In My (Disney) Defense

While I do regret that starting my Disney blog has very clearly taken my focus off of this here sad-assed blog, I’m not that sorry. Why? Because I’ve found my people.

I used to think that anyone who wrote a Disney blog or had a Disney-focused Twitter account must live within driving distance to the parks. I cautiously entered this online fanworld assuming I’d be shunned and mocked for being a literal outsider, living far too far away to be a real devotee. But it turns out that I was way off. Not only are the vast majority of Twitterers (Tweeps? Twerps?) and bloggers non-local, but even some authors of the best books on Disney don’t live anywhere near Disney property. To put this in perspective, I currently follow 177 folks on Twitter, and I think maybe 15 at the most live in Florida (or California).

What does this mean for me? It means I’ve been welcomed with open arms, and I no longer need to feel like a poseur.

I’ve been on Twitter for a little over two months, and I already have over 115 followers. My blog’s been live for the same amount of time, and while I only have 11 followers (and six of those are actually people I don’t know!), my daily page views are significantly more, as are the number of comments I receive. Again, for some perspective, this blog’s been around for about four years (!!) now, and while I LOVE LOVE LOVE the friends I’ve made and still interact with, they’re few in number. I allegedly have 24 followers to this blog, but eight are friends and family (love y’all!), and nine are random folks who all seemed to join five months ago. This makes me suspicious. Was I Freshly Pressed and never knew about it? Are y’all robots? DO YOU EXIST?

Anyway, point being, I seem to have come into my own over in the Disney internet landscape. And it feels good.

And to those who still scoff and think, “who in their right mind would willingly spend that much time reading about, writing about, discussing, collecting, and visiting Disney??” Well, the same could be said for your sports enthusiasm. How many player and coach names have you committed to memory over the years? How many random stats have you memorized? How often do you find yourself watching games, watching Sports Zone to recap those games? How often do you listen to sports radio? How much of your internet time is devoted to reading sports articles? How many folks are you following on Twitter that are pro athletes, experts, and other sports coverage media? How many sports-related updates pop up in your Facebook timeline? How many jerseys, t-shirts, jackets, shorts, sweats, socks, and even underwear do you own with your favourite team’s logo on them? How about bumper stickers? Memorabilia? Framed photos of best sports moments? Do you maybe even have a tattoo related to your favourite sports team?? Do you look forward with a child-like gleeful urgency to the next time you’ll get to see your favourite team in person?

Great! Congratulations, you have something that you’re passionate about!

The above bombardment of questions could also rephrased to apply to anyone with a passion for movies and celebrities, a music junkie, a home chef, a gadget guru, etc. You get the picture.

See? I’m really not very different from you at all. A passion is a passion. Sadly, it just seems that there are certain passions that are socially acceptable, while others *coughDisneycough* aren’t so. Well, I’m here to say that it should be! Equality for all!!!*

*Except for people with Furry/Fuzzy fetishes. Those people are just plain weird.

I’m happy to have found my special enclave of the intrawebs, though I do miss interacting with my long-time followers here. I shall try to pop back by more often. But in the meantime, just know that where I’ve drifted off to, I’m in good company. And we’re actually pretty normal people.

Is this thing on?

No, I haven’t forgotten about you. I just stopped caring.

Kiddingnotkidding.

Look, I’m a busy person, okay? And frankly, the things I’m busy with, they’re boring. Or they’re Disney related. Either way, I know you don’t care. So what do you want me to say?

Do you want me to tell you all about my upcoming Disney World vacation in TWELVE WHOLE DAYS!!!!!?? Wait, no, I know you don’t want to hear about that.

I could tell you about how I was physically assaulted yesterday and left with lasting scars. But once I confess that the assault was what I refer to as the actions of a “stylist” upon my hair, and the scars the results, you’d probably be less interested. And no, I won’t be sharing any picture. And yes, I have called to bitch them out and will be returning tomorrow to have them attempt to salvage my once gorgeous coiffure. And yes, I am aware that bitching out the same person whom I’ll be entrusting to fix the problem probably isn’t the best tactic. And yes, I’ve already cried over the loss of what was left of my aging beauty and what was left of my money.

I could tell you about Dizzy’s dental procedure yesterday, because nothing says “riveting tale of suspense” like a cat getting a tooth pulled. Spoiler alert: all went as planned.

I could tell you about how I’m trying to sell my good-for-nothing-probably-not-even-the-insurance-money condo, but that’s not going well.

I could tell you about how all I want to do is move to Florida because I’m bored and lonely here now that Hank has left and is off touring the country, living the life of a Van Halen roadie. Or whatever it is he does that keeps him away from home for weeks at a time.

Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I get up, I eat breakfast, I work, I read Disney blogs, I work, I catch up on Twitter (Disney people only), I work, I eat lunch, I work some more, I get a run in, I read Twitter during the warm up and cool down, I shower, I work some more, I talk to cats a lot, I eventually back away from the computer, I eat dinner, I read a book, I watch some TV, I catch up on Twitter, I go to bed alone.

There, now are you still sad I’ve not written as much lately?

Life is better in Disney blogs.

The Great Chair Debacle

I’ve decided that I hate my home office desk chair (for any long-time readers, you may identify the irony in this statement, given the fact that the entire time I spent working in an office, I had chair issues, and now that I work from home… chair issues!).

My initial requirements when purchasing my current desk chair were thus: cheap and hot pink.

You wouldn’t believe how quickly that narrows down your options.

Luckily, I managed to find a lovely hot pink desk chair for a mere $40 at Staples several years back; amazeballs!

It’s served me well for a couple of years until semi-recently when it’s decided to start sagging and slacking and otherwise sculpting my back into a giant question mark shape. I’ve tried adding pillows, I’ve tried using a cane (okay, not really), but I’ve ultimately decided that I simply cannot use this chair anymore.

So now I work from the loveseat.

This has its advantages and disadvantages. Pros: it’s comfy as shit. Cons: I feel like a lazy sack of useless.

Granted, I’m getting just as much work done as I would while sitting upright at a desk, but there’s just something about Hank and Matilda seeing me lying down on a sofa all day that makes me blush and feel like a slacker.

I suppose it’s about time to look into getting a new chair. Requirements: cheap and hot pink. I’m really stuck here. I’ve found this one that I’ve personally tested and know to be comfortable, but at $140 it’s not cheap:

http://images.containerstore.com/catalogimages/165250/BungeeChairPnk10057218_l.jpg

I even found my current chair for sale online; I could buy a brand new, non-worn out version of it for $80.00. Damn that inflation!

I suppose I could accept a chair in a turquoise or lime green or something. Maybe even purple. White as a very last resort. It must fit into the cartoony world of my Disney office.

In other words, if you need me, I’ll be on the loveseat for the foreseeable future.

Don’t F*ck with a Bitch and her Bling

The other day I ventured out to Michael’s craft store to try and find some pieces for Lizzy’s and my Tweedle costumes. Oh, did I not tell you? We’re dressing up as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to attend Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party together!!!! What’s that? Yes, yes I did just mention some Disney on this non-Disney blog! What are you going to do about it?!!?

Incidentally, the other day, I wasn’t feeling nearly this confrontational.

Instead, there I was, innocently leaving the store with my purchase of yellow tees and turquoise bows, when there, sitting in the middle of the parking lot, was a giant blinged out barrette type thing. I picked it up, stood there awkwardly looking around for any sign of a human who had just departed the store and possibly dropped the item, saw none, considered bringing it back into the store, but decided instead that it was “Ruby Gets Free Bling Day.”

As I put my car into reverse, I notice a black car behind me that beeps at me. At first I think, “ahh, the bling owner is back and wants her shit. So I sit there patiently, waiting for some further contact. None comes. Then I figure, maybe the person assumed that I was going to reverse into them and were simply giving me a warning beep. So I continue on my way.

I get to the stop sign to exit the plaza, and the black car is behind me and beeps again. “Clearly, this is the bling owner, and they seriously want this shit.” So I stay stopped at the stop sign, waiting for them to approach me. I even wave to them. Nothing. Another car pulls up beside them, and they seem to be talking to each other. At this point, I figure I must be bling-paranoid, and clearly they were getting the attention of this other car, so I continue on my way once more.

No, I definitely wasn’t paranoid at all — I am now being chased down, horn a-blaring, high beams flashing on and off. I try speeding up, and they speed up right behind me. I try a last minute right turn onto a side street, they follow me. I even try slowing down in the right lane so that they can pull up beside me to approach me like a sane human, yet they prefer to simply slow down behind me and continue with the high beams.

For a moment, I considered continuing on, figuring that there’s no way they’ll keep following me for the next half hour over a tacky fucking rhinestone barrette. But then I realized, that would mean I actually gave a shit about this piece of crap, so I decided to put an end to this nonsense, and pulled over in a store parking lot up the road. I sat idling, really hoping that this person wasn’t as insane as their actions thus far had indicated and that they weren’t packing.

The driver gets out of her car, comes up to me and smiles and asks, as if this were a Grey fucking Poupon commercial, “did you by any chance pick up an item in the parking lot at the Michaels?” Are you frickin’ kidding me?? If you’re going to attempt to run someone off the road, you best be damn sure they picked up your item in the parking lot at Michael’s.

“Yeah,” I reply, “I did. I also pulled over and waited for you twice the first two times you beeped at me in that parking lot. You could’ve gotten out of your damn car and talked to me then instead of chasing me for over a mile,” (“you crazy bitch” was implied, but not said aloud).

She simply giggled and said something inane like, “oh, there was a car in the way!” or whatever. I have no idea. I’m pretty sure there was no good reason for any of this. Meanwhile, in her front passenger seat is another woman half-passed out, only opening her eyes occasionally, clearly not disturbed by any of this, as if Grey Poupon hunting is a pretty regular occurrence for her and her friend.

I handed over the trinket that couldn’t have cost more than $4 and tried my best to burn rubber out of that parking lot. Bitches be crazy. Lesson learned: cheap bling ain’t worth it — leave that shit on the ground, yo.

The Single Proudest Moment of my Career

This week brings me back to the Massachusetts corporate headquarters in order to attend one of our annual sales meetings. No, I’m not in sales. Why am I here? I don’t know. But I don’t complain; instead, I enjoy the nice dinners and open bars and try to stay out of trouble.

Today’s open bar event involved renting out a local tiki bar (yes, you read that right, a tiki bar in Massachusetts), and inviting the entire company to leave the office at 1:00 to come eat, drink, and cluster into cliques as if it were a high school dance.

The real height of the entertainment was well hidden in a tent around back of the bar’s stage area: a dunk tank. And just who were lining up to be the potential victims? VPs and upper management.

Our VP of Engineering was first to take the hot seat. He was quickly dunked by one of our service reps after some trash talking about said rep’s tiki-style hat. Next was my former boss, our VP of Operations. I decided to take a stab at it — no ill will toward her whatsoever, but I wasn’t forced into hardcore softball bootcamps twice a year as a child in order to stand on the sidelines at this opportunity. Sadly, it was three misses and on to the next contestant.

Several members of higher-ups later, and who decides to take the hot wet seat, but my current boss. Oh, it was on.

I sauntered up to the men’s throwing line. The ball fetcher tossed me two out of the three balls. As I waited for the third, someone yelled out, “she doesn’t need three!” I brushed the sand off the ball, took a good look at my target, felt a surge of Dark & Stormy confidence run through my veins, and…

Boom. Nailed it. Down went boss man. Splash.

I haven’t been this proud of myself since I fell down a half flight of stairs while holding a glass of sangria and managed not to spill a drop.

I just hope that my boss realizes it was all in good fun — I’ve been told that I get a look of abject hatred on my face as I line up a pitch. Whoops. I guess we’ll find out soon enough just where we stand at this evening’s open bar event.

Oh wait, one more

And I’ve put my house on the market.

So yeah, busy and stuff.

I’m Back

As I’m sure we all predicted, no, I never got around to blogging during the past week and a half. Sorries.

However, lest you think that time was spent wasted fruitlessly on naps or binge drinking, I assure you it was most productive. Here’s what I accomplished:

– Visited five states.

– Slept in four different beds.

– Drove over 20 hours.

– Had a panic attack in front of an entire company board.

– Ate a lot of cheese.

– Unwillingly made a new friend.

– Tweeted to RDU to fix my favourite bathroom stall door that’s been broken for over a year – they replied back that they would.

– Gained more Twitter followers for my Disney account (I’m up to 44 now!).

– Gained one more follower for my Disney blog (up to a whopping eight).

– Probably lost a bunch of followers here because I’ve ignored you all so long.

I’d promise to pay attention to you all more, make you feel loved, never leave you again, but it’s already looking like I’ll be back on the road for the next two weeks. Meanwhile, for the rest of this week, while I am home, Hank’s going to be gone. It’s just like a long distance relationship again, only this time I seem to have an 18 year old roommate.

Hank’s home, and now we’re leaving

Yes, I finally got my boyfriend returned to me late last night, and rather than risk him escaping my evil clutches again, I’m whisking him off into the mountains, dangerously close to Canada, where there’ll be no cell signal and no one to hear him when he screams. Well, except for my entire family, but I’ll just tell them it’s a fun game we play.

I can’t promise how much I’ll write while I’m away. Hell, I can’t promise how much I’ll write when I’m sitting at home, bored off my ass, and complaining about how lonely I am.

I’ll do what I can.

A Lackluster Follow-up

Rewinding back to Tuesday, guess who showed up again that evening, despite my lovely new “NO SOLICITORS!!!” sign? Yes, that’s right — the world’s pushiest (and apparently illiterate) teenagers were back, parking in my driveway, and clearly hellbent on speaking to me.

Despite my vow to call the cops the next time the showed up, my curiosity got the best of me (plus, I was wearing pants at the time), so I answered the door.

And what kind of thanks did I get for this magnanimous gesture?

“HI!!! Are you the MOMMY in this house?!?!?”

WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!!!!??

I gave the girl my best, “if you knew what was best for you, you’d start running… NOW” look while switching that up with a few overt glances at the “NO SOLICITORS!!!” sign.

“What??” I asked, just to make sure I’d heard her correctly.

“Are you the mother of a high school student??”

Seriously?? I was wearing pigtails, a Disney t-shirt, and even when I’m dressed like a normal 30 year old, I still consistently get carded and have been mistaken for being younger than my little sister, who’s 26. But somehow you think I squeezed a teenager out of my cervix when I was 15 or younger. Yee-fuckin’-haw, y’all. I don’t think so.

“Uh, NO??” I replied, very creatively.

“Oh, there are no high school students in this house?”

“NO SOLICITORS!!!” I said aloud while I pointed to my pretty sign, a sign that these brain dead tarts had to have noticed was not there earlier that same day. They must’ve at least thought of the possibility that this sign was placed there as a result of two obnoxious twats banging on my door, yelling, and looking in my window that morning. But no. I sigh for the future of this country.

“We’re just coming to the homes of high school students to ask…”

“NO.”

“Does this not apply to you?”

“NO.”

“Okay, well have a nice—” DOOR SHUT IN FACE.

And that was the end of them. No, I didn’t call the police. No, I didn’t ask for their supervisor’s name and number to report them. No, I didn’t bitch them out and mention that their tactics were about as appropriate as douching in the middle of business meeting. But hey — I was mean!! And I failed to mention that we used to have a high schooler, but that she technically just graduated! Ha! That showed them!! I think we can all see who the clear winner is here.

And it’s not my dignity.

I’m being hunted by overly aggressive Girl Scouts

I’m a hermit by day. I make no secret of this. I work from home and encounter no other human beings until I choose to leave the house to run errands or go to the gym or otherwise seek socialization. Thus why in God’s name would I put on real clothing, make-up, or do my hair prior to that time? That’s just hogwash. That’s time that could be spent writing blog posts or online shopping… or working! Yes, working. Also, face it, pajamas are far more comfortable than anything else I own.

Therefor, when roughly once a year some sales person or campaigner or Mormon comes a-knocking, I don’t answer the door. I don’t mean to be rude or agoraphobic, I just don’t need you to see me in my Disney night shirts, hair a-crazy, and trying to pass off underwear as shorts. And honestly, if I did answer the door, I probably would be rude to you as I tell you have no interest in what you’re selling, so get off my damn stoop. See? I’m saving us both a lot of grief.

This lovely system came to a crashing halt yesterday as one particularly ballsy teenage/young 20’s? girl rang my door bell, startling the crap out of me as I was standing in my kitchen making lunch. I bolted to the back of the house, but it was too late — she saw me through the door. Did she take this as a sign that I’m obviously a bitch who’s not going to answer the door? Nope. She then opened my storm door and started pounding on the wood door, yelling at me through it, “Come out, come out!!!! I know you’re in there!!!!”

Little cunt says what now!??! You’re going to yell at me in my own house? And this is a tactic you think will succeed in making me come to the door, open it, and treat you with respect? Oh hells no.

I stayed in hiding until she left, presumably to move on to the next house. I figured that was the end of that.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Today she came back. With a friend. And this time I wasn’t wearing underwear. And I was sitting in my office, whose window is right next to the front door*. And I was on a conference call using VOIP attached to my computer, making a quick escape (or semi-nude answering of the door) impossible.

*No, you can’t see me from the street — I’m not some weirdo exhibitionist. There’s a large bush in front of the window and a strong sun glare during the day.

I did my best to remain still, but I’m pretty sure they saw movement through the window and knew I was home. So they rang the doorbell. Then they pounded on the door. Then they started with the yelling, “COME TO THE DOOR!!! OPEN UP!!!!”

Then they took it one step further: they started peering into my office window. I tried my best to press myself into the corner of the room and thanked Mickey that my Disney night shirt was long enough to cover my unmentionables.

After a few minutes of this, they gave up, got in their car that they had parked in my driveway, and took off further into the subdivision.

Thanks to some encouragement on Facebook, once I was off my two-hour call, I put clothes on, put make-up on, styled my hair and got on my bike to hunt these bitches down.

Of course, this is me we’re talking about, so by “hunt these bitches down,” I mean get their license plate and call the police. They made this all too easy, as I pulled around the corner, and there they were, just sitting in their car. It was tempting to try and grow a pair and confront them, but I think I’ll stick to being chicken shit for the moment. I made a No Solicitors sign, and if they ignore that and try this shit again, I will be calling the police.

No, I don’t think they’re criminals looking to potentially rob me, and I don’t think they’re bounty hunters looking for Hank’s former tenant. I think they’re just obnoxious teenage girls who don’t understand how to politely get what they want.

Either way, I’m not in the mood for any strangers to be peering in my windows and judging my nudity. I’m no stripper, and last time I checked, you weren’t paying me.