Dante's Happiest Place on Earth

We’re on day two of making our way through the seven Disney amusement parks in lovely Orlando, FL. As I was exiting the parking lot tram of Disney Hollywood Studios with my over wrought, exhausted family of four and the Dyer family who majored in whining, I had to laugh at the irony of the term “amusement park.” A more appropriate name would be “long-ass line park” or “kid who’s under 40-inches tall having a meltdown park” or “one scoop of ice cream for the price of a pair of Nikes park” or “sweat in places you never put deodorant park” or “get trampled by a pack of Asians if you don’t keep moving park.” It’s also ironic that the Magic Kingdom, dubbed the “happiest place on earth” produces family fights worthy of a Dr. Phil episode. I saw a couple of sisters throwing punches today in front of the American Idol stage because one wanted to audition while the other was set on seeing the Indiana Jones stunt double show. The TLC network is missing out big time by not producing a Disney “amusement” park-based family reality show. Gift shop drama alone could carry them through the first season. Tomorrow, I’m going to re-read Dante’s Divine Comedy. I’m quite sure that one of his Cantos of Hell included Disney references.

I hate to sound all negative about a vacation that we’re spending the kids’ freshman years of college savings on. Like everyone says “you just HAVE to do Disney when your children are young.” It’s just funny how the commercials show bright-eyed tots beaming at the sight of Mickey Mouse and Cinderella and my experience today showed a constant stream of preschoolers reacting to Donald Duck, Timone, Buzz Lightyear and Pocahontas costumed characters, as if they were evil dentists thrusting sharp drills at them. Meanwhile their parents patiently waited, cameras focused, for that perfect Kodak moment to go in the scrapbooks. My five-year-old Jack told me up front, “Mom, I like Darth Vader, but I’m not posing with him. I’m just NOT. Okay?” Okay, Jack.

Tomorrow, we’re all doing Blizzard Beach water park. I’m good with that. Going into it with positive expectations. I like water parks. Maybe it’s because I’m a Pisces, or an Aquarius based on the new zodiac, if I actually believed in that stuff, but it’s nice to pull out as a base of reasoning every once in a while.

Right now, all the Weights and Dyers are in bed, except me. I’m in the lobby, watching a woman pulling on the exit door that’s clearly marked “push.” Ah, she figured it out. I had been sitting next to the pool with my computer. A heavy-set guy, reminiscent of Chris Farley, wearing Coleman tent swim trunks sidled up to me saying, “Hi, I’m Massey. What’s your name?”
I wanted to respond, “hey there, my name is ‘happily married, on a Disney vacation with my family, but if I were single I’d have to pass because you have more back hair than my pit-bull.’”

Instead, I just said, “Hi, I’m Angela. It’s cold out here, so I think I’ll go inside.”
Why do people assume that sitting alone outside is equivalent to posting a Match.com bio?
Okay, enough of this blog to nowhere. Did I mention we’re hitting Disney’s Blizzard Beach water park tomorrow? I have sleep to get, snacks to pack and patience to muster.


Wish me luck in this “happiest place on earth.”

Pre-Disney Whirlwind

(Disclaimer: The accompanying photo is not of me, or anyone related to me....that I know of. However, new relatives on my mom's side seem to be coming out of the woodwork these days.)

My head hurts and I don’t feel like writing, but my blog stats are way down. I feel invisible when they’re down, as if I don’t exist.

I can hear my mom’s voice right now, “Angela, you have to be okay with yourself regardless of whether you’re chosen last at kickball, you have a date for the homecoming dance, you get a call back from the job interview or whether or not people are reading your blog.” She’s optimistic like that. And for the record, I ALWAYS had a date for whatever dance was happening. I usually got whatever job I applied for and…..well, the kickball game? That didn’t really matter, now did it?

Back to reality, the only way to bring my stats back up, other than begging everyone I know to read stale content, is to write something new. So I am. Because I’m just disciplined and motivated like that… a real “go-getter.”

The truth is I’m procrastinating. That’s an activity I never put off. We’re leaving for a two-week family vacation tomorrow and I haven’t done laundry in the same length of time. If I don’t get up and wash something, we’ll have to cancel our Disney visit in favor of an affordable family-friendly nudist colony. Either that, or pack lots of towels and safety pins. I always have clean towels because in spite of registering for lots of useful “married people” stuff, James and I received 347 sets of towels and wash cloths for our wedding. I guess people thought we showered a lot…or needed to. I’ve never really figured it out.

The problem with going on vacation is the brain searing, exhausting, logistical chaos that leads up to the R and R. Trying to squeeze two weeks’ worth of office work into three days, scheduling pet sitting, plant watering, utility and loan shark payments, halting mail and newspapers and creating unique, semi-edible meal solutions with perishable foods that if not eaten, will turn into antibiotics before we get back is maddening. Oh, and then there’s that pesky laundry situation again. And getting said laundry into suitcases. Having kids means packing half a Toys-R-Us and enough snacks to stock a bomb shelter for the car ride. I have sticky notes all over the house noting items not to forget. My brain is turning into an Excel spreadsheet.

Regardless of my organizational acrobatics, once we’ve driven for an hour or so toward Florida, I’ll realize that I’ve left the oven on broil, forgotten Jack’s beloved blankie or left my ADD medication on the kitchen counter. My fear is that we’ll have to make a u-turn somewhere around Kingsland and start all over again. I’m just so ready for the part where I can “sit right here and have another beer in Mexico” or another Margarita in the Magic Kingdom. Either way Kenny Chesney is welcome. Right now, I’d love to stand under a steaming hot shower for about 20 minutes, but it’s lightning-ing outside and I don’t want to be electrocuted. Not right now, anyway. If things get any more chaotic, a few hundred volts charging through my nervous system might be a welcome diversion.

In the meantime, if nothing else gets done tonight, I can say that I wrote something. This blog post can’t be packed in a garment bag and it’s not suitable for wearing on Space Mountain. But, at least when my husband says “did you do ANYTHING last night?” I can reply, “yes, I wrote about everything that I should’ve been doing.” Acknowledgement is the first step. Right?

Invasion of the 13-Year Cicadas

According to local news sources, including Billy Touchberry’s photojournalism and Tom Ptak’s Facebook status posts, the enigmatic, ear-splitting, exoskeleton shedding 13-Year Cicadas are back once again, screeching like banshees throughout the arboreal landscape of Middle Georgia. As much as is being written about these periodic invaders, you’d think that there’s really nothing else going on around here worth writing about… Oh, that’s right. There isn’t.

If you happen to be a member of the 12-and-under set or are completely oblivious to entomological comings and goings, 13-year cicadas, just as their name implies, show up every 13 years to molt, mate and die, a process which takes approximately two months. (And you thought you had a crap life). This pinnacle of the cicada life-cycle is preceded by 12 and-three-quarters years of growing up underground, drinking tree root sap for every meal. The cicada student body president keeps a calendar which tells them when it’s time to make the upward odyssey to the earth’s surface. At this point, they form a single-file line heading straight for the trees in my neighborhood, which are nearly filled to capacity with other forms of insects.

Compared to other parts of Middle Georgia, Dublin receives only a conservative number of cicada visitors, an opportunity that our Chamber of Commerce should jump right on. However, during the pests' last visit, I was living in Milledgeville, which is to cicadas, what Panama City Beach is to spring breaking college freshmen. The darn things, millions of them, were EVERYWHERE. In trees. In my apartment. Even in my hair at one point. Apparently they’re attracted to Aussie styling products. Trying to do anything outdoors immediately became a game of “outrun-the-swarm.” Once, while cleaning my car’s interior, I got so annoyed with cicadas buzzing around my head that I began sucking them up in the vacuum hose. Each one made a satisfying “thunk" as it disappeared into my Eureka Boss. After taking in about 120, the vacuum lost suction. I wound up tossing it in the garbage when I realized I'd have to clean out the bodies for the thing to work again.

During the times when the cicadas were minding their business and staying out of my hair (literally), they made their presence known by producing the most raucously obnoxious, deafening mating call known to the human world. It’s the kind of noise that makes an Anthrax concert seem like children's story hour at the library and Suze Orman’s voice somewhat pleasant in comparison. Only the males make the screech, but apparently the females dig it, because a week or so later, millions of little “nymphs” are born and then burrow their way back underground to start the 13-year cycle all over again.

In doing a little cicada research, I was surprised to learn that they’re widely eaten in many other countries, and are even on the menus in Bangledesh and Laos McDonald’s. And, in case you’re wondering, yes, some people in the U.S. eat them too. No one I know, but probably some really distant relatives on my mother’s side (no, not you, Marcy). The Internet is literally stuffed with cicada recipes…one of them being… “stuffed cicadas.”

With the ailing economy and today’s ridiculous gas prices, it’s not a bad idea to make use of alternative protein sources, while they’re in season. I mean, heck, it’s only once every 13 years that you have the chance to eat cicadas (which get terribly offended if you call them locusts). As a semi-journalist, whatever, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include a few popular recipes in case you do decide to collect a bushel and make something creative for your church’s covered dish supper.

Here are a few that received great reviews. (Keep in mind, these reviews came from people who eat insects…on purpose.)

Cicada Pie

2 pie pastries, slightly thawed
50 female cicadas
1 pint of cream
About 2 cups of stale bread or bread crumbs
1 tsp rhubarb flavor

Soak the cicadas, bread, cream and rhubarb flavor in a bowl until softened. Prepare the pie crust. Add the cicada mixture. Lattice the second pie crust over the cicada mixture. Cook at 350 degrees until golden brown (about 11 to 14 minutes).

--compliments of WLVT.com

Cicada Stir-Fry

1 onion, minced
2 tbsps fresh coriander (cilantro), chopped
1 tbsp fresh gingerroot, minced
3/4 cup sliced carrots
3/4 cup chopped cauliflower and/or broccoli
1 can water chestnuts
3/4cup bean sprouts
3/4cup snow peas
40 blanched teneral cicadas

Capture cicadas at night as they emerge from the ground. Blanche for
1 minute in boiling water. They can now be stored in freezer or used
immediately in recipes. Heat a couple tablespoons of vegetable In a wok or other suitable pan,
oil. Add ingredients in the order listed above when those in the most recent addition are partially cooked. Serve over whole-grain rice and add soy sauce to taste
Yield 4 main course servings

Maryland Cicadas

1/2 cup Old Bay® Seasoning
2 tablespoons salt
4 quarts water
1 (12 fluid ounce) can beer (optional)
8 red potatoes, quartered
2 large sweet onions, cut in wedges
2 pounds lean smoked sausage, cut in 2-inch lengths
8 ears fresh corn, broken in half
4 pounds large cicadas

In an 8-quart pot, bring Old Bay, salt, water and beer to a boil. Add
potatoes and onions; cook over high heat for 8 minutes. Add smoked sausage to potatoes and onions; continue to cook on high for 5 minutes. Add corn to pot; continue to boil for 7 minutes. Add cicadas, cook for 5 minutes. Drain cooking liquid. Pour contents of pot into several large bowls, red picnic table. Sprinkle with shallow pails or mound on a paper-cove additional Old Bay if desired.
Yield 8 servings

Also, for a crunchy surprise, add cicadas to salads, use them as casserole toppings, serve them as a low-carb substitute for dinner rolls or as after school snacks for the kids.

Could You Please Pass the Kidney Stones?

The utilitarian coldness of the empty emergency department exam room where I sit echoes the urgency and temporariness of its use. I have no idea why I just wrote that sentence. It sounds like the beginning of a melancholy textbook written perhaps by Dorothy Parker, who I DO NOT want to imitate. Oh heck, it makes me sound sort of smart, so I won’t delete it.

I’m here waiting for my friend Amanda. Apparently she spent the morning wrestling and writhing with kidney stones in the vacant bed at my feet while our other friend Melanie sat vigil. However minutes before Melanie clocked out and I arrived to take her place, Amanda was whisked off to CT. I’m not sure what CT stands for because my medical knowledge doesn’t go far beyond the Fisher-Price doctor kit Santa brought when I was three. Sure I’ve had two babies in hospitals and know a myriad of uses for Benadryl, Tylenol and Pepto Bismol (don’t leave tablets in the pocket of your white pants, while washing a load of “lights.”) The results are far worse than an upset stomach. Other than that, I’m pretty useless medically.

My older sister Pamela is a family doctor with a thriving practice. When she was in med school, friends and relatives would commonly exclaim how handy it’d be to have a DOCTOR in the family, not just for quick diagnoses and prescriptions, but in case any one of us should develop a narcotics addiction. Unfortunately, Pamela’s not one of those physicians who’s more than happy to check out your bunion in the church parking lot or take a peek at your toddler’s tonsils while waiting in line at Kroger. Pamela’s attitude has always been “make an appointment and I’ll be glad to give you approximately 240 seconds between the hours of nine and five, Monday through Friday.”

Even bringing up a general health topic in small talk will trigger her “free-medical-advice-solicitation” radar and she’ll abruptly change the subject to the unconscionable practice of mountain top removal or how much she hates when people ask for free medical advice. We don’t talk that much, really.

It’s been 45 minutes and Amanda’s still not back. I traded my Sunday, post-church leisure to rush to the ER at Melanie’s urgings, portraying Amanda on her last leg. And she’s not even here. Sort of anti-climactic, I find this. On the plus side, it’s a good chance to write uninterrupted.

Across the hall is a 50’ish man, dressed in a bright red ‘Elmo” t-shirt. Yes, Elmo from Sesame Street. The man is clearly in pain, holding his excess stomach. He’s grimacing, clenching his teeth. The Elmo t-shirt makes me not want to take his pain quite as seriously. I wonder if the medical staff would agree. “We’re sorry, Sir, that you’re in agony, but we just can’t get beyond that ridiculous Elmo t-shirt. We just want to laugh and sing the ‘Elmo’s World’ theme song. We hope you feel better soon. La la La la, La la La la…Elmo’s World!”

Amanda’s back. She has a hole on the inside of her elbow, with what appears to be a mini- airplane-sized bottle of Demerol attached to it by an over-sized needle. Kidney stones must be just terrible. The CT scan results will be ready in 45 minutes. I’ve come to learn that 45 minutes in “hospital time” is two-hours. So, we’re sitting here waiting. Amanda’s one of my bestest-est-est friends. But, in-spite of our similarities, we’re starting to look at each other blankly and straining our brains for things to talk about.

Oh finally! The CT scan results are here, presented by a chipper nurse named Annie who’s bound and determined to deliver them as if she’s announcing winning Lotto numbers. “Well, you have approximately 30 stones in your kidneys!!! The good news is that they’re small enough that you can pass them yourself!” Oh great, just the DIY project Amanda was looking for. “Here’s a prescription for your pain meds. Well, okay then. Happy passing!” The above photo is of your average, garden variety calcium fortified kidney stone.

As we exit through the waiting room with its new crop of ailing victims, I ask Amanda to please save a stone for me (preferably sanitized and in a see-through vial). After hanging out in the ER for nearly four hours, I should at least get a souvenir.

A Free and Gentle What???

It all started when I ran across that AM Gold ballad from the 70's called Wildflower, by Skylark (the band, not the Buick). It's one of those songs you'll swear you've never heard until it starts playing. Then you'll find yourself singing "let her cryyyyyyyyyyyyy, for she's a ladyyyyyyyyyyyyy." The song itself is beautiful, but one I'm almost embarrassed to admit I like. It's almost too cheesy, but just so heartfelt and emotional, as if the singer treasured his subject, flaws and all, beyond everyday understanding.

I found myself particularly captivated by the chorus lyrics, "she's a free and gentle flower growing wild." I wondered what kind of man speaks of a woman in these terms; a sensitive, romantic, poetic one, who sees far beneath the surface.

For the first time ever, blame it on pangs of nostalgia or a recent bout with stomach flu, I wanted to hear myself described in these terms of such lovely imagery. Feeling dreamily affectionate, like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday or Mrs. Roper in Three's Company, I pranced into the bedroom to awaken my slumbering Prince Charming a.k.a. husband James.

Okay, first-of-all, never expect Prince Charming to wax poetic upon being awoken from productive mid-REM sleep. Secondly, if your man isn't prone to comparing your hair to honey and your eyes to sapphires, chances are he won't wake up having been reincarnated into Frank Sinatra just because you're feeling romantic.

ME: (sliding under the covers next to him) "James, am I a free and gentle flower growing wild?"

JAMES: "Huh? (mumbling) Yeah, I took out the garbage."

ME: "No, Honey, I said 'am I a free and gentle flower growing wild?'"

JAMES: (slightly more conscious) "This is EARTH. You're what's called a WOMAN here. Now, Good Night!"

ME: "Honey, what about metaphorically speaking? Am I a free and gentle flower growing wild?"

JAMES: "Sure. Yes. You're ......whatever you said...."

ME: (expectantly) "A free and gentle flower growing wild?"

JAMES: "Yeah. Metaphorically speaking, you're also a raccoon."

ME: "A raccoon? So now I'm a nocturnal scavenger?"

JAMES: "That's exactly what you are. It's past midnight and you're keeping me awake. Turn off the light and go to sleep, you nocturnal pest....and free and gentle flowery detergent for sensitive skin, or...something...whatever.... G'night."

ME: "Sweet dreams, Honey. Thanks for taking out the garbage. By the way, what kind of flower do you think I'd be? A daisy...a red poppy...a..."

JAMES: "ANGELA! GO-TO-SLEEP-OR-GET-OUT!!!!!"

I guess the lyrical Prince Charming will have to stay locked away in
iTunes-land.

A Free and Gentle What??

It all started when I ran across that AM Gold ballad from the 70's called Wildflower, by Skylark (the band, not the Buick). It's one of those songs you'll swear you've never heard until it starts playing. Then you'll find yourself singing "let her cryyyyyyyyyyyyy, for she's a ladyyyyyyyyyyyyy." The song itself is beautiful, but one I'm almost embarrassed to admit I like. It's almost too cheesy, but just so heartfelt and emotional, as if the singer treasured his subject, flaws and all, beyond everyday understanding.

I found myself particularly captivated by the chorus lyrics "she's a free and gentle flower growing wild." As if I were hearing it for the first time,

I wondered what kind of man speaks of a woman in these terms? A sensitive, romantic, poetic one, who sees far beneath the surface...and may or may not be gay. But that's beside the point.

For the first time ever, blame it on pangs of nostalgia or a recent bout of stomach flu, I wanted to hear myself described in these terms of such lovely imagery. Feeling dreamily affectionate, like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, I pranced into the bedroom to awaken my slumbering Prince Charming.

Okay, first-of-all, never expect Charming to wax poetic upon being awoken from productive mid-REM sleep. Secondly, if your man isn't prone to comparing your hair to honey and your eyes to sapphires, chances are he won't wake up having been reincarnated into Frank Sinatra just because you're feeling romantic.

ME: "James, Am I a free and gentle flower growing wild?"

JAMES: "Huh? (mumbling) Yeah, I took out the garbage."

ME: "No, Honey, I said 'am I a free and gentle flower growing wild?'"

JAMES: (slightly more conscious) "This is EARTH. You're what's called a WOMAN here. Now Good Night!"

ME: "Honey, what about metaphorically speaking, am I a free and gentle flower growing wild?"

JAMES: "Sure. yes. You're ......whatever you said...."

ME: (expectantly) "A free and gentle flower growing wild?"

JAMES: "Yeah. Metaphorically speaking, you're also a raccoon."

ME: "A raccoon? So now I'm a nocturnal scavenger?"

JAMES: "That's exactly what you are. It's past midnight and you're keeping me awake. Turn off the light and go to sleep, you nocturnal pest....and free and gentle flowery detergent for sensitive skin, or...something...whatever.... G'night."

ME: "Sweet dreams, Honey. Thanks for taking out the garbage."

I guess the lyrical Prince Charming will have to stay locked away in iTunes-land.