Home, sweet home.

Back to life, back to reality.

I was really ready to come home. I started getting sick about halfway through the trip, and just didn’t have the energy to do everything I wanted to. Also, we were a bit naïve to think that a light sleeper like me and a heavy snorer could share a room without some tension creeping in. We stopped arguing when the man on the opposite balcony collapsed and probably died (still no heartbeat when they got him into the ambulance, and it seemed like it had already been a while), but we were both still pretty exhausted. I ended up calling in sick yesterday, and was only out of bed long enough to get strep throat ruled out.

At least it’s a short week. Plenty of sleepytime on the weekend.

Four Days.

Four days an a couple of hours left to get EVERYTHING done before Thanksgiving, which leads right into vacation. That includes typing up instructions for the new boss on everything she might need to do while I'm away.


The Sicko

Three reports overdue, and I get his with a stomach bug. The good part is, I think I caught it from my boss, who is also out sick today. She thinks she got it from volunteering at the polls on Tuesday.

I've had a bunch of sick days this fall, which doesn't bode well for a I'll probably end up going in next weekend. Which sucks, because there's a ton of stuff to do at home, too. I guess I can do a massive clean-and-pack on Black Friday. The mother and sister seem amenable to Thanksgiving dinner at one of the hotels, which I've wanted to do for a while now. Less work,less mess. I feel bad for the kids working a holiday, but they're probably getting paid extra, and a good tip eases the guilt. It's not like they'd be sent home if I didn't show.

The Miserable Misadventures of a Miniature Mouseketeer

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For this trip, I was planning on making a copy of the original WDW Tour Guide uniform, seen fuzzily here with Roy and Lillian Disney in 1971:

But, I couldn't find blue plaid fabric with a small enough print for the skirt, and the knee socks would have been incredibly fiddly - I probably would have ended up having to glue them on to stay up.

So, I think I'll just try to spruce up the old Mouseketeer kit. The sweater's lost some of its shape, the black paint is flaking off the shoes, and the ears on the hat really need to be stiffer - I think some Sculpey is in order. I'd also like to find a head with less hair; it was really a pain to keep it neat last time.

Men in uniform


I got some new old pictures from Mom, among them these two of Grandpa G.I. and Great-Grandpa Doughboy. I’m the last person to cheerlead for the military*, or slap the “hero” label onto anyone who puts on a uniform, but I really love these. For one thing, it’s the first picture of Grandpa I’ve ever seen where he doesn’t look sick, exhausted, or simply henpecked. Well into old age, Grandma referred to WWII as “the time your grandfather ran out on me,” and said how happy he was to join up. He certainly does have a twinkle in his eye.
He wasn't sent overseas, so I suppose he had as decent a time as one could expect. He used to tell about the time he was sick and his unit left him behind with a "colored" unit. Still blows my mind that the forces were still segregated at that point.

I guess now I know where I get my eyebrows from.

*I have been known, however, to whistle at the occasional ROTC boy in a sailor suit. So sue me.

The Lurker Diaries, Part 2

You never know what’s going to stir up the Memory Monster. Like this Metafilter post about matching couples.

It’s something I've long had a prejudice about. I find it adorable in young or elderly couples, but disturbing in middle-aged ones. It’s only recently that I realized why – Mom took to buying matching stuff for her and Dad a couple of years before the split, in what seemed to me a misguided and doomed attempt to patch up a failing marriage. Coats, moon boots, slippers, sleeping bags, sweatsuits, the whole nine yards. Yes, it was practical to get two of the same when stuff was on sale, but even that looked a bit desperate to me. “See what a good wife I am, saving us money?”

Yeah, it’s taken me a while to come to terms with that period, and even to admit that it affected me at all. I’ve got to give her credit for trying. Nobody can ever say that she didn’t give it one hundred percent, and that kind of commitment has to be admired. But it hurt like hell to see her being a doormat, especially when it seemed so obvious it wasn’t going to work.

With every passing year I feel guiltier for having the gall to judge her choices to begin with. By the time she was my age she was married and divorced, had three children, lost one of them, helped build a freaking house, moved -  for love - far away from her family of origin, and jumped back into the workforce after a fifteen-year absence after having her confidence shattered by years of gasligthing, all while battling her own chronic health problems.

Women judgin’ women. Maybe we ARE all coo coo crazypants after all.

Cute, Marie. Real Cute.

This isn’t my beloved childhood Marie Osmond Doll. If it was, you’d know by the cropped hair and blacked-out teeth. I didn’t set out to deface her; I just wasn’t quite old enough to understand that a doll can’t brush her teeth and let her hair grow out after Halloween like a real girl can. So, she endured years of hats, headscarves, elaborate combovers, and occasional Wite-Out dental treatments before being lost in one move or another. She was the only doll I, or anyone else I knew, had with dark hair and pale skin like mine, and I loved her for it.


No, this is the Marie Osmond doll my lovely sister found in a thrift store and surprised me with. I’ve been wanting to try this weird wrap-pants pattern, and what sentiment defines the 1970’s better than, “Liberty and enormous, unflattering, white pants for all?”