Okay, so I don't really think I'm pregnant. Not with a human child, in any case. Last I heard that's impossible. It is my stomach that is pained, so at least I can rule out being impregnated by one of those cute Xenomorph facehuggers. Why? Because they place an embryo into you that grows in your CHEST, not your STOMACH, duh. We won't be seeing little Chester anytime soon, no sirree.
I got to work this morning and my tummystomachgut crap factory hurt. It wasn't the normal stomach pain you feel when food is disagreeing with you, though. It was a very specific, localized pain right around my belly button navel. It felt as if I had eaten too much and my navel was ready to pop out (how gross is that?). What freaked me out even more was when I tenderly stuck my finger into my navel to see if it was starting to protrude, only to feel a sharp pain upon contact.
Once I got on the work computer I again used the internet to play doctor and found people on a forum who had sore navels. Unfortunately they were all women, and were all pregnant. One woman said it was normal, that it was just the body stretching and growing. Unless I am going through a midsection growth spurt, I doubt that is it. Another woman said that it was just the baby's position, where it constantly likes to hang out. Since I likely have no baby growing inside me, I wonder if the "baby" is actually just my mass of breakfast. (Certainly gives Beulah a run for her money, huh Druck and Joanne?) Though I only had two bowls of cereal, so that likely is not the cause either.
I did later find some websites where people mentioned sore navels, but they also had fluid discharges. Luckily I have none of that. So I have no idea what it is. (That's assuming it is not just all in my head, which is very possible.)
You know, on second thought it just might be a hernia. Whew.
(Note: And so the path of self-diagnosis continues...)
Currently reading: Shadow Puppets By Orson Scott Card Release date: 19 August, 2002
Broken nose Current mood: crushed
Hmm. I think I broke my nose.
I was originally not going to tell anyone what happened. I had determined that no one (not even the cat) would know how I injured my nose. I mean, it really doesn't cast me in the best light. It actually does not even cast me in a decent light. So everyone was to stay in the dark forever. Knowing I would still be interrogated asked about the injury, I decided to make up several possible fake stories. One involved an object (any object would do, but I was leaning towards a VHS cassette) falling down from the top of my closet onto my face. Another was a rather elaborate tale about how I ran into a post-production punk from Warner Brothers, heard him talk crap about our facility, defended our honor by decking him, but was then beaten up when his co-workers joined in since I was vastly outnumberd (I did put up a valiant effort, though).
So I came to work with these stories prepared, ready to tell one the instant someone saw me. However, no one said anything for at least an hour. Now, I had no illusions that the injury was inconspicuous. I guess they were just being polite. (Considering how little tact Jeni some of the people I work with have, I was quite surprised.) Finally, though, someone asked. For about half a second I ran through my mental list of various stories, trying to decide which would be best. I was surprised, then, when the truth just came tumbling out. (In retrospect it is for the best, because it really is just too embaressing a story to go unheard.)
I ran into an air conditioner. You know those box units that usually stick out of windows? Well, some stick out of the exterior walls at our apartment complex . I was coming back with my laundry and was looking down. I turned a corner, and the air conditioner was right there (a fact which I did not know until it punched me in the face). I staggered a bit, slightly dazed. My brain had just been jarred against the sides of my skull, and it had not been pleasant. (In my defense, the air conditioner is right next to the corner that I turned, and I never walk on the second floor so I hadn't encountered it before. Also, a week later my roommate almost did the same thing.)
I looked around quickly to see if anyone saw. I don't think anyone did, but I'm sure someone heard, because it really was quite loud. The metal made a loud DONG as my nasal bones made a quiet CRUNCH.
Anyway, I then lurched to my apartment, threw the laundry basket down, and went to the bathroom to see the damage. My nose was pretty bloody, being scraped up. (It wasn't bleeding internally, though. That only happened once, in the moshpit at the Weezer concert back in 2002. Oh, how violated I felt!) My eyes looked bloodshot. I went and grabbed some ice, threw it in Ziploc bag and covered it with a paper towel, and threw myself down on the couch.
I slumped my body and leaned my head back, resting the ice pack on my face. I kept telling myself "you can't go to sleep, you might have a concussion." Then I would respond to myself "well I'll just sit here and close my eyes for a bit." I turned on music on my phone to listen to while sitting/laying there. I still do not know why. At the time I had two reasons to put on music, reasons I wholeheartedly believed in... but since, upon retrospection, they were contradictory I really don't know what I was thinking. (You see, I wanted to play music to keep me awake, but I also wanted to play musical to help me calm down and relax away into a tranquil sleep.)
I kept wondering what would happen if I fell asleep/passed out and didn't wake up. My roommates were in Brazil for the week. What would the people at work do if I didn't show up for work that day? The next? How long would it take for Roselle to come over and find out why I wasn't showing up or answering my phone? What about the cat? If I was comatose and couldn't feed her would she end up eating me? Would my protective dogs at home in San Antonio later kick her ass for that? We'll never know.
My nose leaked blood/plasma for a few hours more. It was still leaking when I got to work. When I got on the work computer I started doing research on broken noses, wondering what the symptoms were and what I should do about it. One of the ways to know if your nose is broken is if the swelling doesn't go away in a few days. Since it had only been 3 or 4 hours that didn't help. Other symptoms included a "grating sound or feeling when the nose is touched or rubbed". I'm sorry, but that's disgusting. Bone rubbing bone, ugh. Anyway, my nose hurt too much for me to touch it so I couldn't check that either. I couldn't really check anything. The websites did not help, and they definitely did not put my mind at ease.
Sleeping for the next few nights was uncomfortable because every night I would wake up face down on my pillow with a throbbing pain from the weight of my head resting on my injured nose.
Now it has been over a week. It is still a bit swollen. I have a bump on my nose, and I don't know if it will go away. The area is also still tender. I don't think my health insurance kicks in for a few weeks, but even so there's not much that can be done unless the nose is crooked, the nasal passage is leaking stuff, or breathing through the nostrils is difficult.
I broke my nose and all I got was this lousy blog post.
(Note: I really don't condone self-diagnosis, but it sure can be fun.)
Currently reading: Paradise Lost By John Milton Release date: 19 August, 2005
Monday, June 11, 2007
Cookiedough quesadilla Current mood: hungry
[This blog post was (mostly) written a while back, and is decribing events that took play in May 2006.]
Melissa and Wolf, each wanting desperately to rob the other of his/her money, have gotten into poker.
Melissa used to go to poker night with other friends of her, but now her and Wolf are hosting their own poker night at our apartment. And sometimes they even let me join in!
Well, on one particular poker night in May we decided that we should make quesadillas for everyone to eat. And by we I mean they, because I am not trusted to handle other people's food. Wolf and Melissa are fine with me doing it, but I don't trust myself. I can never get it right. I know why, too. The secret ingredient is love, damnit. I just can't make food with love like they can. Or at least I thought I couldn't.
I now think differently. You see, after everyone ate their quesadillas I had a brilliant idea (if I may say so myself, haha, like I would ever hesitate to blow my own, err, whistle). This idea led to a dessert very much made with love.
Cookiedough: Origins
Weeks before this particular poker night Melissa, Wolf and I had ordered cookiedough from Trinity (my little cousin) as a fundraiser. It wasn't a little cookiedough, either. They were pretty large tubs. A gallon each? That sounds about right. Anyway, I ordered oatmeal raisin, Melissa ordered chocolate chip (or was it sugar cookie?), and Wolf ordered white-chocolate macademia nut.
Mine were safe from thieving mouths because neither Wolf nor Melissa like raisins. Melissa's was safe from me because I don't like chocolate, and probably from Wolf because she knew that he knew that she would know if any had been eaten. (Did you follow all that? You couldn't even if you wanted to!) Forgetting all that, though, Melissa's and mine were still safe... because neither of us had the best tasting cookiedough. Wolf did.
And oh, how tasty it was! Melissa and I would each sneak some when Wolf wasn't around, sometimes at the same time (we make a great team of liars, fo' sho').
We each made at least one baking sheet worth of cookies from our own cookiedough. Melissa even made several. But the majority of the cookiedough was eaten raw... because that's how you get the most nutritional benefits from it.
Anyway, by the time Wolf's cookiedough was halfway gone, he was getting tired of it. He told us we could have as much as we wanted. That was a mistake, though. He probably thought he would have some left. Melissa and I made sure he didn't. We each ate a bunch, and definitely felt sick because of it afterwards.
End Cookiedough: Origins
So sometime after we had eaten the quesadillas someone mentioned dessert. I remembered that I had cookiedough left (I think I was the only one with some at this point), so I mentioned making cookiedough quesadillas. I got some dirty looks, seemed like they were staring daggers at me, but Melissa's friend Alex said he would try it if I tried it. So we set to work.
We slathered the cookiedough on a tortilla, mashed another tortilla on top of it, and started heating it on the skillet. The longer it cooked the better it smelled, and the worse it looked. By the time it was all cooked it looked like baked vomit (so much healthier than fried vomit).
I was ready to eat it, and so was Alex, but we knew that if there was any hope of anyone else trying it we had to make it look more appealing. So we set to work. Or rather, I set to work, since playing with food is my speciality (let us not forget the structures and art that was routinely created and destroyed in the Jester Cafeteria!). I decorated it with powdered sugar and sprinkles, and presented it to the group. I got some "oohs," I got some "aahs," but mostly I got gagging and eye-rolling (which was more than I could have ever hoped for).
Melissa tried it. A few others did, as well. They all agreed it was good, but no one wanted more than a sampling. Which is why I ate most of it. I was glad to, too. It was delicious. It tasted like a brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tart, except better (since I can't stand those Pop Tarts anymore).
[This blog post was written while I was still in San Antonio.]
I've made a huge mistake.
Not really, but that line sounds great in a Mexican accent. So my brother was trying on my Dad's old suits when he found one with a distinct 70s look about it. He thought he could "pimp it up," so he worked his fashion magic and, proud of himself, came to my bedroom door to show me.
Since it was 10 pm and I go to bed like an old man, I was already under the blanket about to close my eyes. He wanted me out to see his outfit. I told him I was going to bed. He got a credit card and started sliding it by the doorknob, trying to break into my room. I yelled "don't come in, I'm naked!!!" He yelled "why are you naked?" I yelled "I'm about to go to bed and I sleep nude!" He yelled "ugh! I'm never sitting on your bed again!"
For the next 30 minutes I heard sounds, faint scratchings at my door and I had no idea what was happening. Then I finally opened the door to see. My little cousin, disturbed by what she had overheard, had made and taped various "WARNING: NAKED MAN INSIDE" signs onto my door for the whole family to see.
"I'm fine with that." - My homeless motto Current mood: hopeful
Most of you probably do not know this, but before I moved to California in January I worked at a homeless shelter in San Antonio. Well, it might not have technically been a "shelter," since it wasn't open overnight, but you get the point.
I went in to interview on a Tuesday, had an inital pre-interview before the boss showed up, then I had a chance to observe for a bit before the boss came and I had the main interview. I knew it was going to be an interesting job when, during that post-pre-interview observation, a woman came up to me, five minutes after I had been sitting there.
She walked up, looked me squarely in the eyes, and told me "you remind me of death."
Not knowing how to respond, I answered with "... what?"
"You remind me of death," she repeated.
Wanting clarity, and fearing that another "what?" response would not provide it, I asked "uhh, in what way?"
"Your eyes. And your skin tone."
"Uhh, I'm... sorry?"
It was the first conversation I had with a homeless client, and I will never forget it. Because apparently my eyes are windows to the afterlife.
A little later the boss showed up and I had my main interview. During this interview I was asked "what would you do if there was an altercation?"
"As in a fight is about to start, or... ?" I asked.
"As in a body is flying across your desk," he answered.
Usually I can bullshit answers, even in high-pressure situations like job interviews, but I was so shocked that this was even a question that I could only answer "uhh... I am not sure..." Because I wasn't sure what I would do if a body was flying across my desk. What would you do? Run? I knew that wouldn't be an appropriate response, since good captains go down with their ships, and I was to be acting captain of the Day Center (at least when no admirals were around).
The interview ended, and my boss asked if I could start that day. I had not prepared for this, but since I was free for the rest of the day I said okay. He escorted me back to the Day Center and helped me through my first struggles trying to maintain order and enforce my authority with a large group of homeless clients.
During this time he casually asked me if I worked out. I told him no. He said "you might want to start." I did not know what to say.
By the end of the first day, after I had some pretty in-depth training, I was left alone. I was not mentally prepared to be left alone, but sometimes the quickest way to learn something is to just jump in. I was relieved when it was time to close. Jennifer came to see me afterwards and she said that I looked shellshocked. I don't know if I looked as shellshocked as I felt, though.
Two days later I was screamed at and called a "m*ther f*cker" for the first time. Luckily I got training in "managing aggressive behavior."
Through a series of miscommunications and interesting coincedences, at one point on the Friday of my first week Jennifer and I were alone. Now, I was alone in the Day Center with our homeless clients all day (that was my job), but there were always higher-ups in an adjoining hallways of offices, only 40 feet away, and more coworkers just down a small flight of steps. It was important for them to be in hearing distance in case an incident occurred that I would need help handling. But on this Friday, somehow everyone else was out of the building, either at lunch, at meetings, running errands, or out sick. Jennifer and I were alone in the building, with no backup should something occur. And Jennifer wasn't even supposed to be working; she had already finished her shift but was just hanging out to keep me company. And to protect me, same thing.
That was the end of the first week. The second week saw a guy spitting on my boss's face, another guy pulling a knife on my boss while I was 15 feet away, a crack-addict girl hitting on me, the same girl later screaming physical threats at my coworker and consequentially being banned for a month, the first of many seizures people had while I was there, and because of that the first of many times I had to call 911 (EMS and police, never the fire department).
Not much happened after that. Well, a lot did, but when you work at a place like that, you become sensitized and it takes a lot to shock you. I just stopped noticing the little things. You know, little things, like:
being called racist
having to walk on my hands for entertainment value
seeing people leave and come back an hour later with giant holes in their clothes
a whole rack of lockers falling on a guy in a wheelchair
an elderly guy and a crippled guy screaming at each other and threatening physical harm (the elderly guy with a cane that he turned into make-shift nunchucks, I swear)
spending Friday nights showing movies and serving dinner to the homeless clients (alone)
spending the night at work so that homeless clients could have shelter from the freezing weather
an angry woman threatening to burn the place down
accidentally rupturing my ear drum and not being able to hear out of that ear for a week (which sucked because I couldn't hear if people were getting too loud)
a homeless client asking me to be his best man in his wedding
The funniest thing about having ruptured my ear drum was that when people would talk to me, I would have to turn my good ear to them (just like an old man). An even funnier thing is that one homeless client came in and had to talk to me, but his ear drum was, coincedentally enough, busted as well. So when he would talk I would have to turn my left ear to him, and when I responded he would have to do likewise. It would have been tragic had it not been so funny.
Then the end neared. Two weeks before I was to depart a replacement was hired. I spent those last two weeks training him. I cannot stress enough how nice it was to have two people at the desk. I mean, yes it is nice to have two people to handle situations that arise, but the best part was that I didn't have to wait for a coworker to get a free moment just so I could go pee, or eat lunch, or just take a nice deep breath outside. My second to last week he was my shadow, following me around and learning.
Then my last week came. My replacement started to take over the duties, and I kind of hung back and just watched and guided. At the last weekly staff meeting all my coworkers said their goodbyes to me, and they said some very nice things. One woman even cried, which touched me. And my very last day, which was a Friday, should have been non-eventful. Fridays were always the slowest and quietest days.
Except for my last Friday, of course. Because someone had brought an endangered hawk into the Day Center. On Thursday. So why did it affect my Friday? Because he put it in his locker on Thursday, and left it overnight until Friday.
(The thing is, he TOLD me he had a bird in his locker. On Thursday. And I did not believe him. To be fair, though, I had very good reasons not to believe him.)
Anyway, someone heard the bird on Friday. They came and told me about it, and said it was endangered. I was shocked, more because the guy had been telling the truth than because there was a bird. I told her not to take it out of the locker. I went to consult my coworker on what to do or who to call. He didn't care (at all). I went back into the locker room and they had taken the bird out of the locker. After I had told them not to. Then two people started yelling at each other in the Day Center (it was not bird-related), the phones kept ringing, people were holding and stroking the bird in the locker room, and I did not know what to deal with. So I decided to deal with none of them. I just put my hands on my head, started pulling my hair, and told the bird people that it didn't matter, I did not know who to call, and just to take the bird elsewhere. Another coworker handled the almost-fight, and as for the phones... well, if it was important I'm sure they would have called back.
And then I walked into the sunset. Or at least drove into it. And I didn't look back. Well, actually I looked back several times, and kept worrying that I hadn't locked every door or that another homeless guy was left sleeping under tables after we closed (it really happened once!).
Motto
Because of that job, my motto became "I'm fine with that."
Previous mottoes in my life:
"Cheat, cheat, cheat to win!": a team motto in middle school
"We're a family of jerks": my brother's and my motto for our family since I was in college
"I'm a liar, that's what I do.": a personal motto in college
And now I can add "I'm fine with that" to the list. It's my post-college motto. I had to have it to survive. My job was a very stressful job (you can't even imagine), so I had to let even less things affect me than normal. I tend to shrug things off and not stay mad. In middle school through college I held grudges and was the complete opposite. But now I just let things roll off my back, at least more than most people. I had to take it to an extreme at the Day Center, though. Bad things would happen, and I'd just smile and tell myself "I'm fine with that."
"So-and-so is taking apart the computer!" "I'm sure he can put it back together, I'm fine with that."
"What's-his-name is sitting at the table peeing in a cup!" "I'm fine with that, but tell him next time we have a corner for that."
"What's-her-face is trying to start a fire in the bathroom!" "Ooh it is kind of chilly in here, I'm fine with that."
End Motto
All in all, I am glad I worked there. It certainly taught me a lot about homeless people. In this blog I highlighted incidents that occurred with clients with untreated mental health issues, and even others that were just angry at the world, but the majority of the clients were cool. We got along and joked around. I had good working relationships with quite a few. I learned new things. The homeless community is a lot closer than I realized. For the most part they got along and helped each other out. Also, let me tell you, you'd be amazed at how many homeless people have cell phones. I even saw some with bluetooth wireless headsets.
Working there I realized that a lot of them can help themselves and are just lazy. However, I did see some working to better their lives, and that always filled me with hope. I hope that they are all able to find happiness.
"7" "random" facts about "me" Current mood: indescribable
[This is in response to my Sister's blog post, since she tagged me in it.]
I once showed a video of me dancing in leopard print briefs to a whole theater audience.
I am perfectly content with perching like a bird, despite how uncomfortable it looks to other people.
I can fit into most dryers.
After I shave, I refuse to dry my face with towels because I don't like the way it feels. To dry my face I end up running back and forth in the bathroom/apartment/house. When Wolf is in the apartment he high fives me everytime I run past. When Druck asked us "what the hell" we were doing, we told him that it is how we pump up in the mornings. He said we were weirdos.
I don't like chocolate, Dr. Pepper, seafood, and I don't drink caffeine or alcohol.
I can fit a masking tape roll on my upper arm.
The first time I visited California was in January, when I moved here. The first time I drove in California was to and on Mulholland Drive, at night.
My perfect San Antonio fast food meal would be a burger from What-a-burger, seasoned fries from Jack in the Box, a drink from Sonic (either a Strawberry Limeade or an Orange Cool Breeze), and an apple empanada for dessert from Taco Bell. When it comes to Austin it gets a bit more complicated because they have Fazoli's, which is fast food Italian with good food and great breadsticks. And when it comes to Los Angeles, it is again complicated because they have no What-A-Burgers here. So I'm back to the drawing board.
Last year several people told me I looked 16.
Even though it may not be as obvious to people as it once was, I am still very much obsessed with Digimon and EarthBound. I'm just quieter about it.
A bass drum once caused my leg to go numb for a whole 24 hours. I was terrified.
I love scars, and when I get hurt I usually want a scar to form. They tell excellent stories.
I refuse to try seafood, but I will only hesitate for a brief moment before trying pizza with vanilla extract poured onto the crust, Sprite with pepper in it, banana pudding pizza, Doritos dipped in cake batter, G'Mores (stale baked tortilla chips with melted old gummi bears in between), Doritos with cream cheese, or cookiedough quesadillas.
I am allergic to orange juice and bananas.
Despite my indoor personality, I have done Tae Kwon Do (for several years, all the way up to brown belt), Boy Scouts, survival camping, swing dance lessons, fencing lessons, and have had to wade in large (often scary) rivers collecting aquatic insects.
Smells, including most colognes, perfumes, and non-food scented candles, give me headaches and often make me nauseous.
Over a year ago I noticed that Reese's was coming out with Limited Edition Peanut Butter Lover's Reese's Cups, and also Reese's Big Cup Peanut Butter Cups. Every time I see them 3 for $1.00 I buy 3. I have over 50 saved up, and my ultimate plan is to peel the chocolate off them and make the world's best peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (I know Reese's sells peanut butter, but come on, it tastes like every other brand and nothing like the heaven that exists in the peanut butter cups).
I have only honked my horn in traffic twice, once in Texas and once here in Los Angeles when a car was coming into my lane and about to hit me. I try not to add stress to people that are already stressed out from driving.
Currently reading: 2061: Odyssey Three By Arthur C. Clarke Release date: By 13 April, 1989
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Cannibalism is bad. Current mood: hungry
[This blog post was written several months ago.]
Cannibalism is bad. I'm not going to argue that.
On Thursday we started watching Cannibal! The Musical. Joanne had seen it before, but Matt and I had not. Some of us (not me) fell asleep, and thus we had to stop the movie... after about 20 minutes into it.
On Friday Matt and I had the "Shpadoinkle" song stuck in our heads all day long. For those who haven't seen the movie, but are familiar with South Park, it's where the tune of the Braniff Productions song (that plays after each episode of South Park, when the plane flies by) comes from. I kept forgetting how "Shpadoinkle" went, but then the Braniff melody would play in my mind and it would refresh my memory of the horrid song. Anyway, Friday night we picked up where we left off in the movie.
Since I've been here Matt and Joanne have told me that I can see good in everything (see blog post: Gas Prices, a blessing in disguise). I am known here in California for being optimistic, even in the face of some very dire circumstances. (Moving was one of the few times I have not been able to keep my spirits up. In fact, mine and Matt's bodies took severe beatings while our souls took even more severe beatings. The Severe Beating of Matthew Zwartjes, now that's funny! (to me and the few other people who get it, at least))
Apparently Matt and Joanne have both become high-strung in recent years. They feel that the weight of the world is on their shoulders whenever anything goes wrong. I mean, I've seen Joanne cry when she scrapes her knees, Matt cry when he's out of chocolate milk, and also even when he's doing long division and he has a remainder left over!* I have also seen Joanne lay on the couch saying that she wished she was dead, with Matt entering the room shortly thereafter, laying next to her on the couch, and begin to moan that he too would like to die.**
(Indeed, the phrase "I've lost the will to live" is uttered by someone every other day.)
So when a character on Cannibal! The Musical turned out to be extremely optimistic, even when things were so bad that cannibalism was a promising option, everyone naturally compared him to me. And when that same character was killed by another character for being so damn optimistic, everyone compared it to Matt killing me. (Because it is obvious that while I am the one most likely to stay happy in the worst situations, he is the one most likely to kill and eat the others.) So we all had some slight chuckles at the thought of roommaticide (who hasn't?), and that was that.
Except that wasn't that. The thought of cannibalism appealed to something deep inside Matt, and over the next few days he started making more and more jokes about cannibalism, especially when hungry. We stopped at McDonald's and he mentioned that he wanted an Ansley burger and Joanne nuggets. He always makes sure to laugh after each cannibal joke to reassure us that he is just kidding, but I really think he is testing the water to see which of us would be more on board with the whole eating people thing. Maybe I should hop on that ship before Joanne does.
Then I made Matt watch May (I had already made Joanne watch it) and it disturbed him. Disturbed him enough that he thinks I am the sick one, that I am the one most likely to eat the others. Which is good. I have to stay one step ahead of him.
Joanne has been wanting to go to Disneyland. So we decided to go one Saturday, thinking that since it was early March there wouldn't be large crowds.
We were, of course, wrong. It was packed. Even crappy rides had long lines. They were still shorter than the cool rides' lines, though, so we spent the beginning of our day riding the crappy ones, hoping that the lines of the cool rides would get shorter as the day progressed. And they did get shorter! They went from a 95 minute wait in early afternoon to a 90 minute wait at night.
The best part of the day came at the end. We decided to ride Space Mountain. We waited in line for an hour and a half. We were about 20 people from the ride's entrance when I made the joke "wouldn't it be HILARIOUS if the ride broke down now?". And then the line stopped. After 5 or 10 minutes a voice came on the loudspeaker saying that the ride was having difficulties, and that it might take a while so the voice urged us to ride other rides in the park. Seeing as how it was 9:05 pm at this point, and the park closed at 10:00 pm, we knew we had to stay because we had waited that long already. Also, we figured any other ride would have longer than an hour wait. About 10 minutes later the voice came on again and said it would be at least 30 minutes before the ride was fixed.
At that point I was ready to say "f- it" * and just leave the park. So we left the line, and then figured on the way out we may as well check the line for the Matterhorn Bobsleds rollercoaster. On the way there I joked "wouldn't it be HILARIOUS is the Matterhorn broke down, too?" Luckily the line was much shorter than we had seen it earlier in the day, so we got in it. After about 15 minutes waiting in that line a voice came on that loudspeaker and informed us that the ride was having difficulties. A few minutes later the voice came on and informed us that, yes, you guessed it, the ride would not be fixed for at least half an hour. It was 9:35 pm at this point, which made me wonder what would happen to all the people in line when the ride started working again after the park was closed. You thought that the LA riots were bad? They had nothing on the Anaheim riots.
So we left the line. Not only was I still ready to leave the park, I had elevated to the point where I was ready to give a nice one-fingered "f- you" salute to all of Disneyland.**
Wanting to save the day, Joanne suggested we head back to the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad since it was bound not to have a long line. And guess what? It did not. Our luck really had turned around. In hindsight, it would have been HILARIOUS if it had broken down, and would have made the story even better. But alas, we can't always get what we want.
It was fun. The ride is already pretty good (for a mini-rollercoaster), so with only a 10 minute line in a day with 90 minutes lines it was outstanding. Then, as it was 9:50 at this point, Joanne suggested we check out the Indiana Jones ride. (We had already ridden it earlier in the day, but we had waited 90 minutes for it then and felt that it had not been worth it). We only waited 15 minutes this time (we were still in line after 10 pm), but oh how that brought a glorious end to the day.
You see, our car messed up. It stopped for a full two minutes in the middle of ride, with the car making noises suggesting it was trying to crank up (which is used for effect when it fake-breaks down, so I am led to believe that the noises come on by default when the ride goes awry). Sitting there waiting for it to come on messed up the timing of the ride, so that when we turned the corner we saw the giant boulder moving away from us. Our car stopped again and we saw the giant boulder rolling at us. Knowing that the ride is timed so that we don't really get hurt usually robs me of excitement that others with stronger senses of disbelief are able to enjoy. This time, though, with the ride messing up and the timing being off, I was not sure if the car would drop down in time for us to completely avoid the boulder. Right when it was upon us I ducked my head as low as it would go, not wanting to go home headless. The half-broken ride really was exciting!
So all in all, Disneyland would be great if there were small lines. Or if every ride was broken.
full
crushed
hungry
amused
hopeful
indescribable
scared
