Dinero Stupido -or- Chimichangas de la Casanova

I have a Public Service Announcement to make to you good folks. But I must do it in the form of a flashback.

When my friend Debbie and I were at Epcot for a conference-- and yes, this was the same day I totally, publicly freaked out on the family of Butt Scoochers at Epcot's Test Track-- we decided to have dinner at the Mexican Pavilion. We figured we could do a little shopping in the bazaar, go have a margarita or two... eat... and watch people come out of the ride shouting, "Mio Dios, please make that song stop!"

(The song, at the end of the Mexico ride, really IS one step away from the "It's a Small World" theme. We got stuck in that ride once, right at the end. After ten minutes of that singing loop of Mexican puppet children, it's a wonder we didn't leap out of that boat and run for the border ourselves.)

Anyway. So Deb and I were having our margaritas, and the waiter started chatting with us. Initially, we figured he was just friendly, because, you know, it's Disney. It's not the DMV or the gas company. No, these people were PAID to be friendly there. Everyone's really wonderful. They're genetically designed to be.

So our waiter asked us what brought us there, how we were enjoying our stay, and what we planned to see later.

Now after a day of walking around, we really just wanted to get down to business and order. But hey, it had been so long since either of us had seen good customer service outside of Mouseville, Deb and I figured it was very possible that we just didn't know what that looked like anymore.

So we talked a bit, and Deb told him we'd probably head over to the nightclubs at "Pleasure Island." Then we promptly forgot all about it.

Soon, the waiter came back to check on us. Judging by the level of my margarita, it really hadn't been more than five minutes or so. This round of conversation involved asking more questions about our conference, when we were going back home, and where home was. It would have been okay, only the questions were fairly detailed, and this guy had a lot of other tables to wait on.

Deb and I exchanged raised eyebrows.

Eighth of a margarita later, why, here was our waiter friend again! And Deb and I started to get the sense that our middle-aged waiter was either just a little too into his work or he was using his role at the Mexican pavilion to pick up chicas. This theory was further reinforced when he asked us our names.

Now while I have the utmost respect for servers and the pains they go through to deal with the grimy public, I also don't really think I need to be on... oh... their Christmas card list. Not, at least, for just one evening of seafood chimichangas (no matter how yummy they were-- and, actually, they were really yummy).

So in a blatant, wholly-unconvincing lie, I looked at my waiter and said, "My name's Rachel."

Rachel was the name of my first mystery story's heroine. It is the only name I can ever think of quickly. I am a truly terrible liar, so on those few rare occasions fake names are called for, I am Rachel. It's best to keep it simple, I think.

Our waiter then turned to Debbie and Debbie said, "I'm Debbie." Because, you know, Debbie isn't my friend's real name, anyway.

So we, Rachel and Debbie finished our margaritas and enjoyed a lovely meal, including the aforementioned yummy chimichangas.

As we were winding up dinner, our waiter came back once again. Was there anything else he could get us? Were we sure? Fine, great and...

Oh, so what time would we be stopping over at Pleasure Island? How long would we be there? Was there any particular club we were going to? Because you know, HE was thinking of popping by there himself after work and...

It was Rachel, wasn't it?... And Debbie?

I have to admit, in my plans for my one evening in The Happiest Place on Earth, hanging out with the waiter from the Mexican Pavilion hadn't really crossed my mind. Though, perhaps, this is why I'm still single.

Anyway, Debbie mumbled something vaguely about not being sure when we'd be where, about how she'd be meeting her husband first-- her husband who was, in fact, thousands of miles away settling down to the Steelers game.

The waiter said, well, maybe he'd bump into us over there, and he gave us the check.

That's when we realized neither of us had much cash.

Nope, Debbie and Rachel were going to have to use the ol' credit cards, oh yes!

And so, the moral of the story, my friends, is: if you're going to lie about your name to someone, make sure they are also not the person who has to run your credit card through with your name emblazoned all over it.

Don't be like Debbie and Rachel.

Hasta luego, amigos.


-----------------------------------------------
You have to be this tall to ride at Humor-Blogs .

The Crabbiest Place on Earth

They call Disney "the happiest place on earth." And the story I'm about to tell you today takes place in Epcot. So maybe it doesn't have to be "happiest place on earth" like the Magic Kingdom does. Maybe it's:

• "The place of lines longer than the ones for TP during Cold War Soviet Union..."

• Or "Eat your way through the countries of the world" (how I DO love those countries!)

• Or "Get two minutes of seeing really cool dinosaurs, sandwiched in between twenty minutes of dry documentaries about natural resources sponsored by an oil company.

And if that's the case, then I won't feel so bad about what once happened there.

Now, I should preface this with: people who know me well, know I'm not really an aggressive person. I'm more the kind of person who gets punted aside by other people in line because:

1.) They didn't notice me standing there and
2.) Even if they did, I figure it's not worth raising my blood pressure fighting them about it.

I mean, I'm not a doormat-- I'm just practical. Plus, I can write about them later when they cannot deck me.

That said, I will tell you about the unfortunate time I completely and publicly snapped in the Family Amusement Park Where Dreams Come True.

It had been a conference for work. And one of my coworkers and good friends-- we'll call her Debbie-- Debbie and I had decided to save the company money on airfare by staying an extra day in Orlando at Disney.

Now, two things you need to know about Debbie. Debbie is a fantastic event planner-- she can organize ANYTHING. Why, she could herd 300 cats into a room and teach them a Broadway production, sell tickets and get glowing audience testimonials, all in the time it takes the pour the Meow Mix.

Debbie is also, um, not very tall. Like teeny. Like she says she's five-feet tall but then someone's pre-adolescent child leans on Debbie's head, is what I'm saying. I'm a giant, she's tiny. It's no wonder we've become such good friends.

'Kay. So Debbie and I finished our work gig and we were free for Epcotty goodness. So the one thing we decided to hit bright-and-early was the brand new GM Test Track ride. This is where people get into a makeshift car and willingly simulate being crash test dummies. This we do in the name of fun and vacation.

Debbie and I were excited about being those dummies.

The line, a sign indicated, would take about an hour, and since Debbie and I had successfully gotten through our work event, and were feeling mellow...

Until a certain family got behind us in line.

This family seemed to be comprised of a middle-aged woman, her mother, her husband, their two pre-teen kids and some extra woman who might have been an aunt. All of them were, well, large and shaped roughly like Sherman tanks. All of them wore tank shirts. But honestly, it wasn't the largeness that was of issue; I mean, people come in different shapes and sizes and that's what makes humans interesting. It was their unwillingness to recognize the boundaries of personal space...

Like I had one woman's boobs and stomach pressing into my back.

The line would move, Debbie and I would move up a bit and... Boobs in the Back.

I'd edge up, things would be fine for a moment and... Boobs in the Back again.

Then the line stopped when something in the ride glitched.

The family started to get bored and tired of standing. And that's when they discovered the fun that was the metal railings that guided the lines. Sitting on the metal railings, scooching along on their butts, swinging their dangling legs...

That was just the ADULTS.

Yep, Deb and I turned our heads, only to see at least three of 'em lined up, parents and a kid or two, butt-sliding along the high and low railings, a-kicking and a-swinging. (One woman had to stay behind to ensure her sweaty boobs were firmly implanted in my back.)

Fourty-five minutes this went on. Bumping, pushing, the kids jumping off and stepping onto our feet. And finally, there was the scooch that broke the camel's back, so to speak. The pre-teen girl butt-scooched too enthusiastically and fell off the railing-- toppling onto Debbie, knocking her right over...

Debbie, who was about the same size as the kid.

Well, that was it. I actually think I stepped outside of myself at this point. My eyes went red and Hulk-like. Words poured out of my mouth, but I didn't consciously feel like I was saying them. It was like I was listening to them coming from some outer overhead PA system. And this voice, this voice that was loud and angry and unnaturally mine shouted:

"YOU are the STRANGEST BUNCH OF PEOPLE I have ever seen! I have never SEEN such a family! There is such a thing called personal space and it is time for you to just

BACK

OFF!"

And they all stepped away from me.

And do I mean, all of them. The people in front of me gave me a wider berth.

The people to the side looked on with stunned faces.

And the family of Butt Scoochers, why, they all stood gaping and back a good three feet from where they'd been, boobs and bellies inhabiting their own airspace for the first time in almost an hour.

The little girl was dusting herself off and grumbled, "I SAID sorry."

Only Momma Butt Scoocher was open-mouthed and reaching a hand toward her to pull her away from me, the red-headed Medusa before them.

Debbie, at this point, was getting up and laughing hysterically. Because she had never in five years of knowing me seen me flip out like that. And neither had I. It felt good. It felt heady-- like a fresh ocean breeze to a person who'd been breathing the black oxygen of a coal mine all this time.

Until I heard the Butt Scoochers say something about calling Security... and I realized they were thinking about calling it on ME. For what? Oh, I don't know-- breaking a sound ordinance or something. Public embarrassment. Heck, they could SUE!

So they talked about me during the excruciatingly-long 15 minutes remaining in line, with security mentioned more than once to my burning ears.

And the whole rest of the day, I imagined being pulled aside by some friendly park employee in uniform, bringing me through some dwarf-sized door to explain I was no longer welcome in the Happiest Place on Earth.

Once we got through the Test Track, Debbie tried to get me to calm down by ordering me a Guinness with my fish and chips at the Rose and Crown pub in "England." And it helped, a little. But not really.

I mean, it was going to be a lot harder to plead my case to Mickey Mouse, wasn't it, if security brought me in all liquored up?

----------------------------------

Humor-blogs is no Mickey Mouse blog directory. There are cool cats, funny southern belles and witty dead roosters over there, too.