This week’s column comes to you from the family van as it travels through the low country headed home from Hilton Head Island. The vacation was a huge success in spite of a few van pukes — so far — and a coupla bloody knees. No, the bloody knees don’t belong to me. And just so you don’t feel like you’re listening to me narrate a slide show of my summer vacation, I’ll refrain from reporting the highlights, and stick with my strengths … those dirty lowlights.
While Disney knows how to keep families happy, one must be mentally prepared when checking into anything powered by The Mouse. The cast members, as they like to call themselves, tend to ooze flair, and for people like me, that can be a bit nauseating. My brother-in-law reported that some woman greeted him with a big Mickey Mouse glove on her hand. His first fear, a rational one in my opinion, was, “Is the whole trip gonna be like this?”
When you run into cast members throughout the resort, they often greet you with something like, “Have a magical day!” This usually happens as one kid is crying hysterically, and you’re spilling coffee on your new dress while buying a five-dollar bottle of wine for twenty bucks. Our solution/defense mechanism to counter such cheerful freaks was to create our own version of Disney’s motto: “Have a magical fucking day, bitches!” Or, if the kids were listening, simply, “Have an MFD.” This strategy successfully kept us from breaking out in that all-too-familiar Disney rash.
My bout with the plague continued to carry on strong this week, and while the coastal air did allow me to ease up on my Mucinex regimen, I still struggled with some nasty symptoms. One night, after a delicious sushi dinner, the husband and I took a romantic stroll down the boardwalk. Holding hands, wearing a gorgeous maxi dress, and enjoying the beautiful scenery, the only thing I wanted to do was farmer blow into the bay. That would have been the ideal ending to my magical day. In spite of the temptation, I refrained, and applauded myself for being so damned sophisticated after blowing my nose in a tissue back at the ranch.
The sushi we had was phenomenal, especially the restaurant’s featured roll of the night, The Angry Tuna. But had I joined the boys in that questionable Tennessee hotel hot tub a few nights earlier, I might have had The Angry Tuna long before we got to Hilton Head … and there’s certainly nothing magical about that.
The last night of our stay, we decided that finishing off the remaining beer, wine, and booze made the best sense. It became a bit of a quest for a few of us, and we sat on the balcony in our rocking chairs, laughing and watching the rain. At about 11:00 p.m. we got a phone call from the Disney police — who, by the way, aren’t quite as friendly when they’re calling with a warning about a noise complaint they received about our villa. Rather than feeling embarrassed or guilty, though, we all quietly celebrated the fact that we were the most dangerous crew at Disney camp. Yeah … we’re a pretty hardcore bunch.
We managed to complete our mission of finishing the booze, with the exception of half a bottle of scotch and about eight of these damn Lime-A-Ritas my mother just had to bring. We started the trip with twelve cans of garbage, and I think everyone either offered one to somebody or was offered one by somebody at some point during our stay. We knew they’d come in handy in a moment of desperation, but until then, they sat in the fridge and got no love. By the last night, when someone tried to offer up one of the odd beer-like concoctions to my husband, his verbatim response was, “Um, no, and go fuck yourself.” That should give you an idea of how tasty these things are.
But hey … we’re finally at our hotel in Tennessee and, as I finish writing this piece, guess what I’m drinking? Yes, I like to think I’m taking one (or three) for the team. Tonight will likely be pretty magical thanks to Bud Light’s newest brainchild. And tomorrow’s all-day van ride looks to be just as Mickey-rific!