Archive for March 2012
the bitch in the back of the cab
If Peter Pan makes an appearance,
I'm going to be pissed.
After witnessing the horror of criminally sunburned Midwesterners blister aboard a Disney cruise ship for four days, I couldn’t wait to commence “Spring Break: Part Two.”
It would take place primarily in British pubs and not at all star Lilo & Stitch.
I might be a decent mother, but I’m not fucking Mother Teresa, and I was done with trying to figure out how to have a “magical day” in a 24-square-inch bathroom struggling to peel off a *wetsuit from a wriggling child whose bowels just discovered an interesting math fact:
Excessive hotdog consumption + Multiple trips down the Aquaduck waterslide = Asstastrophe
So, because I might not be that smart, I decided there was no better way to recover from the claustrophobia and exhaustion of clamoring for a lounge chair on the Disney Dream pool deck than to turn around the night you disembark and board an 8-hour red-eye to London.
Where’s my vice grip; these head wings suck
British Airways offers several different classes of Transatlantic travel that can be confusing at first, but really should only be broken down into two categories:
- Lay-flat bed
- You’re not fucking sleeping no matter how much Ambien you take
After attempts to use our daughter’s 529 to pay for the first class seats failed, we opted to heed my globetrotting brother’s advice: “drugs are an excellent alternative to first class.”
So armed with a bottle of Valium and tremendous gratitude Tinkerbell was nowhere in sight, we arrived at our pseudo-business class seats which hovered somewhere between lay-flat beds and shoot me in the face.
I think British Airways referred to our upholstered medieval torture chambers as “World Traveller Plus” seats. Apparently you pay extra for a lice napkin, head wings and enough free alcohol to easily overdose when combined with your Valium.
Waiting just long enough to place earplugs in my nostrils to block out the stench of dinner, I sucked down my two Valium hoping not to wake up again until we had arrived in the UK (which, as you know, is short for “Ugly Kingdom”).
Sadly, I woke up about every 20 minutes or so, proving what I have always thought to be the case: my head is HUGE. It is so heavy, no head wing could hold it in place. I would wake up to discover it was tipped back and wedged in between our reclined seats, affording everyone a really awesome view of the back of my throat and my deviated septum.
Welcome to where even your Starbucks-stained teeth look white
The next morning, the traveler who knew to bring a toothbrush and the other who thought dragon breath could easily be combated with a piece of Orbit gum, made their way to the Milestone Hotel.
The polite British receptionist wearing the same exact barrettes I sported in my 5th grade school picture informed us that our AmEx Platinum status had earned us an upgrade to the mumble, mumble room. I knew better than to get too excited because unless you hear Presidential Suite, there’s almost never an upgrade. Mumble, mumble rooms are just the shitty rooms you booked hoping for an upgrade.
There was no time to inquire though as Benny Hill was waiting nearby, eager to show us around. I listened to Benny the bellman during our hotel tour with the same impatience I try not to show while nodding through restaurant specials when I already know what I want to order. But I half-heard him say our hotel was once an “insane asylum.”
Just as I was trying to recover from the confusion of how that could be considered a selling point, our guide thrust open the doors to our mumble, mumble room.
To say my first sight was a resident of the flat six inches from our window wearing a tattered white undershirt and boxer shorts while rinsing out his teacup in the sink would only be a little bit of hyperbole, since the sink covered him from the waist down.
That being said, minus a funhouse mirror that accentuated how Kardashian my ass got on the cruise, the room itself was richly appointed, newly renovated and equipped with comfy slippers – not the crappy hotel ones that are the equivalent to walking around on a piece of gauze.
“Is it okay, ma’am?” the bellman asked me with a look in his eyes that said, “I’m sorry your room sucks.”
Now is a good time to point out that our 400-pound a night hotel boasts “most rooms overlooking Kensington Gardens.” No where did I read about the room category that included sweeping vistas of the man’s hairy earlobes in the next flat.
Does this monument make me look fat?
So after trying to score a non-boxer shorts view, we were informed we could have a Kensington Gardens view room the following day.
“We’re not going to be in the room that much,” Brian reminded me, with a look in his eyes that said, “You make me pack my shit up again and I’ll kill you in your sleep.”
Insane asylum explained
It wasn’t until we woke up the next day that we discovered the Milestone’s connection to insanity: the beds.
If you have ever been ejected from an airplane without a parachute and woken up in a concrete parking lot with a speed bump for a pillow, then you might know what it’s like to sleep in our mumble, mumble bed.
The bed was so excruciatingly hard, not only did it explain why the hotel rendered people crazy at one point, but it made me think the Londoners passed out on the streets and park benches weren’t actually homeless. They were just staying at our hotel.
I’m not dignified enough to live here
On our way to the Camden Street Market, our cab driver was trying to prepare us for the market’s unique combination of tattoo artists, gypsies, skinheads, antique dealers, artists and immigrants thrusting chicken curry samples down our gullet. In one of the most unintelligible Hackney accents ever, he was ranting about how the tattoo ink on David Beckham’s body probably outweighs his wife.
“That wouldn’t be too hard,” I quipped, in the sarcastic tone I reserve for… well… pretty much everything I say.
“Bwwwwwwwaaahahahaha,” he laughed so hard he coughed a piece of his esophagus onto the windshield before loudly proclaiming, “I luv’ a BITCH in the back a’my cab!”
Brian tipped him 150 percent.
And I made a mental note that if pointing out that Victoria Beckham hasn’t eaten solid food since the late 90s was considered “bitchy,” then I could never live here.
Put the lotion in the basket
The punishment for being too exhausted to locate your car? Dismemberment.
The one positive to sleeping on a concrete slab for several days is that it made our flight back home seem luxurious. After turning down a pastrami sandwich wrapped in tin foil (like I said, “luxury”), I decided to embrace my oversized melon, and just wedge it myself in between the seats to catch a few hours of sleep.
Although attractive, my drooling probably was not that conducive to Brian sleeping, so by the time we arrived in Tampa, he was suffering from a sleep-deprivation-induced amnesia, and we could not find his car.
I was not alarmed. This is a daily occurrence for me.
But he was ready to blow up the TPA parking garage in frustration. So I knew I either needed to intervene or call my mommy to pick me up before he detonated the C4.
It was then that I spotted a man wearing a “customer assistance” vest, carrying a pad and spitting out sunflower seeds.
I asked for his help before I got close enough to see that his hair had not been washed since before he was placed on a cocktail of psychotropic drugs that may have curbed his desire to chop me up into little pieces, but did nothing to thwart his tremors or the serial killer look in his red-rimmed eyes.
He suggested Brian go to the police station two floors down so that they could help him locate the inconspicuous, compact, easily lost HUMMER.
And, that’s right. Leave me here with the luggage and imminent fear of death.
Luckily, I watched Nightline enough to know that if you make yourself “human” to a murderer, they might not want to eat your liver.
Hannibal loses his train of thought. Stares into the distance. Twitches. Doubting he works there, I text my Will.
So I decided to befriend Hannibal.
“So…do people lose their oversized, gas-guzzling SUVs often?” I’d ask with a smile that begged, “please don’t kill me…I have a daughter who’s at home waiting for a Big Ben piggy bank and Harrods bear.”
His response would include some twitching, looking away and then nervously jotting down my dimensions on a legal pad, presumably to determine how many of my limbs he could fit in the recycling bin.
Several minutes later and long after I texted my mother my Last Will & Testament, Brian announced that we were in the wrong parking garage.
I never thought I’d be so relieved we were idiots!
On the drive home, I couldn’t help but wonder though…if Hannibal was a parking garage “customer assistance” worker, why couldn’t he have suggested we were in the wrong garage?
Whatever. I’m just glad this bitch’s head was too big to fit in the basket.
*Floridians understand that any water temperature below 90 degrees is not acceptable, hence the wetsuits. As they say in London: brilliant
not my dream
Disney Dreamer Rockin' Out at the Welcome Party
Not only is our Christmas elf Jingles a bit of a drunk who often forgets to hide after a night of revelry, but this year he decided to hijack our Spring break plans by scheduling a Bahamian cruise aboard the Disney Dream.
One would think December gave us adequate time to reserve a concierge suite or beach cabanas for a trip taking place in March, but apparently Disney cruisers know to book those before the ship is even designed. These are the same assholes who make getting dinner reservations at Cinderella’s Castle only possible long after your daughter stops giving a shit about Disney princesses.
who’s going down with us
As our sail date approached, I ran into an acquaintance at Shorebucks who mentioned he and his family also were going on the Disney Dream over break.
I couldn’t contain my excitement. We would know somebody else with whom to commiserate over the repugnancy of the all-you-can-eat turkey leg buffet! (I may have made that up, but it was Disney after all. I knew churros and turkey legs would have to make an appearance at some point.)
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re really excited about it.”
He wasn’t kidding.
I was deflated.
It’s worth noting that the only appropriate response to, “I’m going on the Disney cruise” is: “I’m sorry.”
welcome (to olfactory hell) party
If your elf ever screws you over and you too find yourself aboard the Disney Dream, avoid the “Welcome Party” on the pool deck at all costs. This is merely a ruse to get you to either jump overboard or accept a fruity frozen drink you don’t want, thinking it’s complimentary, but later realizing you were charged $11 for it.
If you can imagine 4,000 people crowded into an area roughly the size of a waffle, then you can appreciate how badly my allergies were flaring up during this event.
For the record, my allergies include, but are not limited to:
- Sweaty people who “arm rape” me in a crowd.
- Cheap hotel rooms.
- Dirty feet; sticky hands.
- The existence of body hair on anyone over 150 pounds.
- An assortment of olfactory assaults too numerous to list…greasy scalp, earwax (yes – I can smell that), any spice (curry) or food (garlic, hotdog) odor emanating not from food, Eternity for men, and anything that smells like scented maxi pads.
it’s the tallest midget
As far as cruise ships go, the Disney Dream probably ranks higher on the list of acceptability. It’s newish and cleanish, and to my delight, every time you enter a dining room, a foreigner is paid 14 cents a day to hand you an antibacterial wipe.
But if like me, you think cruise ships are nothing more than a floating Petri dish of unnamed viruses that will stump your board certified dermatologist into thinking the origin of your skin rash is: “a reaction to drinking too many rum drinks,” then you should steer clear. And for the record, I was 23, and Malibu and pineapple juice were cool at the time.
that’s totally a shit stain
Not being an experienced Disney fan(atic) who looks at a topiary shaped like Donald Duck as the 8th Wonder of the World, the best room I could reserve on short (three months!) notice was a deluxe family stateroom with outside verandah that sleeps five.
Let me clarify that “five” must actually mean “five fetuses.” Because I’m pretty sure at one point my daughter was deciding which parent she liked the least so that she could accidentally on purpose throw one of us overboard to have more space to wave her $16 sword we were waterboarded into buying for the ship’s pirate party.
The cabin featured a split bath which made any imminent asstastrophes (it is a cruise ship after all) possible in privacy while I took my third shower of the day, ignoring pleas to conserve water or obey the 2-towel daily allotment. Trust me, from the smell of it, many of those cruise-goers were conserving water, so don’t blame me for ruining the environment.
Besides having the obvious benefits of a private pool deck where you might actually get a chair (not possible otherwise), concierge level rooms also have another huge advantage: shower gel.
I assumed our room steward forgot to supply us with shower gel only to discover that “luxury” was reserved for concierge rooms only.
“Let me get this straight,” I immediately turned the color of the $11 daiquiri we just threw out, “for $5,000, I am to give my child a bath for four days with a single bar of soap the size of a sugar cube?”
Yep.
Good thing I always bring my own shampoo and conditioner because I had to use Disney’s to shave my legs the rest of the trip.
Shortly after my frustration over the lack of shower gel and annoyance at the impending mandatory muster drill, I spotted a brown smudge on our upholstered sofa bed designed to sleep one of the fetuses. I should mention that we did not have a fetus on board since this was a “vacation,” and anyone who knows me knows that my menstrual cycles are tied directly to my vacation schedules.
“That’s a poop stain,” I announced before dry heaving and covering it with magazines.
Brian looked at me with the exhaustion of someone who has been traveling with me for 15 years.
“It looks like chocolate pudding,” he replied nonchalantly, moving the magazines aside.
“How can you SPILL chocolate pudding in the shape of a diamond?” I demanded, adding additional magazines to the fecal barrier which I diligently saw would remain intact for the rest of the trip.
Luckily the muster drill occurred in the middle of this heated debate, so we could then switch our focus to which assholes would be elbowing us on the way to the lifeboats should our boat Costa Concordia itself right into a reef.
communist dinner
Server Gustavo does not speak Russian and therefore cannot explain to Buela why she may not have four appetizers.
Not reserving our cruise the minute I conceived created yet another last-one-to-the-party challenge: an unchangeable-because-the-boat-was-fully-booked 8:30 pm dinner seating.
My daughter is seven. She’s asleep at 8:30 pm, and that is when we are slated by these Nazis to eat dinner every night? It made me want to scream, “Where the FUCK is my shower gel?!” before punching our waiter Gustavo in his coiffed up pompadour.
In yet another blow, we were seated with a family of three that spoke little English. This ended up being a blessing though because it would have been awkward to strike up a conversation with parents who I’m certain ate their other four children during the Cold War.
Boris and his wife Buela (I have no idea what the fuck their names were, I was too pissed that I had to sit through a 4-hour meal across from them) looked equally disgusted, as our two children fell asleep face first in their macaroni and cheese each night after 63 rounds of tic tac toe.
profiting on a parent’s need for alcohol & caffeine
The Disney Dream features 11 nightclubs and two cafes where the requisite lattes are $5 a piece (your $5k actually buys you a “somewhat-inclusive” cruise).
Although I appreciate how and why most parents need alcohol to cope with the fact that their vacation is taking place aboard the Disney Dream, I cannot understand why you’d bother to take your children to anything Disney only to drop them off at the Oceaneers Lab (the babysitting area that’s name so obviously refers to the bacteria cultures left behind) while you practice your running man on the dance floor of a pink lounge shaped like a champagne bottle.
Don’t get me wrong. We used the babysitting service a fair amount. Like when our daughter expressed some concern over the fervor with which Boris tore through a chilled lobster tail. I somewhat guiltily checked her in to the Lab, a process similar to an Act of Congress, trying to ignore the fact that the little girl right behind her was wearing her wrist GPS unit on her ankle, most likely to match her father’s. I wish I had a photo of him (but want to live), since my description of his ZZ Top-like beard complete with two braids just wouldn’t do him or his Led Zeppelin concert T-shirt justice.
cocktail dresses on disney cruises have me longing for neverland
But for the most part, this vacation was not for us…it was for a sweet, seven-year-old girl who love(d) Disney and being with her parents (for now).
There just seemed something tragic and sad about me sporting a cocktail dress from Dress Barn and ordering a frozen drink I would later spill during the Cha Cha Slide in a Disney “dance club” while my daughter attempted to avoid the Norwalk virus from a Toy Story-themed play area by herself.
In fact, I’m pretty proud to say that I didn’t bother to brush my hair the entire trip and have the pictures to prove it. The optional “Formal” night had me acting like a rebellious teenager, donning Hollister sweatpants, Havaianas and a chipped pedicure. I watched as grown men in suits clumsily shifted their weight from side to side in the Atrium during the character dance party, wondering the whole time what I was doing there.
And then it hit me.
The genius of Disney isn’t in the mandatory gift shop walk-thru at the end of every ride or the $12 M&Ms they sell outside the movie theater on this boat.
It’s in the constant reminder of Peter Pan’s most important lesson: “Once you grow up…you can never go back!”
So I hope that my daughter left that ship wanting to cling to her childhood just a little bit longer.
After all, arguing about poop and pudding and all the responsibilities of adulthood can wait.
For now, she can just use the shampoo and pretend that it’s shower gel.
Look at those douchebags. Being an adult must really suck.
“running in” to walmart. never without consequence.
Not only did someone make the brilliant decision to assign this poor turtle to the “speedy” checkout lane, but this is a place that displays hemorrhoidal ointment, anti-fungal cream, and “Warm Touch” lubricating jelly at the register scattered among the typical point-of-sale purchases including gum, magazines and M&Ms.
Now by no means am I claiming to understand the buying habits of customers who voluntarily get stampeded to death on Black Friday for $1.88 paper towels.
But is your jock itch, bulging ass vein and dried-up Netherlands really something you forget about until you happen to be standing at the cash register tossing a tin of cinnamon Altoids onto the counter?
“I came here for a gallon of milk, but come to think of it…I haven’t had a sufficiently lubricated vagina since before my cashier’s back became a complete right angle.”
I know. I know. What did I expect from a store that is the inspiration for a website devoted entirely to horrifying the world with pictures of morbidly obese women sporting ripped, lace jeggings.
Besides. Just entering the threshold of Walmart should have indemnified my frustration toward the boxed-wine-stained-tooth hag in front of me, coughing up a Camel-coated lung and unsuccessfully attempting to hide her 400 cans of mixed vegetables beneath those two tablecloths.
Ten items or fewer is a difficult concept to grasp, but it’s there for a reason.
Specifically, I have a hair appointment in five minutes, and our cashier is averaging 12 minutes per can. That might not be a math problem I can calculate without a tutor, but it was sufficient time for me to realize why the typical Walmart customer doesn’t believe in evolution.
Not sure our cashier walked upright. Ever.
tierra verde drawbridge opening schedule as follows:
Monday through Sunday: When I have to pee.
i only wear white when it rains 