-year plan three years ago when I was in the midst of my divorce and starting over. I couldn’t even think about what I was having for dinner (as I probably had ten dollars in my checking account), let alone where I would land in three years. Well, it’s three years later, and here I am...standing up straight in the cornfield. Living in Technicolor. And coherent enough to write about it. He was right.
Home IS where you make it.
It wasn’t until today that I realized that my friend was wrong. I’m busier now than I was in the city. I have family here, and I’ve made more friends than I ever did in the big city. The people here are three-dimensional, and I love that. The big city was a place for acquaintances and occurrences, I’ve learned. Not for anything of substance - at least for me. It was like a year vacation, really. A damn good one, but looking back in hindsight, the friends I made there were like the ones you meet at summer camp. Short-lived and bound to fizzle within a few months of my departure. Simply put, they were my martini friends. I love martinis, but I don't want them every day.
The Technicolor that the city provided is now starting to be replaced by the people around me. And, they're proving just as colorful - if not more so. My life has continued to gain momentum in the cornfield that I never really expected. When trying to figure out where I’d land and live years ago, my Dad told me something that didn’t quite stick until now. Life isn’t about geography. Home is where you make your home. Home is about the people around you, not the geography of where you live.
Poignant.
I’ve always loved Midwestern people, as I’m one of them. I was born here and left when I was one, but the cornfield mentality never left me, I guess. And, I'm damn proud of that. Especially when my city friends ask how many mullets I've seen today and I find myself getting slightly defensive in their stereotyping. When I talk about my upbringing in Atlanta and tell someone I'm from the south, I don't really own it like I should. I suppose because it’s true what they say...you can take the girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the girl. I guess I'm living proof.
I live in an apartment complex, as I’ve done several times before, only this time – as a Midwesterner – I’ve realized that the people here are way more friendly than they were when I was living in apartments in cities like Atlanta or Boston. People here find you. I know several of my neighbors now, only because they all came over and introduced themselves without any prompting from me. One of my neighbors is a cute blonde, presumably in her late 30s. She’s got manicured nails, perfect hair, and a handsome live-in boyfriend. I was expecting her to be a Mary Kay saleswoman, so needless to say, I was shocked to find out that she’s in construction and that she is an ex-cop. I asked her why she gave up being a police woman, and she said, simply, “Because I shot and killed a 16-year old boy.” How’s that for interesting. She also has two different types of cancer – both back a second time from a few years in remission. She informed several of us in the complex that the cancer has returned, only because she didn’t want us “freaking out that her hair was falling out” from the chemo. She did so with a smile on her face, unassuming and trying to make us feel comfortable in the wake of her inner turmoil, I'm sure.
And, I thought I had problems.
My other favorite neighbors are two 20-something boys. I call them boys, because that’s what they are. They like to have parties and surf down their stairwell on baking sheets. Their stairwell happens to be above my living room, so this makes for interesting noise at 2 in the morning. I know this is what 20 year old boys do, so I try to let it go. Plus, they’re generally good boys, they do a lot of apologizing for the noise, and they always invite me to their keggers. It’s sort of a validation, seeing as how I’m old enough to be their very young and unwed mother.
My Dad tasked me with a three-year plan three years ago when I was in the midst of my divorce and starting over. I couldn’t even think about what I was having for dinner (as I probably had ten dollars in my checking account), let alone where I would land in three years. Well, it’s three years later, and here I am...standing up straight in the cornfield. Living in Technicolor. And coherent enough to write about it. He was right.
Home IS where you make it.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
Beautiful
What I'm listening to right now.
The time is right
I'm gonna pack my bags
And take that journey down the road
Cause over the mountain I see the bright sun shining
And I want to live inside the glow
Yeah
I wanna go to a place where I am nothing and everything
That exists between here and nowhere
I wanna go to a place where time has no consequences oh yeah
The sky opens to my prayers
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
Please understand that it's not that I don't care
But right now these walls are closing in on me
I love you more than I love life itself
But I need to find a place were I can breathe
I can breathe
I wanna go to a place where I can hold the intangible
And let go of the pain with all my might
I wanna go to a place where I am suspended in ecstasy
Some where between dark and light
Where wrong becomes right
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
~India Arie, "Beautiful"
The time is right
I'm gonna pack my bags
And take that journey down the road
Cause over the mountain I see the bright sun shining
And I want to live inside the glow
Yeah
I wanna go to a place where I am nothing and everything
That exists between here and nowhere
I wanna go to a place where time has no consequences oh yeah
The sky opens to my prayers
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
Please understand that it's not that I don't care
But right now these walls are closing in on me
I love you more than I love life itself
But I need to find a place were I can breathe
I can breathe
I wanna go to a place where I can hold the intangible
And let go of the pain with all my might
I wanna go to a place where I am suspended in ecstasy
Some where between dark and light
Where wrong becomes right
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
I wanna go to beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
~India Arie, "Beautiful"
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Vonnegutisms
I wanted all things to seem to make some sense,
so we could all be happy, yes, instead of tense.
And I made up lies, so they all fit nice,
and I made this sad world a paradise.
I don't know about you, but I practice a disorganized religion. I belong to an unholy disorder. We call ourselves "Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment."
...what made being alive almost worthwhile for me, besides music, was all the saints I met, who could be anywhere. By saints, I meant people who behaved decently in a strikingly indecent society.
Joe, a young man from Pittsburgh, came up to me with one request: "Please tell me it will be okay."
"Welcome to Earth, young man," I said. "It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, Joe, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of: Goddamn it, Joe, you've got to be kind!"
~Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country
so we could all be happy, yes, instead of tense.
And I made up lies, so they all fit nice,
and I made this sad world a paradise.
I don't know about you, but I practice a disorganized religion. I belong to an unholy disorder. We call ourselves "Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment."
...what made being alive almost worthwhile for me, besides music, was all the saints I met, who could be anywhere. By saints, I meant people who behaved decently in a strikingly indecent society.
Joe, a young man from Pittsburgh, came up to me with one request: "Please tell me it will be okay."
"Welcome to Earth, young man," I said. "It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, Joe, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of: Goddamn it, Joe, you've got to be kind!"
~Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Spring Fever and the new Hendrix Commitment
Today I want to be on a beach, somewhere in the Caribbean...cold Corona in one hand and the latest Vonnegut book in the other. I keep hearing Stephen Stills at the end of Suite: Judy Blue Eyes...I canNOT get that song out of my head today.
Que linda me la traiga Cuba,
la reina de la Mar Caribe.
Cielo sol no tiene sangreahi,
y que triste que no puedo vaya,
Oh va, oh va, va.
For those who have forgotten high school Spanish, the rough translation is:
How happy it makes me to think of Cuba,
the smiles of the Caribbean Sea,
Sunny sky has no blood, and how sad that
I'm not able to go
Oh go, oh go go
OK, maybe not Cuba, but I'd settle for a bucket of sand and a fridge full of Corona on my 39-degree porch at this point. I think they call that Spring Fever.
Instead of trying to find a beach, I did something today to cure my ADD-like antsiness and also to prove that I'm not afraid of commitment. I got myself a pet. Now, keep in mind that I am aware of my limitations at this particluar junction of life. I can't afford a dog, nor do I think I have the time or space to raise one properly (yet). I pondered something very low maintenance like a goldfish or a tarantula, and then I decided on the "I am dangerously close to being 14 again" pet. I got a teddy bear hamster. Black and white. And, I named him Hendrix. After Jimi, of course. He looks like a little rocker.
While pondering my rodent options at the pet store, I asked the sales girl what kind of life expectancy the different animals had. She said a guinea pig lived about 8 to 9 years. A hamster lived about 2.
The hamster was a slam dunk.
Hendrix is a cute little thing. He's quite the cuddler, and isn't very skittish like most hamsters. He squeaks occasionally just to let me know he's alive, and I got him this nifty little Volkswagen Bug to sleep in. It's a red, shiny, plastic little VW Bug with tiny hamster-size windows and everything. So far, he seems very happy in it. God knows I've been happy living out of mine for the past few years. I'm not exactly sure how to tell if a hamster is happy, but I'm assuming he is. I think I may have seen him smile at one point, but it's hard to see him through the tinted windows.
As I proudly walked to the counter with my box o' Hendrix, I talked to a nice gentleman in line who carried a small plastic bag.
"What's in the bag?" I asked.
"Oh, it's a dead, frozen rat to feed to my snake."
Lovely. And, it truly was a dead, frozen rat. He even opened the bag, took it out, and banged it on the counter so I would get the full effect of its solid-as-a-rock consistency.
I told him to stay away from my pet or I'd call the authorities.
So, I'm now with hamster. A commitment that will last me roughly 2 years. I haven't had that long of a commitment from anything since my divorce. A man, a job, or a place of residence. A two-year commitment is a big step, but I think I'm ready.
One small hamster step, one huge step for womankind.
Que linda me la traiga Cuba,
la reina de la Mar Caribe.
Cielo sol no tiene sangreahi,
y que triste que no puedo vaya,
Oh va, oh va, va.
For those who have forgotten high school Spanish, the rough translation is:
How happy it makes me to think of Cuba,
the smiles of the Caribbean Sea,
Sunny sky has no blood, and how sad that
I'm not able to go
Oh go, oh go go
OK, maybe not Cuba, but I'd settle for a bucket of sand and a fridge full of Corona on my 39-degree porch at this point. I think they call that Spring Fever.
Instead of trying to find a beach, I did something today to cure my ADD-like antsiness and also to prove that I'm not afraid of commitment. I got myself a pet. Now, keep in mind that I am aware of my limitations at this particluar junction of life. I can't afford a dog, nor do I think I have the time or space to raise one properly (yet). I pondered something very low maintenance like a goldfish or a tarantula, and then I decided on the "I am dangerously close to being 14 again" pet. I got a teddy bear hamster. Black and white. And, I named him Hendrix. After Jimi, of course. He looks like a little rocker.
While pondering my rodent options at the pet store, I asked the sales girl what kind of life expectancy the different animals had. She said a guinea pig lived about 8 to 9 years. A hamster lived about 2.
The hamster was a slam dunk.
Hendrix is a cute little thing. He's quite the cuddler, and isn't very skittish like most hamsters. He squeaks occasionally just to let me know he's alive, and I got him this nifty little Volkswagen Bug to sleep in. It's a red, shiny, plastic little VW Bug with tiny hamster-size windows and everything. So far, he seems very happy in it. God knows I've been happy living out of mine for the past few years. I'm not exactly sure how to tell if a hamster is happy, but I'm assuming he is. I think I may have seen him smile at one point, but it's hard to see him through the tinted windows.
As I proudly walked to the counter with my box o' Hendrix, I talked to a nice gentleman in line who carried a small plastic bag.
"What's in the bag?" I asked.
"Oh, it's a dead, frozen rat to feed to my snake."
Lovely. And, it truly was a dead, frozen rat. He even opened the bag, took it out, and banged it on the counter so I would get the full effect of its solid-as-a-rock consistency.
I told him to stay away from my pet or I'd call the authorities.
So, I'm now with hamster. A commitment that will last me roughly 2 years. I haven't had that long of a commitment from anything since my divorce. A man, a job, or a place of residence. A two-year commitment is a big step, but I think I'm ready.
One small hamster step, one huge step for womankind.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Mickey vs. Goofy
Yesterday was Valentine's Day, but it was also my father's birthday. A true Aquarian, Dad decided that the best way to celebrate his 60th year on the planet is to go to the one place where everyone acts like a giddy 7-year old: Disney World.
So, my sister and I shall meet at the airport today, leaving the chilly midwest air and bulky coats behind us. We'll replace them with tank tops and sunglasses as we arrive in sunny Florida, wait in lines with America's finest, and act like immature children all in the process.
I haven't been to Disney in 22 years. I'm sure it's changed a lot...as I recall, Mickey always sort of creeped me out. I'm partial to Goofy. I'm a sucker for the underdog, after all. My sister has an itinerary planned, my stepsister has hers, and my father and stepmother are about to pee their pants with excitement. Because they have no grandchildren yet, they will relish in watching their 30-something collective offspring act like toddlers while riding Space Mountain. (Toddlers that plan on drinking around the world at Epcot, that is...)
I've been so busy these past few weeks, I really haven't had time to be excited, but today I truly am. Bring on the rides!
And, because I'm family oriented, I'll do my part to keep my kinfolk from getting arrested at the most magical place on earth.
So, my sister and I shall meet at the airport today, leaving the chilly midwest air and bulky coats behind us. We'll replace them with tank tops and sunglasses as we arrive in sunny Florida, wait in lines with America's finest, and act like immature children all in the process.
I haven't been to Disney in 22 years. I'm sure it's changed a lot...as I recall, Mickey always sort of creeped me out. I'm partial to Goofy. I'm a sucker for the underdog, after all. My sister has an itinerary planned, my stepsister has hers, and my father and stepmother are about to pee their pants with excitement. Because they have no grandchildren yet, they will relish in watching their 30-something collective offspring act like toddlers while riding Space Mountain. (Toddlers that plan on drinking around the world at Epcot, that is...)
I've been so busy these past few weeks, I really haven't had time to be excited, but today I truly am. Bring on the rides!
And, because I'm family oriented, I'll do my part to keep my kinfolk from getting arrested at the most magical place on earth.
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