It's A Small Parking Lot After All - Our Search For Our Car At Disney World

The following story is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the incredibly stupid....

My family and I are huge Disney fans - we have a nice collection of Disney DVD's started, our rec-room is a shrine to all things Disney (Mickey Mouse phone, a Disney princess playroom, etc.), our two-year-old daughter is convinced she's Tinkerbell (she was conceived with some happy thoughts and pixie dust, so who knows!) and if the Disney company ever reveals that Walt is indeed frozen, we'd probably try to bid for him on e-bay. He'd look nice next to the big screen T.V. So now that I have hopefully painted a successful scary picture of our obsession, you will probably conclude that the Mecca for Disney nuts like us is - of course - Walt Disney World.

It was with great excitement that we set out for Florida in our pimped-out Disney mini van (um, "pimped" is not an officially licensed word that the Disney company uses to describe things - so don't tell them). Have you seen a tan mini van with a Mickey Mouse antennae ornament, a Disney trimmed license plate frame that reads, "Been there, done that, going back", and soap-written words on the windows that read, "Disney World or Bust"? Yeah, that's us - we know we're idiots, just keep driving.

Once in the "most magical place on Earth", we pulled out all the stops. We went to character breakfasts to get Chip and Dale's autographs (which in Disney World, are not hunky men wearing nothing but a bow tie and a g-string). We spent way too much money in the gift shops buying stupid hats. Side note - only in Disney World can a person be taken seriously by others while wearing a Goofy hat with floppy ears. We ate all the best foods - Dole Whips, Chocolate Covered Mickey Ear Ice Cream Bars, and Ghiradelli Hot Fudge Sundaes which, if I want to keep this a family-friendly post, I won't say what they were better than. Let's just say that if I had eaten a Ghiradelli's Hot Fudge Sundae before I met my husband, I would be an overweight single woman with no kids.

It was on our first visit to the Magic Kingdom where we made our fatal mistake. So happy and excited were we to actually be at the House of Mouse, that we hastily parked our car, collected all our supplies for the day (stroller, video camera, stupid hats, etc), and took the monorail over the moat that separates the parking lot from the Magic Kingdom.....without making a mental note of where we had actually parked the car. We quickly came to realize our mistake at 10:00 at night after an exhausting day of fun when we got off the monorail, scanned the vast expanse that is the Magic Kingdom parking lot, and realized we were going to play a game that wasn't anywhere in our Disney Travel guides, but was a major motion picture - Dude, Where the Hell is our Car?

The Magic Kingdom parking lot is so huge that there are tram-cars that transport Disney visitors to the furthest realms and outer regions of the asphalt expanse for those unfortunate enough to be parked there. We at least knew, thankfully, that we were not in that category. We had been one of the first families to arrive, so our car was somewhere up near the front of the lot. That still did not make our job any easier. Our effort in futility began with an incredulous statement from my husband, "Let's just look for a tan mini van near the front."

"Um, honey - that describes every other mini van in this parking lot", I say trying to stay positive.

"Yes, but ours has the Mickey Mouse antennae ornament on it."

"Have you forgotten where we are vacationing!?" I say looking at an array of bobbing Mickey Mouse antennaes starring back at me.

"Well, I remember that we were parked facing grass...."my husband says with a thoughtful stare like he's Columbo trying to figure out "who dunnit".

At this point, I was thinking to myself that I hope my husband is never called to be an eye-witness for a criminal case because his testimony might begin with, "Well, I remember he had a face..."

" I think we are parked in one of the sections named after a Dwarf..."says my hopeful husband.

"You do know that there are seven Dwarfs, right?" (and I'm thinking that we are probably parked in the "Dopey" section)

"Ahh Crap."

Well, after a bit of aimless wandering and a little Divine Intervention, we found our mini van (parked facing grass) in the Minnie Mouse section ( she was the elusive eighth dwarf in Snow White, but got left on the cutting room floor). Next time, we're taking a plane. Hopefully we'll remember what terminal we board at or we'll have a lot of convincing to do when we try telling our kids that Disney World has been moved to Cleveland.

It's The End of the World As We Know It....

There's been a lot of interest lately with the "End of Days". Arnold did a movie about it, the "Left Behind" series of books are best-sellers, and now NBC has a hit on their hands with "Revelations". People want to know how the last chapter of human history ends. Well, I think I got it all figured out. Forget the psychics and political analysts - watch the animals.

You know how they say that animals have a sixth sense when it comes to danger - dogs run away just before an earthquake, horses jump fences to escape an impending tornado, and when the recent Tsunami hit, not a single animal was found among the carnage. So as I'm watching the latest news reports, I'm starting to see a disturbing trend that no reporter has picked up on yet - the animals are going crazy. Whales are beaching themselves, Elephants are stomping through store-fronts, Buffalo are roaming onto tennis courts, and right now on my local news, a wayward bear has found himself up in a tree...and I don't live anywhere near bear country. Where are these animals trying to escape to? I'm telling you people, these pachederm prophets and whale wise-men know something we don't and they're trying to get the hell out of Dodge.

This leads me to an interesting side note. The proponents of evolution and natural selection obviously don't believe their own theory because if they did, they wouldn't be trying so hard to capture and suppress these animal escapees. If humans are the result of "survival of the fittest" then why don't we just let these wild beasts alone and see what happens? We don't because we've all seen "Gladiator" and know the end result. The world would be ruled by tigers....and Russell Crowe - scary thought.

So the next time you watch the news, don't be surprised to see footage of an escaped Gorilla carrying a sandwich board that reads, "Repent Sinners, The End is Near."

"Oy" To The World

I love Christmas. It's my favorite holiday - hands down - and in my family, we go all out. We hike out to the tree farm to cut our own evergreen, live on a steady diet of hot cocoa and candy canes, view "It's a Wonderful Life" at least 20 times ("Zu-Zu's petals...there they are!"...."Teacher says, 'everytime a bell rings, an angel gets its wings'."), and start playing Christmas Carols the day after Thanksgiving. It's this last point that got me to thinking.

As I was listening to my favorite Yule-tide tunes this past Christmas as sung by Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, I was suddenly aware that something was wrong with this picture.....Hmmmm, what could it be? Oh, I know.... Neil and Barbra are JEWISH! Now, I love my Jewish brothers and sisters - have Bab's greatest hits and I've seen Neil in concert ("Sweet Caroline...Ba, Ba, Ba!") - but I must ask, "Why are they singing traditional Christian holiday songs?" I mean, when they are singing, "Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear Savior's birth..." umm, no - according to your traditional Jewish teachings, your Savior hasn't arrived yet - His flight's been delayed. Now I know they have the right to sing whatever song they want. I'm just saying it's as believable as Elton John singing a love song to "Nikita".

Then I got to wondering why this phenomenon doesn't go both ways - I think some traditional Chanukah songs as sung by popular non-Jewish artists deserve some equal air-time on the radio. How about "The Dreidle Song" as sung by the Chairman of the Board - Frank Sinatra? "Dreidle, Dreidle, Dreidle...Doo-Bee, Doo-Bee, Doo!" Or "Hava Nagela" as sung by Elvis Presley?
"Ha, Ha, Ha, Hava Nagela!....Thank you, thank you very much."

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Sit-Down Comedian has left the building

My Secret Pet Peeve

I consider myself a pretty easy-going person. Oh sure, I have occasional bouts of road-rage and homicidal thoughts, but for the most part, nothing really gets to me. (okay - that was a joke, so don't go getting your undies in a bundle - which reminds me of another pet peeve involving thong underwear - but I digress) My beef is with our society's obsession and over-use of acronyms and abbreviations. Have we become so lazy as a nation that we can't even take the time to fully pronounce words?

The biggest culprit of this is fast-food restaurants. It's like, "Hey, look at us! We're so efficient at swiftly handing out crappy food that it even reflects in our name! Who has time to say Burger King? That's so slow! We're BK! We'll serve you ASAP and we're open 24/7, 365 - even on X-MAS!"

Sometimes advertisers use acronyms to disguise the politically incorrect message of their product. Case-in-point - KFC. Now we all know full well that that stands for "Kentucky Fried Chicken" That's right - FRIED. Made with the colonel's secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices, dipped in a big ol' vat of grease that would make your arteries clog just looking at it -FRIED! But if consumers were reminded of that, they may not buy the product so instead, KFC comes up with one of the dumbest advertising campaigns ever - "We'll pretend it stands for 'Kitchen-Fresh Chicken'!" This commercial, I must admit, almost fooled me. I was listening to the TV when I heard the people on the ad raving, "Hey, someone brought Kitchen Fresh Chicken into the office!" I was thinking to myself, "Kitchen Fresh Chicken? Where can I find one of those....HEY!" Come on people - changing the name of the restaurant isn't going to magically change the heart-stopping qualities of your chicken. I imagine some good ol' boys from Kentucky with a very convincing gun-rack thought the same thing because these ads were quickly pulled.

I say, if you're going to sell a product that sets you up for a triple by-pass surgery, then own it.
Say it loud and say it proud - WE ARE KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN! AND WE SERVE MASH POTATOES AND GRAVY TOO! Give the public a choice in whether or not they want to risk their health for a few fantastically yummy moments of fried chicken heaven, but don't treat us like idiots. Personally, what keeps me away from Kentucky Fried Chicken is an image that has been burned into my brain of a 500 lb., bed-ridden man on the Geraldo Show that was eating his greasy KFC dinner from his bedside table..."I wash myself with a rag on a stick." (Bart Simpson envisioning himself as a fat man in one of the funniest Simpsons episodes ever)

So now that I have ranted on and on about acronyms and abbreviations, I must be on my way...
T.T.F.N! and TGIF! (LOL!)

Rosie O'Donnell Hates Me

So like seemingly hundreds of other adoring fans out there who have discovered Ms. O'Donnell has a blog site, I have been checking her site daily and adding my two cents here and there when the mood strikes me. I've been pretty casual about it - no blog-stalking messages, no derogatory terms used ( and believe me, I saw plenty of both left on her comment section) - I was on my best behavior. So it came rather as a shock to see a nice banner printed in bold letters across the top of my computer screen: "Banned by webmaster. Your comments will not be posted."

At first, I was in denial: Oh that banner isn't meant for me - it's meant for the crazy guy three posts down who is convinced Ms. O'Donnell is the reincarnation of Mama Cass who visits him in his dreams at night and wants to read his manifesto. However, try as I might to post, I was met by rejection every time. My posts would just - poof! - disappear into cyber-space, leaving me to stare at the banner still printed on my computer screen - taunting me. I felt like a kid being left out of a really cool club because I didn't know the secret password.

Next came the paranoia: Why does Rosie O'Donnell hate me? Maybe she clicked onto my homepage link, read my personal profile, saw that I liked John Denver's music which she secretly despises, and now has a personal vendetta against me and the Denver Broncos. Or maybe she took my joke about the gay Quakers the wrong way because after all, it is a well-known fact that she is indeed..... a Quaker.

Of course, all of this is assuming, with my Queen-size ego, that Rosie O'Donnell actually cared or even read what I had to say. This could all be the result of a simple computer glich, but it has left me a little wounded to know that somewhere out there in cyber-space, Rosie O'Donnell, media icon, hates me. Oh why Rosie? Why do you forsake me? This is really messing with my head - I might need therapy after this experience.