Back from a weekend at Disney World. Still trying to recover. The crowds, the filth, the lack of deodorant . . . ugh.

Am now craving simplicity: sitting alone in all-white room, surrounded by white orchids and with soothing classical music playing in the background. Bliss. Since it’s Sam’s spring break from pre-school, this is not going to happen, but it’s nice to dream.

My Disney immersion has left me with some lingering, unanswered questions.

Such as, When did bra straps become fashionable? I have lived my life by the rule that bra straps should never show. Never ever. If you, for example, wear a racer-back tank top . . . well, you must wear a racer-back bra underneath. Right? Apparently not. This hard-and-fast rule seems to have been cast aside in favor of one that calls for all-bra-straps, all-the-time. Tank tops are apparently now selected specifically to show off the maximum amount of bra strap. Wearing a tube top? Well, all the better to display your bra straps! I find this bizarre, and not a positive step forward for humanity.

Likewise, the tattooing epidemic. As I have proclaimed before on this blog, I am not a fan of tattooing. I can live with the modest butterfly-on-a-hip here or a little star-on-an-ankle there. I don’t encourage it, but I can live with it. But when did it become hip for the average thirty-something all-American soccer mom to start sporting prison-style tats? Barbed wire encircling a bicep, or vines weaving down a leg? Yuck-o.

And finally, worst of all . . . the line-cutters. I kept telling Sam, “There’s no need to rush, we’ll all get there eventually.” Huh. Someone should tell that to the vast army of evil Disney-goers out there who push and crowd and race ahead just so they can climb on to the Teacup- and-Saucers one millisecond before you. They clearly believe to the very pits of their bitter little souls that this is some sort of moral victory. I nearly came to blows with one such woman while waiting in line for the carousel.

HER: I need to get by you.
ME: Well, yes, but this is a line.
HER: [Dead-eyed stare. Then attempts to step around Sam, who is not paying enough attention to body block her, thus forcing me to do it for him. Damn four-year-olds, they have no focus.]
ME: Excuse me. This is the line. We are in line.
HER: [Mutters to her husband. Then, when the line starts to move, she attempts to push past me for a third time.]
ME: Look, bitch, if you try to step in front of me one more fucking time, I swear to God, I will drop you where you stand. And I have a black-belt in ju-jitsu, so don’t fuck with me.

Okay, so I didn’t actually say that. For one thing, I am a lady. For another, there were young children standing around, including my own. And thirdly, I’m not actually black-belt in ju-jitsu. To be honest, I have no idea what ju-jitsu even is. But, trust me: I gave her a very dirty look. And she didn’t manage to get by me. Which means I was the winner! Ha HA!

Today I ventured out to that Fifth Ring of Hell otherwise known as Wal-Mart. But the Big Box Gods were clearly smiling on me.
First, I scored $5 Mickey Mouse tees for the family to wear on our upcoming trip to Disney World, a purchase made especially gleeful by the knowledge of how much these will horrify George.
And then, I was sailing past the sewing aisle, when I happened to spy some cherry-shaped rhinestone iron-on decals. I bought one, of course, and, upon my return home, spent a very satisfactory half-hour turning a plain old white Gap tee into jewel-adorned splendor.
(I was so busy with this craftiness that I failed to notice I locked Lulu out of the house the last time I let the dogs out for a pee break. It wasn’t until I heard the muffled sounds of whimpering and went to investigate that I saw her standing by the front door, her homely face pressed against the glass, her entire body bristling with outrage, that I realized I hadn’t seen her in an hour or two. Whoops.)
Still, I’m quite happy with my cherry tee. I’m trying to work up the courage to head back to Wal-Mart to snap up more sequined iron-ons with plans to update my entire summer wardrobe.

I’m loving the cover for my new book, GOOD LUCK, which is coming out in October.

As I always say, yellow is the new pink.

Me: Do you like my new nail polish?
George: It’s the exact color of Lightening McQueen after his Radiator Springs make-over.
Me:
George: Well, it is. Is the color called Lightening McQueen Red?”
Me: Um, no.
George: It should be. Hey, where are you going?
Me: Calling the babysitter. I think we need a night out and away from all things Disney.

SAM: Red means stop!
ME: Good. What does green mean?
SAM: GO!
ME: And what does yellow mean?
SAM: Go very fast!
ME:
SAM: [giggling]
ME: Your father and I will so be having a discussion about this when he gets home tonight . . .