Just a Little Suggestion

While some may think that I'm shilling for Disney (yes, you-know-who-you-are, I have received your crappy emails--I can delete them just as fast as you can send them), I do have one complaint. (Well, OK, two complaints. First, where's my free four-day park hopper pass? Wasn't that part of the deal? Errr . . . never mind.) My only complaint is that Disney? NEEDS TO GET SOME DAMN COFFEE.

OK, not coffee per se. Rather, those foofy caffeinated drinks that contain 90% milk, 8% sugary goodness, and 2% coffee. Those things.

Sure, you can buy an iced cappuccino in Epcot, but it'll taste like goat butt. It won't cost you quite as much as Starbucks (shocking, I know), but it will taste so bad that even your sleep-deprived, caffeine-desperate body will be like "NOOOOO! Don't drink it!"

Every park we went to, I searched for some sort of iced coffee drink. It was 80+ degrees out, and I'm going on four solid years without a decent nights sleep. Finding icy caffeine was a survival instinct.

I nearly died.

The only thing that saved me from certain death was managing to stumble into the McDonald's at Downtown Disney where the very kind employees took pity on my dying body and poured an iced vanilla latte down my throat. If it weren't for them? Well, I don't want to think about what could have happened. That iced latte was so fantastic that I was forced to make out with it. Tongue and all.

Making out with McDonald's coffee is like dreaming about Brad Pitt, but settling for Brad Garrett. Not right.

So, Disney, how about you call up Starbucks and make a deal? Let them speed-construct a little store on every corner. They can charge way too much for their caffeine-y goodness and I'll happily pay too much. Survival is dependent on it.

So Much for Being 100 % Pure Girlie Girl

You might think I would be done with Disney posts, considering we've already been back home for a few days. You would be wrong. I have always openly admitted this is a narcissistic little blog, and I still have things I want to document about the trip. Feel free to click away if you are sick of the Pixie Dust and Mouse ears. :-)

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As we strolled through Disney studios, Alexis spotted a familiar sight. "I want a tutu!" she declared.

A "tutu" is a tattoo. I could correct her pronunciation, but what fun would that be?

Mr. Husband and I peered around until we found what she was referring to--a little cart manned by a lone woman and her temporary tattoos. We glanced at the prices and figured what the hell? She hadn't managed to talk us into any toys or clothes at that point, so $6 seemed like we might just be getting off easy.

We informed the short person that she would have to pick one, and only one, tattoo. There were literally hundreds to choose from--everything from generic Bulldogs, skulls, and lightening bolts to Disney's entire cast of characters. She looked at the princesses, and carefully declared that she wanted the Mermaid. Then she spotted a bunch of Mickey and Minnie tats and said, "Wait!" She slowly studied them all before settling on the one of Minnie wearing a pink princess dress. Then she realized there was a whole other side to the cart, with literally hundreds more to choose from.

Mr. Husband and I stood back and let the kid continue with her declarations of, "I want that one!" which was always followed by, "No, I want that one!" Over and over and over. And over.

Then she saw it.

THE one.

Violet.

Alexis' current favorite Disney movie is The Incredibles, and Violet is a rock star in her eyes. I asked everywhere about finding a "real" Violet for Alexis to meet, but unfortunately the only appearances Violet makes in any of the parks is the invisible type. It seemed that a Violet tattoo was almost as good as spotting the real thing from 500 feet, especially considering Alexis would certainly freak the heck out if she got too close.

Alexis sat veeeeeery still as the tattoo artist applied the tattoo. More still than anything I've ever seen. I'm sure she was having some sort of inner dialogue about how she didn't want to be near the stranger, but she really wanted Violet on her arm. She probably figured if she stayed still enough, she would be invisible just like Violet.

When it was done, Alexis looked at her arm and grinned another one of those Disney magic-induced grins.

As we resumed our tour of MGM (you can't make me call it Disney Studios, dammit), Alexis kept glancing down at her arm to admire Violet. I would tell you how many times she crashed into poles, people, or plants, but I lost count at about ten. Seriously. The kid just couldn't stop admiring her Violet tattoo.

When she pulled her arm to her lips to give Violet a kiss, I got a little worried. I don't really need to try to explain to my 3-year old why she can't have a REAL Violet tattoo. I think we'll leave the permanent skin alteration battles for the teen years, thankyouverymuch.

And yet, a few days later, I found myself wishing Violet would have had a wee bit more staying power. It seems that a couple of days in the gorgeous Florida sun caused a tiny bit more toddler sweat than normal and poor Violet had started to fade. Bad. In fact, she was pretty much peeling off in chunks. As we stood in line at France (Epcot) for pastries, I brushed a dangling chunk of Violet off of Alexis' arm. It came off very cleanly, so I turned a little OCD and started to rub all of the blurry Violet off Alexis.

Alexis went BALLISTIC. We're talking Category 5 meltdown, but of the VERY, VERY, VERY angry kind. Alexis was SO pissed at me. It took ten minutes to calm her down, and even then it was only with promises of a new Violet tattoo (which never actually happened, but Alexis did manage to get a nice Violet outline from where the skin under the tattoo didn't tan like the rest of her arm).

It's amazing how easy it is to be put up on that Good Parent Pedestal, and even more amazing how fast a kid can knock you right off of it. Then rip out your guts.

Your Home Can Say a Lot about Your Relationship

Obviously, this wasn't the first time Alexis had been to Walt Disney World. It was, however, the first time she had been there with enough life experience in her back pocket to actually *care* that she was there. That alone made it an entirely different experience for Mr. Husband and I than all of the other times we had been there. We didn't ride the big rides, and instead found ourselves letting her take the lead on what she wanted to do. It was much more about absorbing her joy than it was creating our own. Of course, we found that to be WAY more fun.

Along with enjoying her glee, I found myself noticing things I hadn't noticed before. For example, I am now very convinced that Disney Imagineers in the 60's spent most of their working hours tripping on acid as they tried to dream up new ways to scare the kiddies. It's a Small World is pretty clear evidence of that.

There is another thing I REALLY can't believe I never noticed prior to last week. It stuck out like a sore thumb once I did, and had me cracking the hell up for hours. Imagineers have some crazy awesome senses of humor. For reals. Let me show you.

Here is Mickey's house, located at the Magic Kingdom:

Decent enough digs for a giant rat. Here's the inside.

Mickey's bedroom. Dude has more shoes than I do.

Mickey's Living Room, complete with evidence of his manhood--the football helmet on the couch, the dead fish hanging over the mantle, and the photos of his mousely adventures hanging on the wall.

Mickey's Man Room. Of course, he's winning the pinball game.

Mickey's Kitchen, which obviously hasn't been used in years. Mickey's such a bachelor.

Finally, Mickey's garage. It's too full of crap to actually hold a car, a concept I know WAY too much about myself.

And now, let's take a look at Minnie's house right next door. It's a bit smaller than Mickey's, which just proves that even in Disney's perfect world, woman make less money than men for doing identical jobs.

The first room you see when you go in Minnie's house is her living room. It is positively filled with photos, statues, and mementos of her relationship with Mickey. (BTW, Mickey doesn't have the same sort of crap. The rats are engaging in a very one-sided sort of infatuation.)

Next to Minnie's pitiful display of mouse-dependence, you walk into her studio. It's where Minnie toils away sewing quilts and painting beautious art.

After that you follow a short little hallway, walk past Minnie's desk, and land inside her kick-ass kitchen. Clearly, the mousette is the master of the cooking domain in her little relationship.

The last room in Minnie's house is her sunroom. It appears to be a very lovely place to sit and read a book.

See it? See what's not quite right? What's . . . missing?

Look through Minnie's house again.

Where the hell does Minnie sleep?

Obviously, Mickey is an ass and demands this his woman cook his dinner at her own place, but that she makes it to his house right next door to sleep. *ahem*

What a dirty rat.