insincere apologies and really bad lies

I would apologize for not posting for the last 10 days (and for the 5 unposted days that preceded my previous entry) but I know my words would sound hollow, their meaninglessness just adding insult to imaginary injury. I especially can't apologize for my lack of activity since I know that I am about to embark on yet another internet-less journey which will last another 5 days. Yep, in less than 9 hours I will find myself in LAX, greeting my sister and my youngest niece and chauffeuring them to our ultimate destination - Disneyland.

Close friends and family members may recall that the last time I went to Disneyland was in 1998. The drive down was punctuated by a rather nasty mother-daughter fight which erupted into a full blown exclamation point shortly after our arrival at the hotel. It was during this fight (which involved my mother all-too-accurately assessing her children as worthless ingrates who were careless with their finances) that one of my favorite old tapes was born. My poor fool not-yet-husband meagerly attempted to speak up on my behalf and was told promptly to, "Shut up. You're brain washed." I would venture to say, in fact, that this is my all time favorite Mom quote. The runner up? Clearly that goes to her realization after watching The Crying Game that, "they must have just been doing blow jobs or something."

{This leads me to an aside... I've started collecting old tapes from the younger generation. My eldest niece, during my Christmas visit, added a gem to my menagerie. We were discussing an uncomfortable conversation she had with her grandma (my mother-in-law) after watching My Super Ex-Girlfriend - a conversation which began with the declaration from said sexagenarian that "There is more to love than just rough sex." - when the topic turned, naturally, to the subject of masturbation. It was here where her mother (my cancer-free best friend) assured her that masturbation did not result in hairy palms by proudly displaying the smooth surface of her hands. Had I been properly hydrated, I am sure I would have peed my pants. Anyway, this exchange resulted in my all time favorite niece old tape, "The only thing worse than imagining your parents having sex together is imagining them having it alone." Too true.}

Anyway, back to Disneyland. Ah, Disneyland. The so-called Happiest Place on Earth. Disneyland was such a perfect hell the last time I visited, a surreal prison I roamed with my brother and my boyfriend, moping, avoiding lines (this was pre-Fast Pass, folks), avoiding the parents (except for at lunch when we, not so ironically, needed their money). We ended up on the train, I recall, the three of us. We were soon disgusted by the behavior of a family of heathens we dubbed the Feet People who took to rubbing their stocking feet against the hand rails of the train. The memory still turns my stomach. In fact, their blazon disregard for cootie control in public was so appalling that my brother used it as his inspiration for his essay on his college application to Yale. Strangely, his hilarious literary flogging of this disgustoid family did not gain him entry into the ivy league. We are both still scarred and bitter.

This is not to say the trip was entirely without merit. The high point of our visit to Mickey's world came when I was approached by an altogether too enthusiastic Beast (as in Beauty and the...). The Beast accosted us when we were buying slurpees and cotton candy and I kindly requested that he go entertain others. He ignored me and continued his uncalled for attempt at cheer. I then informed him that I had recently learned on television that Disney characters are frequently assaulted by unpunished Disney guests. After this revelation, the Beast signalled silently that I should "bring it on." I punched that Beast, who was not my mother, with all my debt-ridden, cootie-covered might. His costumed collapsed and I swear I nearly made contact with the actual human inside. He then moved on, satisfied by our laughter, no matter what the price.

I don't expect I'll be assaulting any Disney workers this time around (though I haven't ruled it out), but I am prepared for a less than perfect time. Whatever the next 5 days bring, it will be worth it to see the world through the eyes of a three year old. Still, I will miss my husband and my home and my two kitties. I am such a pathetic homebody. Which brings me to my really bad lies.

Last Christmas I received as a gift from my now healthy sister-in-law and my eldest nieces a gift certificate for a one hour massage in the Bay Area. Those who are in the know know that I am a whore for a full body massage. I, who cannot physically buy gas that is 2 cents more expensive than the gas half way across town, will willingly fork over hundreds of dollars to have a complete stranger stroke my less than attractive naked body. This was an awesome gift, the perfect way to shed the stress of the cancer of the year before.

And yet. I am seldom in the Bay Area. And when I am, I spend my time with my nieces. And I sleep on a cot or the floor. And I drive home, through traffic, late at night when I am tired. All of these things would destroy the efforts of even the most prolific masseuse. And so I never used my gift certificate until last week when I turned it into a gift certificate for my sister-in-law. I know, how lame? I regifted a gift I loved to the very person who gave it to me. I was told at the spa that I wasn't the first but still I felt dirty. I swore my second eldest niece to secrecy (she was in on the plan) but the swear was unnecessary. I cannot tell a lie. Ever. I confessed on Christmas morning when my sister-in-law figured the whole thing out. Am I that transparent? Apparently.

Of course, she has good reason to doubt me. The first lie I ever told her? We were driving through Berkeley (going South, crossing University Ave, my eldest niece growing in her womb) when she offered me half of an orange. I declined, insisting I had "just brushed my teeth." She looked at me, the person she had been hanging out with for hours, and she laughed. I am such a bad liar.

Though I am a horrible liar, I am a pretty good petty thief (especially of pens) and I tend to cheat at games (I am permanently banned from being Banker in Monopoly thanks to a series of interest free loans I once made to myself - loans which, I must say, I disclosed on my own when the game ended...).

So there you have it. An insincere apology and some really bad lies. Meet you back here in the new year, but give me until the third...