What Will You Celebrate?

Walt Disney managed to get the Happiest Place on Earth built in less than a year, although there were some bumps in the road along the way. Construction on the theme park began on July 21, 1954. On July 17, 1955, the soft opening to the press was fraught with troubles ranging from unexpected crowds due to counterfeit tickets, non-working water fountains, and ladies’ heels sinking into the fresh asphalt on the warm summer day. Disneyland opened to the public on July 18, 1955, and it went on to be a place where memories and magic are made.

Construction on my oldest daughter, Kristen, began in early 1984. The early stage of the endeavor was fraught with morning sickness that could be quelled only by English muffins with melted cheese. Later developments included itchy stretch marks and frumpy maternity clothes. The project was completed after thirty-three hours of labor and an emergency C-section. However, the result weighed 8 lb. 4 oz. and was more magical to me than any Disney creation.

Disneyland is often a place to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations; honeymooners from all over the globe visit daily. My first trip to Disneyland was to celebrate my eighth birthday. Twenty years later, I began taking Kristen and Courtney for celebrations of their own. In recent years, with the addition of Laura to our family, we created a new tradition of an annual summer adventure at the Disney resorts. We visit the Disneyland and California Adventure parks, eat at the Blue Bayou, sometimes stay at the Grand Californian, and wear the matching personalized T-shirts that Kristen creates for us each year. Oh yes, we do. What?

2007

2008

2009

Every year the Disney parks have a theme and a parade to go with it. This summer the theme is “What Will You Celebrate?” It was like the folks at Disney did it just for Kristen.

This summer our family adventure at Disneyland was a special celebration of Kristen and Adam’s engagement, which happened just days before, in a chicken coop. Yes, a chicken coop. What?

Sure, we spent a happy day doing the things that we usually do; still, I can’t help but wax nostalgic about how everything is changing.

Courtney & Kristen 1988* ~ Laura, Kristen & Courtney 2009

"Life is a journey, not a destination."
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

As the changes keep coming, I can tell you one thing for sure: I'm going to celebrate the ride.

Congratulations Kristen & Adam!
I love you.

_____________
*Yes, I made Kristen and Courtney wear matching MC Hammer pants to Disneyland. It was 1988. Gosh.

A peek at our recent Disney adventures:
2009: Photos
2008: Post and Photos
2007: Photos
2006: Post

(A BIG thank you to the magical folks at Disneyland Resort Public Relations for providing Blog This Mom and her family with complimentary Park Hopper tickets this year. Castle construction photo courtesy of disneydreamer.com. Castle photo and vintage Mickey Mouse courtesy of Google Images. Current Mickey Mouse image courtesy of disneyparks.disney.go.com)

Silly Haiku Wednesday: The Adam Lambert Tribute

The Adam Lambert Tribute Haiku

my whole lotta love
looked in my eyes, his were lined
then danced like a queen

The Secret is Out: Adam Lambert Adores Me

Adam Lambert came to San Diego last night to visit me again.

What?

He did.

I have pictures and a signed copy of Rolling Stone Magazine to prove it.


But first a couple of photos from the concert:

Adam and Allison singing a duet

Adam belted it out, gyrated, danced,
pranced, queened it up,
and even donned a blue feather boa
(on the stage floor next to him),
God bless him and have mercy on MY soul!
(I'm still having multiple Lambergasms over this performance.)

But before the show . . . we went backstage for a meet and greet. Oh yes, we did:

Laura (with punk clothes and purple hair)
meeting Allison Iraheta, her favorite idol

"Photo op" for Laura with Allison

Laura gave Adam Lambert
her Adam Lam"bark" cartoon.
He was very gracious and sweet with her.

Can you tell that Adam Lambert adores me?
I can.
Totally.
P.S. I don't dye my hair purple for just any man.
P.P.S. I love love love my actual husband for taking this awesome photo.

Here's Adam again, getting a second look at me.
(Adam is holding his Adam Lam"bark" cartoon.)
(And my cell phone number. Heh.)

Does he or doesn't he . . . adore me?
The proof is on the cover of Rolling Stone.
Adam wrote:
"Cheri You Rock! Adam Lambert"
Oh. Yes. He. Did.

From the top, left to right:
Henry & Laura; Laura & Henry; Laura's purple hair;
Laura; my Favorite Shirt Ever; my special and actual husband;
my three Mikes (yes, they are all mine); Trish, me & Tom; punked-out Laura

Seriously? The positive energy and affable vibe that I got from Adam Lambert backstage was palpable, and even more amazing considering the grueling pace of this tour and his recording work. This is a remarkable young man, inside and out. I suppose I'm drawn to people whose path might not have been as easy as others, and who still bloom where they're planted. It isn't just that Adam Lambert blooms on stage (and on all that is holy let me swear to you that watching him perform live is nothing short of a privilege and Lambergasmic, of course), but he truly appeared comfortable in his skin when I met him face-to-face, and full of light and grace as a person.

Also? I'm pretty sure that but for the husband, three children, twenty-year age difference, and my girly bits, I'd have a shot with Adam Lambert. Just look at how he looked at me (again):

Top Ten Reasons I Want a Zeenus

The rhyming à la katydidnot is so as not to offend the delicate gender, i.e., the men folk in our family. And to evade Googling pervs. Last weekend, when my youngest brother-in-law strayed within earshot of his wife and I discussing female issues, and the organ that rhymes with flute-or-us was mentioned, his face turned whiter than the cliffs of Dover.

As I ALLUDED to last week, I had surgery to stop a great deal of gleeding from my nerve-hex. The doctor called with the lab results and everything is fine all up in there, i.e., no cancer, which news I was expecting because my last sap schmeer was clear, but I still found myself holding my breath when the doctor said, "Just a minute while I look over the biopsy results." I could hear papers rustling over the phone. Waiting. Waiting. W.a.i.t.i.n.g. Just when I turned blue and began writhing on the floor she said, "Benign."

Meanwhile, I'm in week four damn it FOUR did you get that? FOUR fricking FOUR weeks of gleeding and I’m so sick of it that I want a zeenus. I figure if Chas Bono can get a zeenus, so can I. Can’t I? Why not, yo?

I think before the doctors will give you a zeenus, you have to demonstrate that you have good reasons for wanting one. So I thought of the top ten reasons I want a zeenus, and here they are, presented David Letterman-style, in reverse numerical order:

10. No more shaving my legs.

9. Nobody would expect me to find things in the pantry.

8. Nobody would expect me to find things in the bathroom cabinet.

7. Nobody would expect me to find things anywhere.

6. I wouldn’t have to pluck those annoying chin hairs.

5. No more cramps. Sorry Brother-in-Law, I mean no more gramps. No, that's not good either. No more lamps. Whatever.

4. If my zeenus itched, I could scratch it. Anywhere. Anytime.

3. I’d never have to stick another maxi pad with wings in my underpants again.

2. I wouldn’t even know why they put wings on a maxi pad.


And the number one reason I want a zeenus . . .

1. I’d have an actual shot at more than just an imaginary marriage with Adam Lambert.


What do you think? Will they give me my zeenus now?

The Good Enemy

I said that I was done with the subject last week. I planned to not even turn on my television today. I just wanted to keep my head turned as much as possible. But after stillness and meditation, I realized that the very strong desire to turn my head away might actually be the very reason not to do so as Michael Jackson’s death might be my good enemy.

The good enemy in Native American teaching is the concept that sometimes the person or situation that causes the most discomfort carries the greatest lesson. Issues raised in the media coverage since Michael Jackson’s death are serious, emotionally evocative, and personal to a great many survivors (a statistically larger group than commonly believed). So I decided to bear witness to Michael Jackson’s memorial service on television today. I prayed for an open heart while I did.

I found myself profoundly moved during parts of the memorial service, a celebration of an extraordinary entertainer and his almost half of a century of global humanitarian, social, cultural, political, and musical influences. Maya Angelou's poem was brilliant and poignant. And (don't hate me) I thought Al Sharpton delivered a compelling message in parts, especially to MJ’s children. It was nice to see Martin Luther King's family, and hear their words of love and compassion. I also thought Brooke Shields had a unique perspective and her tribute was fresh and full of grace. These people clearly had special personal relationships with MJ.

In my opinion, all that is left to make today’s service an honorable tribute is for AEG and/or the Jackson family to reimburse the financially indebted City of Los Angeles for the extraordinary expenses today’s service will otherwise cost taxpayers.

Grasping for release from the negative feelings that I had about (what I believed to be) the skewed perspective of the media coverage of MJ’s death, I watched again many of Michael Jackson's videos (Thriller, Billie Jean, and the like) this week. I was reminded of how MJ’s artistic genius, spirit, hopes, power, light, darkness, and energy spoke to me when his music and videos (especially from the mid-1980s and before) were first released. They still speak to me now.

I know that his path was not easy from beginning to end. He was a victim and a survivor too. But that isn't all that he was.

If you read my blog post (and comment section) on MJ last week, you know that I do not share in the fervor of the world as it travels along this bizarre trajectory of mourning a man who was so brilliant on the one (-gloved) hand, but so deceptive, dangerous, and destructive on the other.

After bearing witness to his memorial service today, and watching his videos/listening to his music here and there over the last week, I have this perspective to share:

I am sad for the loss to the world of the artist and human being that he was.

I am sad for the absence in the world of all that he might have been if his response to the damage inflicted on him in his life had been different.

I am sad for the suffering that we all watched another human being both endure and inflict upon himself and others.

I am glad that he is finally at peace, and I hope that the human beings whose lives he affected both positively and negatively will find peace too.

The good enemy had some lessons for me.

Did a good enemy find you this week? What did you learn?

It is challenging, but not impossible to control the world from a supine position on my couch . . .

I hinted this week that I’ve been under the weather, but I was all me meh about the details because I’m bored of the weird medical afflictions that have plagued me from head to toe lately my whole life. However, yesterday’s events were like a Seinfeld episode in which a bunch of seemingly random events come slamming together at the end, and I mean slam in the poetic sense.

Suburban Correspondent’s KitchenAid dishwasher went on the fritz this week and she wrote a little poem about it. I happen to have the same model dishwasher pictured in her post, so I left a little poem about that in her comment section, and followed it up later with a suggestion that she host an appliance poetry slam, which she did. Apparently now there is also voting for the best appliance poems over at her (newly redesigned and quite lovely, by the way) very funny blog, so take a moment and go check it out and vote for me, k? I don’t even know if there are prizes, but I want to win anyway, and if you make it through to the end of this post, I’m quite certain I can earn your pity vote because it turns out in a twist of fate that I have actual KitchenAid applicance woes of my own now.

To keep it short because eeeew who wants the TMI anyway and no hot doctors were involved, I started having some, uh, issues having to do with my, uh, female organs (TMI, ack!) and had surgery on Tuesday morning to remove something that didn’t belong up there (TMI, ack!) and was causing pain and heavy bleeding (TMI, ack!). Once again, I'm waiting for lab results, but my last pap smear (TMI, ack!) in April was good, so all guesses are that everything is fine.

Meanwhile . . . after going bat-shit crazy from being under the weather and on the couch forfrickingever, I got the brilliant idea that I would suck it up and go to the grocery store two days post-op to lay in supplies for the coming weeks. I figured it would be one trip to the store and then back home to put my feet up all weekend long, while Laura fetched me things and Tom grilled our dinners. Laura said she’d push the cart and carry in all of the groceries, which was awesome because Laura hates to go shopping. As an aside, Laura is bending over backwards these days to do anything to demonstrate how responsible she can be so she can have a cell phone like “every other kid in her class.” (I’ve opportunistically extorted hours of uncomplaining piano practice, household chores, personal grooming, pleasant attitude, etc. in the last few weeks. I can pretty much get Laura to do whatever I want if I just mention the words cell phone . . . And, by the way, no promises whatsoever about actually buying any cell phone have been made during said moments of extortion.)

So I bought almost $500 worth of stuff (including a liver/colon detox kit because of all of the Girl Scout cookies I've consumed since March drugs I ingested after surgery), and tons of organic meat and other frozen foods so I'd have stuff to crockpot and for Tom to BBQ in the coming weeks. I bought beef. I bought chicken. I bought pork. I bought turkey. I bought salmon. I bought tofu. I bought veggie burgers. I bought Amy's Mac & Cheese. I bought frozen lasagna. I bought frozen burritos. I bought frozen pizza. I bought soy ice cream and frozen yogurt. I bought milk, soy milk, cottage cheese, smoothies, yogurt, fresh pressed apple juice, cheeses (goat, mozzarella, cheddar, parmesan), fruit, eggs, berries. I bought fresh veggies. I bought frozen veggies. I bought baking supplies to make a crockpot cake recipe from the book that Laura bought for me. I bought everything in the store. Etc.

My lovely, six-year-new, side-by-side, built-in, KitchenAid refrigerator/freezer would be full in the coming weeks.

Do you see where this is headed?

Laura carried every single bag from the car to the kitchen.

When I opened the freezer? It was all frosty and drippy and not working.

But denial is my middle name, so I decided I must have left the door partially ajar that morning, although I could not think for what possible purpose I’d opened the freezer that morning, but it must have been left open accidentally because why else would the freezer be frosty and drippy and not working?

After I cleaned the frost and Laura mopped the water from the floor (I asked if she had any particular model cell phone in mind), I Googled troubleshooting instructions for my model fridge and reset some buttons and loaded all the food into it.

I went about my merry way where merry way equals I dealt with a comedic series of other errors where comedic series equals I ended up crying, and then I went to check the freezer again.

Everything in the freezer was melting and . . . now the fridge side was growing increasingly warmer.

Tom came home just as I started crying.

Tom was really nice to me.

So I stopped crying.

Then I Googled an appliance repair dude (that just sounds wrong), and Tom called him.

Dude couldn’t come until noon the next day.

So . . .

Tom and I moved all of our food to the small fridge in our garage where moved all of our food equals most of it because small. I had to triage.

The freezer got so warm last night we went ahead and baked some cookies in it.

This morning? Cold again. But will it stay cold if I put the food back into it? I can’t decide in my weakened condition.

So . . . please go vote for the KitchenAid repair poem that I wrote last week because I may or may not actually be hosting a KitchenAid repair person in my own kitchen later today. And because I cried. The poll is on the left side of Suburban Correspondent’s lovely new blog layout. :-)

On the upside, I’m pretty sure I can get Laura to move all of the food back into the house for us if I merely wonder aloud whether it is important for a cell phone to have texting capabilities . . .