I'm going to be there on July 17th. Oh yes I am. For one sweat-soaked day. and I'm a crazy tits excited about it.
I'm weirdly, perfectly obsessed with Disney. I try to go every year. Did you ever meet a Green Beret who can pack the bejeezus out of a bag? Like grenades, and knives and jerky for living on in the jungle? Well, me neither. But I bet they are good at that shit.
I'm just like that for Disney. I can pack a bag within an inch of its life. Command Hooks, Sunscreen, Ponchos, hand sanitizer, band-aids, autograph books. No need for a Map because I got that all up here *tapshead*
I can't wait. Bring on the pulsating, mind-altering heat. I want to sweat through my underwear, pants, everything. I want to sweat so hard that I sweat through your underwear too.
If you coated Hell in asphalt and scented it with hot waffle cones I would fight a rabies-laden alligator to walk around in there for a day.
So, anyway. My hubby really likes to take pictures in Disney. He got a new camera for Father's Day. He is losing his mind with excitement.
He was also thrilled when some camera equipment arrived in the mail. He had been all-atwitter about its arrival. Now, I trust the husband to make his own manly purchases. I watched as he happily pulled it out of the box.
He bought a stick. An expandable stick. As I eyed him with suspicion, he clamped his beloved camera to the stick.
And that’s it.
That’s all it does.
Me ~ “We bought a stick?”
Him ~ ”It’s a monopod. For my camera.”
Me ~ ""
Him ~ “It has a wrist strap!”
Me ~ ”A stick with a string? Does it have, like other legs to hold it up, or something?”
Him (scoffing) ~ ”That would be a tripod. This is a monopod.”
Now I'm blond, but I do know that mono means one. Hello, Monorail?! It only has one something or other that makes it different from the Tri-rails. And Mononucleosis only has one germ. Whatever.
I watched as he delightedly stood with his camera on a stick and snapped pictures of the living room. I thought of Jeff Dunham and his Jalapeño on a stick.
Then my husband completely ignored me, and packed his camera in his obscenely heavy backpack that travels like Yoda on his back in Disney world.
And he clipped the collapsed stick on a string to the arm strap of Yoda. Then he had the audacity to look at me. Again.
He's lucky he's handsome with white teeth and a set of dimples. I shook my head at the version of my man I would be looking at in Disney. At least he's usually smiling.
So we're proud owners of a stick, which I fully intend on stealing to beat people with. I'll become the Disney Whisperer with that stick. Ever see Cesar Milan? With all his “Chuchch” and “See my hand? Dat is a bite!” (I love that man relentlessly, by the way.)
I'll take said stick and poke people.
Me ~ ”See that stick? It's a poke!” I'll use it to correct such unwanted behaviors as farting, nose picking, line jumping and body odor (in that order). And No, I won't use it on myself.
If by some miracle, the husband gets through security with his overpriced expandable stick, I'll be prodding the crap out of “the undesirables of Disney.”
But in all honestly, I expect him to get a full body cavity search in the tunnels under the Magic Kingdom.