Skip to main content

Countdown: 14 Days

I thought I would get to avoid the horror that is known as the Disney Store this year.

Please, I love Disneyland as much as the next kid who grew up going twice a year in Los Angeles. And I love taking my Rabbit. Although note to Disney people: what is UP with the lack of characters running around and forcing us to stand in LINES to meet the Princesses, Mickey Mouse and Pooh? The magic used to be that these guys just WANDERED around their land. This was, uh, Disneyland. Where magical characters roamed free. Not dive bombed in like Johnny Depp signing autographs for 5 minutes at Burger King. But I digress.

So I thought I was going to avoid the whole Disney Store crud this year. Where you pretend you're at an amusement park but really the only amusement are the store clerks smirking that you're paying $3.50 a bead for a kid to make a bracelet they'll drop on Fifth Avenue about 3 minutes after you leave.

But no. The Rabbit's class has a Secret Santa thing this year (which as a sucker for all things winter, I love) and the girl she picked, The Rabbit told me, loves Fairies. Note the capital "F." Because these of course would be the Disney Fairies.

So I trekked my self over to the Disney store. And braved the kid picking his nose near the pin selection, (and what is up with the PINS?!?) and the French speaking family laughing at the Cinderella display (then why did you come in? Did you mistake this for Hermes? Because I think the horrifyingly large plastic Goofy by the front door might have tipped you off..) and left with just shy of $50 worth of Disney crud.

I brought the Fairies home. (And a couple of plastic princess dolls for the top of her birthday cake. Yes, I'm a sucker.) The Rabbit took one look and pronounced them perfect. And that she wanted Santa to bring them to her for Christmas too.

Guess this may be a call for Santa PAPA, because Mama ain't playing that again.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…

Champix

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …