NipTucker

Google had this contest requiring a lot of online research. I spent several hours on the Louvre site. Gotta go, even though I have no desire to go to France.

Saw this one at misslisagene / The Queen of Mean? and boy is that me. Known for tardiness, my family has taken to giving me incorrect times for events, just to keep me on my toes. Then, when I show up an hour early, I’m the one who has to wait.

I went to Disneyland at age five in 1962 and at that time it was, well, Disneyland! Cinderella’s castle was huge. I shook the hand of Mister M-I-C, K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E. I paddled Daniel Boone’s canoe. I climbed in The Swiss Family Robinson’s tree house. I flew in Dumbo with my Dad. None of my friends in Maryland had ever been to Disneyland or even dreamed it was real. I was the only child in first grade with Mousketeer ears embroidered with my name. We watched those home movies again and again in the basement until the film faded.

Then I went back. At 45. Modern advances in accessibility for wheelchairs in Disney World and other amusement parks spoil me. I missed the wide walkways. I found the stairs annoying and the signage frustrating. The whole “fast pass” thing bewildered us and seemed to be a way of letting the local kids run amuck. The Tiki Hut is in poor repair, many of the birds and other moving parts were broken and the rain that felt soooooo good on a hot day was just a trickle. They weren’t even selling the great pineapple in the little courtyard out front. Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride was gone. I couldn’t take that mystical forbidden trip I was “too little” to ride ‘cause we only had two C tickets left (so Debbie and Cheryl got to go) and I had to go on the Teacups and throw-up. Ahhhhhh. The memories.

By all means, go. GO. But for me, I wish I had kept those childhood memories safe, rather than go back to Anaheim as an adult.