Return of the Procrastinator
I'm back. There's just something about weddings that acts like a champion muckraker to throw up all those little not-flattering facets to your relatives, and yank off their polite coverings. -_-;;; Maybe it's something about how everybody is trying to be nice and to be festive and to be... just this thing, this other person, instead of who they are. I certainly enjoy weddings more when the bride/groom is a friend and not a relative, Jesus God. 9_9
So. The original flight was canceled (plane broke), and the substitute flight was on a smaller plane, but even with the two hour initial delay, got us there faster because it was a direct flight without a four-hour layover in Salt Lake.
I flew to California, to Los Angeles, and my family and I picked up my grandparents in Burbank, where we were supposed to have landed. It is Late, as in Dark, and nobody has fed me since lunchtime. I am so hungry I am not hungry any more, and being hungry makes me one of two things: 1. depressed and tired-little-kid cranky, or 2. angry, frustrated, and bitch-cranky. As well as give me difficulty in processing, concentrating, problem solving, and entertaining more than one thought at once. Also I am very, very tired.
And get to navigate a car full of my parents and grandparents and brother. Also my grandparents rarely stop talking. I love my grandparents, but they are not the greatest people to have around when you are tired or require efficiency, and they are guaranteed to make any process or situation slower and worse. My grandmother does it because she is eighty-five and no longer quite all there. My grandfather does it because he's ninety, sharp as he was the day he got married, and can't stand it when somebody gets more attention than he does. Even if this someone is his childlike wife.
This often results in competitive talking, and my grandfather getting my grandmother going ON PURPOSE, so we will pay attention to him, as he knows nobody is actually listening to my grandmother recite the taxonomy of a houseplant. We've heard it before. Many times. That day. We now dread hearing his voice ask "Keila, what plant is this?"
It makes her happy, she likes talking about plants.
It also brings any other action, like walking across the street, to a screeching halt. On this trip "ficus benjamina" became code for "oh my GOD, NOT AGAIN."
My cousin got married. It was a lovely wedding, and I had fun, and my brother and I did the favors with our aunt. We folded 100 white paper boxes, and then trimmed 104 squares of waxed paper. After I proved better at folding waxed paper around little fudge hearts (folding about two for every one he did, if not faster), I folded waxed paper around 104 little fudge hearts while he stuffed paper crinkles into 100 boxes. Our uncle sat with us while we did this, and watched Ben Hur.
And when I get married, I am hiring a florist. I don't care how much cheaper it is to order the flowers and do it "yourself," (code: "get my aunts and cousins to do it the night before") good people who love their family do not make them fight with 600 orchid stems and a bush-worth of hydrangea the night before a morning wedding.
Did I mention we checked out of the hotel the morning of the wedding? We checked out of the hotel the morning of the wedding, and stuffed all our stuff into my grandparents' room. We changed out of wedding duds into civvies in my grandparents' room after the reception, and headed south that day, for Disneyland.
I went to the beach and saw seals, an otter, various water-birds, and a pod of dolphins. This was at Point Mugu, where I went often as a small child, when my father was stationed there. We went back on the way down from Santa Barbara and Carpinteria (wedding and hotel sites, respectively) to Anaheim (Land of Mouse) because my brother had bought something on-base he had to exchange for another size, and we went to the beach because I couldn't remember the seals, despite seeing them often as a small child. I only have two memories of Point Mugu (three if you count distant recollections of driving through farmland to get there), and the seals are not among them. (1. finding a specific shell, which I still have, and 2. the missile park.)
There are seals at Point Mugu. And otters, dolphins, assorted birds, and a flotilla of RVs. It's a very nice base.
Disney was Disney. Those of you who know me when I was younger (which is probably almost none of you, except possibly mercy_angel_09's husband, and that's iffy) might know there's this thing about me and roller coasters. You would be shocked to know I went on my childhood nemeses: Star Tours and Space Mountain. The former I had been on and was terrified by right up until I refused to go on it, and the latter was so touted by my contemporaries (who were trying to puff up their accomplishment of riding it) that I refused to try it, ever. I like Star Tours now, and Space Mountain I am unsure of. I'd have to go on it again to decide. This is tentatively positive, as I despised Splash Mountain the minute I perceived its existence. I have been on it three times, and absolutely hated it every single time. Theme park rides that involve that weightless feeling of falling terrify me in the Very Bad Way.
That said, I went on Tower of Terror. Voluntarily, right after Space Mountain, and with the full knowledge that I would not like this ride. I went on it, and by the time my father and I got to the "underground" waiting area, fluttering resolute panic had changed into a rather cranky and resigned fatalism. I wanted to go on the ride, fully cognizant of exactly what was going to happen and exactly how much I would not like it. It was a very weird experience for me, wanting to do something I knew I would not enjoy, and because usually there's this fear of the unknown, or that zesty edge of anxiety from building something up to be more than it is (*coughspacemountaincough*). Normally my control issues freak the fuck out at the prospect of rides like this, but not for Tower of Terror. This is because my control issues were responsible for my being there at all- the only thing they did not do is choose my seat.
So, I went on Tower of Terror. If you've seen the Disney made-for-TV movie of the same name, you know the plot of the ride. It's the same, just without resolution. At the top the doors open and look out over the park, which is probably pretty cool. I wouldn't know, because a complete search and rescue team could not have pried open my eyelids even with the Jaws of Life and the cooperation of structural engineers and a demolition crew. I have learned from other rides I do not like that not looking, while not exactly better, at least gives denial a fighting chance. I also am vaguely surprised that I did not break a nail holding onto the pathetic excuse for a handgrip, especially given how I twisted my ankle bracing my feet against the seat in front of me.
It's a good thing for the park that the ride is made of steel and not, say, fiberglass. Because something built more like the Splash Mountain log would've probably been cracked by my foot slamming into it.
Off the ride, I am pretty sure I sounded as shaky as I was. My brother was laughing himself into breathing difficulties in front of the photo display monitor, and my mother was giggling. My father, at my side as we exited, was laughing. I am having a hard time not calling my family unfortunate names in the retelling, though I had no such problems at the time. I was too busy chatting with Hysteria to see if we had time for one another, or if I'd get to drive my brain by myself for a while longer, despite very recent evidence that I was obviously not very responsible at it and should probably retake the Survival Exam.
My father and brother had both been on the ride before, and their picture showed them laughing like loons. My brother likes to describe my face as "the bitter beer face" of Keystone commercial fame. It isn't quite like that. Right when I got off the ride, he gasped out, in-between snickers, "you look like you're going to piss yourself!"
"No," I said reasonably and levelly, and NOT looking at the screen in case it triggered a flashback, "I do not. That is the face of someone wound so tense that it is impossible for me to piss myself. Pissing or shitting yourself requires some degree of relaxation. There is absolutely no relaxation anywhere in that picture. There is STILL no relaxation here," I snapped, with a glassy-eyed glare. "It also requires surprise, which also did not and is not going to happen. As it is, I am probably not going to be able to pee any time in the next four hours," which was true, "and we are going to see The Muppet Show. NOW."
I highly recommend the Muppet Show at Disney's California Adventure.
So. The original flight was canceled (plane broke), and the substitute flight was on a smaller plane, but even with the two hour initial delay, got us there faster because it was a direct flight without a four-hour layover in Salt Lake.
I flew to California, to Los Angeles, and my family and I picked up my grandparents in Burbank, where we were supposed to have landed. It is Late, as in Dark, and nobody has fed me since lunchtime. I am so hungry I am not hungry any more, and being hungry makes me one of two things: 1. depressed and tired-little-kid cranky, or 2. angry, frustrated, and bitch-cranky. As well as give me difficulty in processing, concentrating, problem solving, and entertaining more than one thought at once. Also I am very, very tired.
And get to navigate a car full of my parents and grandparents and brother. Also my grandparents rarely stop talking. I love my grandparents, but they are not the greatest people to have around when you are tired or require efficiency, and they are guaranteed to make any process or situation slower and worse. My grandmother does it because she is eighty-five and no longer quite all there. My grandfather does it because he's ninety, sharp as he was the day he got married, and can't stand it when somebody gets more attention than he does. Even if this someone is his childlike wife.
This often results in competitive talking, and my grandfather getting my grandmother going ON PURPOSE, so we will pay attention to him, as he knows nobody is actually listening to my grandmother recite the taxonomy of a houseplant. We've heard it before. Many times. That day. We now dread hearing his voice ask "Keila, what plant is this?"
It makes her happy, she likes talking about plants.
It also brings any other action, like walking across the street, to a screeching halt. On this trip "ficus benjamina" became code for "oh my GOD, NOT AGAIN."
My cousin got married. It was a lovely wedding, and I had fun, and my brother and I did the favors with our aunt. We folded 100 white paper boxes, and then trimmed 104 squares of waxed paper. After I proved better at folding waxed paper around little fudge hearts (folding about two for every one he did, if not faster), I folded waxed paper around 104 little fudge hearts while he stuffed paper crinkles into 100 boxes. Our uncle sat with us while we did this, and watched Ben Hur.
And when I get married, I am hiring a florist. I don't care how much cheaper it is to order the flowers and do it "yourself," (code: "get my aunts and cousins to do it the night before") good people who love their family do not make them fight with 600 orchid stems and a bush-worth of hydrangea the night before a morning wedding.
Did I mention we checked out of the hotel the morning of the wedding? We checked out of the hotel the morning of the wedding, and stuffed all our stuff into my grandparents' room. We changed out of wedding duds into civvies in my grandparents' room after the reception, and headed south that day, for Disneyland.
I went to the beach and saw seals, an otter, various water-birds, and a pod of dolphins. This was at Point Mugu, where I went often as a small child, when my father was stationed there. We went back on the way down from Santa Barbara and Carpinteria (wedding and hotel sites, respectively) to Anaheim (Land of Mouse) because my brother had bought something on-base he had to exchange for another size, and we went to the beach because I couldn't remember the seals, despite seeing them often as a small child. I only have two memories of Point Mugu (three if you count distant recollections of driving through farmland to get there), and the seals are not among them. (1. finding a specific shell, which I still have, and 2. the missile park.)
There are seals at Point Mugu. And otters, dolphins, assorted birds, and a flotilla of RVs. It's a very nice base.
Disney was Disney. Those of you who know me when I was younger (which is probably almost none of you, except possibly mercy_angel_09's husband, and that's iffy) might know there's this thing about me and roller coasters. You would be shocked to know I went on my childhood nemeses: Star Tours and Space Mountain. The former I had been on and was terrified by right up until I refused to go on it, and the latter was so touted by my contemporaries (who were trying to puff up their accomplishment of riding it) that I refused to try it, ever. I like Star Tours now, and Space Mountain I am unsure of. I'd have to go on it again to decide. This is tentatively positive, as I despised Splash Mountain the minute I perceived its existence. I have been on it three times, and absolutely hated it every single time. Theme park rides that involve that weightless feeling of falling terrify me in the Very Bad Way.
That said, I went on Tower of Terror. Voluntarily, right after Space Mountain, and with the full knowledge that I would not like this ride. I went on it, and by the time my father and I got to the "underground" waiting area, fluttering resolute panic had changed into a rather cranky and resigned fatalism. I wanted to go on the ride, fully cognizant of exactly what was going to happen and exactly how much I would not like it. It was a very weird experience for me, wanting to do something I knew I would not enjoy, and because usually there's this fear of the unknown, or that zesty edge of anxiety from building something up to be more than it is (*coughspacemountaincough*). Normally my control issues freak the fuck out at the prospect of rides like this, but not for Tower of Terror. This is because my control issues were responsible for my being there at all- the only thing they did not do is choose my seat.
So, I went on Tower of Terror. If you've seen the Disney made-for-TV movie of the same name, you know the plot of the ride. It's the same, just without resolution. At the top the doors open and look out over the park, which is probably pretty cool. I wouldn't know, because a complete search and rescue team could not have pried open my eyelids even with the Jaws of Life and the cooperation of structural engineers and a demolition crew. I have learned from other rides I do not like that not looking, while not exactly better, at least gives denial a fighting chance. I also am vaguely surprised that I did not break a nail holding onto the pathetic excuse for a handgrip, especially given how I twisted my ankle bracing my feet against the seat in front of me.
It's a good thing for the park that the ride is made of steel and not, say, fiberglass. Because something built more like the Splash Mountain log would've probably been cracked by my foot slamming into it.
Off the ride, I am pretty sure I sounded as shaky as I was. My brother was laughing himself into breathing difficulties in front of the photo display monitor, and my mother was giggling. My father, at my side as we exited, was laughing. I am having a hard time not calling my family unfortunate names in the retelling, though I had no such problems at the time. I was too busy chatting with Hysteria to see if we had time for one another, or if I'd get to drive my brain by myself for a while longer, despite very recent evidence that I was obviously not very responsible at it and should probably retake the Survival Exam.
My father and brother had both been on the ride before, and their picture showed them laughing like loons. My brother likes to describe my face as "the bitter beer face" of Keystone commercial fame. It isn't quite like that. Right when I got off the ride, he gasped out, in-between snickers, "you look like you're going to piss yourself!"
"No," I said reasonably and levelly, and NOT looking at the screen in case it triggered a flashback, "I do not. That is the face of someone wound so tense that it is impossible for me to piss myself. Pissing or shitting yourself requires some degree of relaxation. There is absolutely no relaxation anywhere in that picture. There is STILL no relaxation here," I snapped, with a glassy-eyed glare. "It also requires surprise, which also did not and is not going to happen. As it is, I am probably not going to be able to pee any time in the next four hours," which was true, "and we are going to see The Muppet Show. NOW."
I highly recommend the Muppet Show at Disney's California Adventure.