I will go on record as saying this was one of my top five worst Valentine’s Days ever. This ranks right up there with the Valentine’s Day when I was nineteen and my parents had a knock ‘em down, drag ‘em out fight that culminated in my father moving out for a couple of months. Okay, this Valentine’s Day was slightly better than that. I didn’t have to call 911 this year. And, granted, it could have been Christmas or my birthday, so I guess it’s not truly awful. Just kind of lonely and, well, sad.
My evening? Four episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (season one) back-to-back. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Too much chocolate. I think, perhaps, I am over chocolate for awhile. I shall declare a twenty-four hour moratorium on chocolate. Or maybe twelve hours. Okay, no more chocolate until I get up tomorrow.
What is it about Valentine’s Day that makes people crazy? If you have someone to be with, it’s no big deal and the day passes with little acknowledgement or fanfare. But if you’re alone… you pine for stuffed teddy bears and sappy cards and romantic dinners and boxed chocolates and red roses and sex. Lots o’ sex. Even if you have someone to be with and you get the goods, you’re still left feeling like something is missing. Does anyone even enjoy this holiday, really? Other than Hallmark execs, that is?
I shouldn’t complain. I know I’ve had Valentine’s Days that were simply lovely. I’m not down on romance, I’m just craving it. I got the chocolates and cards and roses, it’s the being alone part that’s so hard. If you were with someone you love on Valentine’s Day, I hope you appreciated it. I also hope you got lucky.
I probably should have checked my bag for my flight to Disney World. Why do I think this? Because at 3 a.m. the night before I left, I was seriously contemplating the question, “Do I really need to floss on vacation?” because dental floss would add weight to the bag. I took the floss, though. I also checked my bag on the return trip.
Disney World is that odd combination of vacation wonderland and nightmare. If you are childless, it can be quite an event navigating hotels, theme parks and restaurants what with all the whining, screaming and pouting. And I’m talking about the adults, not the children. What is it about Disney World that makes parents think every moment must be filled with joy and excitement? The phrase, “We are going to have fun!” should not be an ultimatum.
People who dress up in animal costumes scare me. This is a new phobia. I had my picture taken with a giant furry bear and I’m having nightmares.
You have not truly lived until you have ridden a bus with a singing Latina bus driver named Rosalita. Her version of Bingo goes: “There was a mouse who had a dog and Pluto was his name-O.” Fun stuff, even sober.
I have determined that the Magic Kingdom is a dry park because otherwise parents would leave their children on The Ride to Hell (otherwise known as It’s a Small World) while they did tequila shots with Mickey. It’s a Small World is the longest, most boring, tedious amusement park ride in the world and I love it dearly. I hope they never get rid of it. I’m still mourning the loss of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
Motion sickness is a very evil thing. When I get my pictures developed, I’ll post a picture to prove it. (Kidding, Rose. Just kidding. Maybe.)
It’s nice to know I’m not the only insomniac in the world. I met some interesting people sitting by the pool at 2:30 in the morning.
Drinks at Pleasure Island are very expensive and very potent. Go Disney.
Rose is the very best person to stand in line with while singing along and dancing to 80s tunes sung by a guy in a purple wig and punk glasses. Even if she was sober and I wasn’t. Maybe especially because she was sober and I wasn’t. That’s love, right there.
And now for all the rest:
Best meal: Eggplant Parmesan at Mama Melrose’s, MGM
Best dessert: Chocolate cake at Planet Hollywood
Best drink: Rum runners at the Adventure Club
Best other dessert: Soft serve ice cream in Animal Kingdom
Best other drink: Cool Runnings rum runners at Planet Hollywood
Best Animal Experience: The bat cave in Animal Kingdom
Best Traveling Experience: Express check-in at the airport
Best Waitperson: J.T. at Planet Hollywood
Best Thrill Ride: Twilight Zone Tower of Terror
Best Actress in a Dramatic Role: Rose for convincing me she was feeling fine before we got on Tower of Terror
I know I promised happy stories of Disney goodness and they will be forthcoming, but I’m not feeling it right now. Bear with me.
What I am feeling is… not all here. I woke up this morning incredibly disappointed to find myself at home in my own bed and wanting to be some place-- any place-- else but here. Which is odd since a) I love my bed and b) I love my house and c) I love the little furry faces who woke me up to tell me they missed me and love me and, oh yeah, their food bowls were empty. All I know is that if someone had handed me a plane ticket this morning I wouldn’t have bothered to check the destination before jumping in my car and heading for the airport.
Since I can’t physically remove myself from my current location, I guess I’m taking a little mental vacation because I couldn’t care less about anything that’s going on around me at the moment. Work? Please. Friends? Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Writing? Um… does e-mail count? E-mail? I’ll get to it when I get to it. Food shopping? I have bread and peanut butter, I’ll survive for another week.
I’m sure this is just a little bout of post-vacation blues because I have absolutely nothing on the horizon to look forward to and I’m feeling unbearably lonely and sorry for myself. So I can either a) plan another vacation or b) suck it up and get over it or c) throw a little pity party for one. I’m currently leaning toward C.
Oh, and did I mention my weekend is going to suck? It’s a cruel, cruel thing to have Valentine’s Day fall on a Saturday when a) I’m going to be alone and b) I have to work all day and c) I’m feeling like a reject from the Island of Misfit Toys. Valentine’s Day? Gag. Saint Valentine got what he deserved. Love stinks.
I’m sorry for my lack of good cheer. You can either a) ignore this post and wait for the good stuff or b) take everything I’m writing with a grain of salt because I’m in a lousy mood or c) bite me.
Hugs and kisses.
I don’t have a lot of fond childhood memories of my family. Friends, sure. School, yes. Summer time, definitely. Just not many warm, fuzzy, feel-good family memories. My parents weren’t warm, fuzzy, feel-good people. It wasn’t an awful childhood, but it left a lot to be desired.
The occasional happy childhood memory makes me smile. It also makes me sad. I wish there had been more of those good memories, more positive moments to hang on to when being an adult feels like too much work. Unfortunately, the bad overshadows the good most of the time. But, you grow up and you move on and you don’t worry about it too much. It is what it is. I envy people whose memories of childhood are filled with love and comfort. That’s a wonderful thing, the kind of security that comes from getting a good start in the world.
I was thinking today about how we used to go to my grandmother’s house for Sunday dinner. That was not a warm, fuzzy, feel-good experience. More like peace talks between enemy nations that always ended in a shaky stand-off until the next Sunday. The trip to grandma’s set the tone for the evening-- my brother and me in the back seat, fighting; my parents in the front seat, fighting. Pretty family picture.
On the way home, though, it was different. Dark, quiet, miles of highway and nothing to do but curl up and go to sleep. I can remember pulling into our driveway some Sunday nights and faking being asleep so I wouldn’t have to get out and walk. More often than not, I’d get a nudge and a terse order to get in the house and go to bed if I was so tired. But once in awhile, my pretend sleeping was convincing enough that I was left alone and my father carried me in the house.
It’s really not much of a memory-- my father opening the car door and shifting my not-so-sleeping body into his arms and carrying me to my bedroom. Hardly something I should remember with such joy. But it was nice, those few moments between the car and my bed when I didn’t have to do anything for myself. Nice not having to worry about putting one foot in front of the other. Nice to be carried, though I was capable of walking. Nice to be taken care of.
I guess I’m thinking about that memory because I’ve been feeling so rundown the past few days and I wouldn’t mind letting someone else take care of me. It would be nice to be carried, just for a little while. (I mean that figuratively, of course. I wouldn’t want anyone to throw their back out.)
Sometimes being sick is a temporary break from the world, a time to be alone and slow down and recharge. And sometimes it’s just a reminder that I’m an adult and I have to take care of myself.
The world as we know it is changed forever. The earth is tilted on its axis. Hell is surely freezing over. I am using sick leave because I am unwell. Alert the media. Oh, never mind, they’re busy analyzing the social and moral ramifications of Janet’s nipple exposure in a post-Cold War society.
I’m taking a little sick leave break to get over whatever is making me feel like a kitten in a clothes dryer (there’s a visual, huh?). I’m sleeping like eighteen hours a day, but it’s all in ninety minute increments, it seems. I can’t do the math on that because I’m too tired, but basically I’m not sleeping well and it’s making me feel worse.
I’m a big believer in sleep as a restorative. Keep the drugs and give me ten solid hours of sleepy time and I usually feel better. I just can’t seem to get the rest I need thanks to my insomnia (I solve all the problems of the world while tossing and turning in my flannel sheets), the dog barking (at cars, other dogs, the wind, the voices in his furry little head) and lovely, wonderful people (some of whom are truly lovely and wonderful, they just have bad timing) who start calling me at nine in the morning and don’t stop calling until sometime in the middle of the night. It’s so nice to be popular.
Part of my problem is a lifelong illness for which I need to find a cure. I need to learn to say “no.” “No” to doing things I don’t have time and energy to do; “no” to people who will take everything I’ve got and leave me running on empty; “no” to anything that isn’t going to be good and positive for me. Maybe that’s selfish, maybe it’s just self-preservation. Elton had it wrong-- I can say “sorry” from now until forever, my problem is saying “no.” It can be, and has been, exhausting. Self-inflicted, but still exhausting.
Until I figure out how to say “no” in other areas of my life, I’m going to say “no” to work tomorrow. It’s a start.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
