In my twenties, I took a vacation in which I met up with all my family members down in Florida and we had a wonderful time in condos on a private beach. It was pure relaxation, lots of fun. But that's not my story. My story begins when most of the family had flown back to their respective states and towns, leaving just one sister and one brother. The three of us decided to drive upstate and stay at a motel near Universal Studios, and have a day of fun there.
That morning in Universal Studios, we stood in line for the King Kong ride, We stood in line for the Back To The Future ride. We stood in line for the E.T. ride. We stood in line for the live shows. We stood in line for Ghostbusters. The point is, we spent most of our time standing in line. Looong lines. It was clear that we would not get to see the whole park in one day, but at least we were going to try.
In the afternoon, with just hours remaining of our vacation (we were all due to fly home the next day), disaster struck. A storm moved in overhead, and driving sheets of rain soon emptied the entertainment park. Everyone bailed and the last of the vacationers ran for their vehicles to go home. My brother, sister and I became stuck in the Star Trek Make-A-Video shop, watching the storm rage outside, wondering what we were going to do. Frustration and disappointment over bad luck filled the air as we stared out at the deluge. I looked at my siblings and at the relentless downpour. The sky was gray, overcast and the rain looked like it would go on for hours.
I began to have a deep sense of rebellion inside me. I was NOT going to let a little thing like an apocalyptic rainstorm defeat me; this was MY vacation! Wet or not, I wasn't through having fun today!
With a sense of both shock and glee I stepped out into the storm and was drenched in a split-second. I closed my eyes and lifted my arms and felt the rain pound down on my head. Then I looked at my siblings, smiled and said, "Come on out; the water's fine!"
Suzie and Jim looked at each other as if agreeing that my brain had just melted out of my ears. Then they too stepped out and got drenched with me. We grinned at each other and ran off to where the best rides were. We were so soaked, with every step little spouts of water gushed upward out of our shoes. There wasn't any possible way we could get more wet than we were.
No more lines! We ran right up to rides and could go immediately. When we were done, we'd quickly run around to the beginning and do it again. And again. Until the people running the rides told us to just stay put and they'd start the ride over again. We were laughing like fools and everything was funny. Out of the corner of my eye I could see park employees grinning at us.
We got around to the entire park that afternoon. It never stopped pouring. We never stopped laughing. Driving home was interesting because we were all so slap-happy it was hard to grip the wheel and steer. At the motel, we put our clothes and shoes in the drier but still had to wear moist shoes the next day going home. Totally worth it.
I have a photo of the three of us clutched in King Kong's hand, before the storm. It's a good photo, but nowhere nearly as great as what followed when it rained.
The next time I visit an entertainment park, I'm hoping it rains really hard. :D
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Spiders and Their Evil, Black Ops Ways
Despite my best intentions, spiders give me the willies. I'm brave enough to be the "go-to" gal when it comes to slaying them, but inside I'm shaking with gutless wonder. I resist the urge to run screaming into the night as I "fearlessly" defend life, liberty and the pursuit of the perfect taco pizza (Godfathers!) from imminent attack from these vicious 8-legged freaks (yes I saw that movie).
That said, put the wayback machine a few years ago (okay a lot of years ago), to when I was 8 years old. I lived in the small town of Alvin, Texas, and one of my favorite things was riding my bicycle everywhere. Being the youngest of five, I spent too many years on a three-wheeled bike that had no hope of keeping up with my two-wheeling siblings as they barreled out of sight. Until one day my oldest brother Randy had had enough and made me get on the two-wheeler and learn that day how to properly ride a bike. From then on, I was free.
It didn't take long before I went exploring and found a network of bike trails worn through a forest that was just a few blocks away. Death-defying sharp turns, gullies and hills, every day was a trial of reaction, speed and nerve. I thrilled with the power of my bike, my courage, and my skill.
Until the day I met up with the devil on 8 legs.
Texas has these arachnids called "banana spiders". They are large-ish with bright, colorful bodies and very long legs and are prone to building webs that are so large, they span the distance from the lowest tree branches down to the ground. They do not seem harmful to humans. Their webs are another story. Every Texan kid can tell you how we always walk through any forested areas with a long stick ahead of us, constantly circling our stick over the path ahead. Just to make sure.
Wait, did I say every kid and always? Hmm, makes one wonder what I was thinking that fateful day.
So here I am, barreling along those forested bike trails, putting on speed to challenge myself to the utmost with spinning around that crazy razor-sharp turn (and I made it too), when BOOM I notice at the last split-second that somehow, unbelievably, there's a web that stretches completely across the trail. A web that had not been there an hour ago. And sitting in the middle of this huge web was a banana spider.
I tried to brake, but there was no way I could reduce my momentum in that split-second. My bike and I plowed through the web and beyond. I crashed to the ground and had an immediate problem.
I just knew that spider had to be on me somewhere.
I completely lost it. Screaming my head off, I left my bike in the woods and pelted for home, slapping all over myself the entire way. Still in mind-numbingly fatal danger, I ran to the bathroom, stripped down and jumped into the shower to try to rinse that horrible thing off me. Still screaming. And slapping at myself.
The end result? I never did find the spider. I only rode on the streets. Things are fuzzy but I seem to recall getting one of my older brothers to help me retrieve the bike while I cautiously crept behind--the day after. No way was I going back right away. In the years that followed, I never failed to have my trusty stick with me, circling ahead. I do that to this day.
Stupid spiders.
That said, put the wayback machine a few years ago (okay a lot of years ago), to when I was 8 years old. I lived in the small town of Alvin, Texas, and one of my favorite things was riding my bicycle everywhere. Being the youngest of five, I spent too many years on a three-wheeled bike that had no hope of keeping up with my two-wheeling siblings as they barreled out of sight. Until one day my oldest brother Randy had had enough and made me get on the two-wheeler and learn that day how to properly ride a bike. From then on, I was free.
It didn't take long before I went exploring and found a network of bike trails worn through a forest that was just a few blocks away. Death-defying sharp turns, gullies and hills, every day was a trial of reaction, speed and nerve. I thrilled with the power of my bike, my courage, and my skill.
Until the day I met up with the devil on 8 legs.
Texas has these arachnids called "banana spiders". They are large-ish with bright, colorful bodies and very long legs and are prone to building webs that are so large, they span the distance from the lowest tree branches down to the ground. They do not seem harmful to humans. Their webs are another story. Every Texan kid can tell you how we always walk through any forested areas with a long stick ahead of us, constantly circling our stick over the path ahead. Just to make sure.
Wait, did I say every kid and always? Hmm, makes one wonder what I was thinking that fateful day.
So here I am, barreling along those forested bike trails, putting on speed to challenge myself to the utmost with spinning around that crazy razor-sharp turn (and I made it too), when BOOM I notice at the last split-second that somehow, unbelievably, there's a web that stretches completely across the trail. A web that had not been there an hour ago. And sitting in the middle of this huge web was a banana spider.
I tried to brake, but there was no way I could reduce my momentum in that split-second. My bike and I plowed through the web and beyond. I crashed to the ground and had an immediate problem.
I just knew that spider had to be on me somewhere.
I completely lost it. Screaming my head off, I left my bike in the woods and pelted for home, slapping all over myself the entire way. Still in mind-numbingly fatal danger, I ran to the bathroom, stripped down and jumped into the shower to try to rinse that horrible thing off me. Still screaming. And slapping at myself.
The end result? I never did find the spider. I only rode on the streets. Things are fuzzy but I seem to recall getting one of my older brothers to help me retrieve the bike while I cautiously crept behind--the day after. No way was I going back right away. In the years that followed, I never failed to have my trusty stick with me, circling ahead. I do that to this day.
Stupid spiders.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
It's All In The Name
So there I was, standing in line at Taco Time, ready to order. I haven't been there in weeks. Despite them being my favorite fast food Mexican place, there's a reason for my absence. A few years back, they made a simple yet crucial change in how they processed orders. Instead of giving you a circled number, the cashier now wants your name, which is used to announce when your food is ready.
That's a change designed to seem more personal and friendly, which is good for business. I can hear you thinking that. Unfortunately, I can't agree. I mentally cringe when this situation exists, knowing ahead of time the difficulty that goes along with having an old French name, one that the current generation has likely never heard before.
It goes something like this:
I order. The cashier gives me a total and I pay for it. Then comes the hard part.
"Name?"
"Jeanette."
I watch him write J - A - N - E - T.
And I cringe for the umpteenth time as my pet peeve activates.
The thing is, I speak clearly and enunciate well. No one has ever had a difficult time understanding me. And I'm extra careful to speak my name in these situations. It doesn't seem to matter. The hapless youth ignores the different syllable emphasis of my name as he/she writes down some American version that is familiar. The problem is, that's not my name and doesn't even sound like it.
You wouldn't call her "Jeanette Jackson," now would you? So why call me by a name that isn't mine?
I realize spelling my name correctly is nigh to impossible, and I don't expect that. All I want is to have my name misspelled in such a fashion that it shows the person actually paid attention and wants to cooperate. And so that it leads to the last person having a much stronger possibility of saying the right sounds and syllables when handing my food to me.
How I wish they would go back to using numbers. I'm seriously thinking of telling them my name is "#10" when asked. Then smile all friendly as if nothing out of the ordinary, and edge down the counter. Numbers may seem more impersonal, but it's better than mangling people's names all day. I've talked to other people whose names were homogenized into something else; my plight is not unique.
You think that's bad? Try having my French last name and now you've got a recipe for disaster. My last name is Foshee (pronounced "foh-SHAY"). It's pronounced and spelled correctly in France, but that doesn't help in the States. You would not believe the permutations of pronunciation, much less spelling, that happens.
For the sake of brevity, I will list the most common variations:
Foster
Forster
Forshee
Fosher
Foshay
Foche
Fooey (pronounced "phooey" -- it's my favorite)
Fouchee
Fashey
Foshen
That said, my pet peeve is over; it felt good to let off steam. In the end, names are important; it's who we are. And we wish to hear it spoken correctly or even an attempt at it.
I realize we all get caught up in the "do it fast and move on" mentality, but there's a rare pleasure when someone stops just long enough to ask me how to spell and/or pronounce my name. In this culture of mass processing, giving a few moments to be human and interact with each other goes so far; why not make the attempt?
That's a change designed to seem more personal and friendly, which is good for business. I can hear you thinking that. Unfortunately, I can't agree. I mentally cringe when this situation exists, knowing ahead of time the difficulty that goes along with having an old French name, one that the current generation has likely never heard before.
It goes something like this:
I order. The cashier gives me a total and I pay for it. Then comes the hard part.
"Name?"
"Jeanette."
I watch him write J - A - N - E - T.
And I cringe for the umpteenth time as my pet peeve activates.
The thing is, I speak clearly and enunciate well. No one has ever had a difficult time understanding me. And I'm extra careful to speak my name in these situations. It doesn't seem to matter. The hapless youth ignores the different syllable emphasis of my name as he/she writes down some American version that is familiar. The problem is, that's not my name and doesn't even sound like it.
You wouldn't call her "Jeanette Jackson," now would you? So why call me by a name that isn't mine?
I realize spelling my name correctly is nigh to impossible, and I don't expect that. All I want is to have my name misspelled in such a fashion that it shows the person actually paid attention and wants to cooperate. And so that it leads to the last person having a much stronger possibility of saying the right sounds and syllables when handing my food to me.
How I wish they would go back to using numbers. I'm seriously thinking of telling them my name is "#10" when asked. Then smile all friendly as if nothing out of the ordinary, and edge down the counter. Numbers may seem more impersonal, but it's better than mangling people's names all day. I've talked to other people whose names were homogenized into something else; my plight is not unique.
You think that's bad? Try having my French last name and now you've got a recipe for disaster. My last name is Foshee (pronounced "foh-SHAY"). It's pronounced and spelled correctly in France, but that doesn't help in the States. You would not believe the permutations of pronunciation, much less spelling, that happens.
For the sake of brevity, I will list the most common variations:
Foster
Forster
Forshee
Fosher
Foshay
Foche
Fooey (pronounced "phooey" -- it's my favorite)
Fouchee
Fashey
Foshen
That said, my pet peeve is over; it felt good to let off steam. In the end, names are important; it's who we are. And we wish to hear it spoken correctly or even an attempt at it.
I realize we all get caught up in the "do it fast and move on" mentality, but there's a rare pleasure when someone stops just long enough to ask me how to spell and/or pronounce my name. In this culture of mass processing, giving a few moments to be human and interact with each other goes so far; why not make the attempt?
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