Greedy-land

I've just returned from Disneyland, which is a fascinating place. From the moment you walk through the gates you are transported into another world that seems more colorful and exciting than the one you left behind. There are several parades a day, ice cream and candy available on every corner, people running around in elaborate costumes wherever you look, music, fireworks, lightshows . . . . everything you could imagine.

But what I was most fascinated by on this particular trip was that it seems when one enters this alternate reality one feels inclined to adopt alternative values. Or at least I did. And I saw others doing things that I found to be questionable so I don't think I'm the only one.

Now, before you go thinking that I was shoplifting Mickey ears, I would like to explain what I mean by alternative values. It wasn't that I was doing things that were overtly wrong--it was just that I found myself being a lot more narcissistic than usual. I felt like I was running around the park trying to grab as much of the experience as I could for myself and my kids. I hardly gave a thought for other people, except to wish that they weren't in my way. Hurrying to get a better spot in a line, crowding in for a better view of the show, and feeling this strange of disappointment if I wasn't being expressly delighted and entertained at every turn.

I saw others scrambling as well, in their own ways. At the entry gates we saw a family trying to pass off a 4-year-old for a 2-year-old. I saw lots of people in wheelchairs that looked like they weren't wheechair regulars. I think Disneyland is the only place on earth where faking that you are wheelchair-bound is advantageous. You don't have to walk for miles around the park AND you (and the sucker that you talked into pushing you) don't have to wait in any lines.

I might not have even given any thought to any of this if that lady hadn't called me a liar.

I won't bore you with too many details. Short Version: I was waiting in line with Sydney to meet Princess Tiana. Lady (Disneyland employee) comes up and tells me I cut in line. I'd been there since before the line had formed, waiting at least 5 minutes, and so I politely said, "No, I'm sorry, you are mistaken." I expected that to be the end of the conversation. Lady doesn't believe me and we have an exchange in which she basically calls me a liar. I know that I am not a liar, and that I didn't cut in line, and since I am completely stubborn in every way, I ignore the lady, take Sydney to see Tiana, and leave Lady with smoke coming out her ears as she complains to a fellow employee.

It made me realize that in my normal life I expect to be taken at my word, and I usually am. I place a high value on my honesty was highly insulted to be called a liar. But in my normal life it also wouldn't have been that big of a deal to simply say, "I'm so sorry, I didn't think I had cut in line, but maybe I'm wrong. Please accept my apologies and we'll move to the back." But you see, in Disneyland, being polite would have meant losing precious time that I could have used waiting in line for another 90-second thrill.

Don't get me wrong--Disneyland was great. I loved it and feel absolutely fortunate to have been able to spend time with my family and friends there. We made lots of great memories. I just found it interesting that from the moment I walked into a place that was so abundant with opportunities for pleasure that all I could think of was getting more and more and more.

Why couldn't I have sat down on the bench and said to myself, "It is enough."?

Going Goat

I've decided that I need a goat. I hear that urban farming is all the rage these days, and I think I might join the movement by adopting a pet goat. And maybe a chicken.

A goat would be so useful. Much more useful than a dog or a cat. I could put it out in the back yard and it could mow the grass by day and scare the racoons and opossums away at night. No 'coon is going to mess with a goat, unless they like getting their face kicked in. I could put a saddle on it and the girls could ride it around the mall and I wouldn't have to pay the two dollars to rent one of those red car strollers. I could take it running AND rock climbing, should I ever decide to participate in either or those activities. The point is, a goat is versatile.

I think a goat would also help us parent. Kids these days are too soft. We could teach our girls how to work the old-fashioned way--they could get up every morning and milk the goat before school. If they want milk in their cereal, well, then they had better take their bowl out in the yard and find the goat. Think what strong women they would become. If they leave their toys out, I could just feed them to the goat. It's all about consequences. I think it would only take one Barbie being chewed to pieces to scare them into submission. My house would be so clean.

You can make lots of cool stuff from goat's milk. Goat soap. Goat cheese. Goat yogurt. Granted, I have never tried any of these products and I don't know if I would like them or not. But even the possibility of them proves that the goat is a superior pet. I mean, who's ever heard of dog soap or cat cheese?

I'm pretty much convinced that goats are where it's at. So now the only question is, what should we name it?

Music and the Spoken Word

I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to take my two-year-old to the symphony. Maybe it was because I was hard up for a babysitter. Maybe I thought an early dose of art and culture would be good for her. But in any case, by the time I got around to asking myself what I was thinking, it was too late.

The symphony is one of those places where quiet and stillness are very important. I am not being a paranoid mother about this, there is an entire section about concert etiquette on Wikipedia, which everyone knows is the ultimate authority on everything:

"Concert etiquette is particularly strong at concerts featuring music from the Classical tradition, especially those featuring an unamplified orchestra. Such audiences have come to expect quiet, and disapprove of fellow members making any kind of noise louder than light breathing."

Did you get that last part?

We were attending the symphony with the Pratt Family. Ben Pratt was playing the viola in the orchestra, and we were seated with his wife, Cami, and their two daughters, who are Cora and Sydney's ages.

Maryn was fascinated with the chairs. They were the kind that fold up when you get up off of them. She was testing as many of them as she could-- folding herself up so that her feet were near her head, laughing, and then moving on to the next one. But this wasn't the biggest problem with Maryn at the symphony. Nor was it the fact that she liked to swing on the handrails in the aisle as if she were on the moneybars at the park. The biggest problem with Maryn at the symphony is that, apparently, she is a music critic, and she likes to give her feedback in real time. Loudly.


It wasn't so bad when the assessment was good. She liked Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. She especially liked the National emblem March by E. E. Bagley, and Csardas by Johann Strauss. She danced in the aisles during those. It was rather endearing to see her enjoying the music so much. "I like it! I like it!" She said again and again as she bobbed up and down and clapped her approval. I let her dance and clap because I hoped other people would think it was cute too. Plus the music was really loud and no one could hear her.


But then came the Titanic Suite. It was slow, and somber. And it had these fantastic moments of softness and subtlety. They were perfect times for Maryn to yell her assessment loud enough for the conductor to hear: "I NO LIKE THIS ONE!"

Not so cute.

I gathered her in my arms and told her to be quiet. "I NO LIKE IT! I NO LIKE IT!" she screamed as loudly as she could, while the orchestra was playing as softly as it could. The conductor even turned and glanced over his shoulder at us. It was awesome.


I finally got her quieted down and I thought she would like the next one. It was Star Wars. What kid doesn't like Star Wars? Part I. Main Title. "NO LIKE IT!"

Part II. Princess Leia's Theme. I told her it was about a Princess. "I NO LIKE PINCESS LEIA!"

Part III. The Imperial March. I told her it was about a scary guy named Darth Vader. (Sometimes she is fascinated by things that are scary. Not this time.) "I NO LIKE VADER! I NO LIKE PINCESS! I WANT GO OUT! I WANT GO OUT!" She pointed meaningfully at the door that was on the other side of the theater.

So much for Maryn being a music prodigy.

I told her it was the last song and then we could go out. I really thought I was telling the truth.


I forgot about encores. That's right. Encoresssssssss. At least four.


She didn't make it through the encores. Matt had to take her out. It reminded me of church, except at church there are lots of other kids screaming their heads off, so it's expected.

I would also like to point out, for the record, that I warned Matt during Intermission that Maryn would not make it through the remainder of the evening. I suggested that we make an early exit. "But she loves the music," he protested. "She'll be fine."

Sigh. I'm not sure if I will make it through the remainder of Maryn: Age 2. I suppose I might if I avoid symphonies, airplanes, and IKEA. Maybe Matt should lock the two of us in a padded room for the rest of the year with a TV that streams Pongebob Pairpants and a freezer full of ice cream. It really might be the best option.