by Kim Korson
We were sitting in a semicircle to have a chat about the finer points of dance when I noticed Baryshnikov was wearing some pretty threadbare black tights and just might have forgotten to put on his underwear that morning. I had already read Hollywood Wives and The Thorn Birds, so I was well-versed in the sex department. However, sitting in plain sight of Baryshnikov’s real live Members Only, I panicked. It was a dead-animal-on-the-road situation. I knew to look away, but couldn’t, but had to, but couldn’t, but had to. No clue how to calm my eyes, I scanned the room to give them something to do so my fellow campers wouldn’t think I was having a seizure. And then my gaze landed upon Shirley. Our eyes locked like Legos.
We kick-ball-changed around the church together all morning after that and then were glued for the rest of what would become my most cherished summer. We borrowed each other’s bathing suits, snooped through our motel mates’ bags together; we even made out with the same dashing Jake-from-Sixteen-Candles–looking guy, though not at the same time. (I should note that years later I read that he was found executed in a burning Mercedes SUV in an upscale North Hollywood neighborhood. Something to do with twin Playboy Playmates, a Ponzi scheme, and a replica of the diamond-and-ruby necklace Richard Gere gave to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.)
We’ve kept this coalition going for almost thirty years, which means if anyone can come up with the arcane leisure activities that make Shirley Shirley, you can be goddamn sure it’s me. I decide to make a list. I call it . . .
SHIRLEY DIVERSIONS
1. vacuuming
2. alphabetizing
3. putting things that don’t have specific homes in bowls
4. thinking positive
I think maybe that if I take any of these up, or all of them, they could serve as the montage commonly seen in romantic comedies. I have spent many moments in the car listening to songs on the radio, making mental notes about which ones would be appropriate to underscore my film. I always imagine that I would be driving as the opening credits rolled, like Albert Brooks in Defending Your Life, minus the part where he gets hit by a truck and dies.
Attempting to follow this new list, I (1) walk to the guest bathroom shower, which is where I store my vacuum, but notice that in order to take out said vacuum I’d have to move the used ice skates and box of photographs that share shower space with the vacuum, so I leave the bathroom and head to the kitchen, where I (2) will begin my grand alphabetizing enterprise, but upon the opening of the cabinet I notice that it holds at least 390 jars of spices, and who in their right mind wants to deal with that, so I move on to where I (3) keep a collection of bowls and fetch a broken hair clip, a pot of lip balm, an unclaimed watch, and a mini Etch A Sketch and throw them in, all the while (4) thinking positively.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen and wait for some sort of game show–style alarms to go off. Who the hell am I kidding? I don’t have the time to put homeless things in bowls or think positively. And, even if I did, I couldn’t keep up with the pace. I am a yo-yo get-things-doner at best. What will I get out of this besides overflowing bowls and the security of knowing that chili powder will forever sit beside cinnamon?
Plus, if we’re being honest, this is a movie. And although I am certain no one will pay one clam to see Catherine Keener do the regular stuff I do, I am even more certain they wouldn’t pay to see her vacuuming and putting stuff away after she uses it either. There is the slightest chance that if I went down that whole manifesto route once more, I’d have slightly more luck with my film, but we all know I’m not writing that any time soon.
What if the movie of my life was some sort of action adventure instead? I could wear the red plaid Old Navy and get into it with a bear. This could also go documentary, I guess, if I’m feeling brave. Suddenly, none of it feels right anymore. Staring out on the mountains, I imagine myself driving a tractor, sporting a formfitting gingham dress and pigtails, when all of a sudden the tractor breaks down right in front of a veterinarian’s office, and since this veterinarian just happens to be a doctor of oversized animals, he is working outside assessing an ailing cow, and, as luck would have it, he is very rugged and handsome (the vet, not the cow), so I nimbly dismount my John Deere and, coquettishly, ask for help. This is a movie someone might pay to see. But then I realize this is a porno movie and I couldn’t do that to Catherine Keener.
That’s it. Screw Jerry Maguire and the Jewnabomber and the hot oversized-animal vet. And fuck you, Shirley. I hate everyone.
I wouldn’t pay seven cents to see the movie of my life. The movie of my life sucks. It is neither a popcorn flick nor a Sundance biopic. It’s not even a Lifetime event. This would be a great time to sit down at a piano and play something motivating to inspire my life. But I don’t have a stupid piano or know how to play. Shirley is out doing things. Where the hell is Robert Downey Jr.? I decide to officially give Catherine Keener an out. I cancel the project. I no longer am supervising the Untitled Type A Jewnabomber Project, Spring 2013.
I do feel a lot less pressure now that the movie is off. I don’t have to deal with my wardrobe or work on my new walk. I don’t have to clean my house or change my personality or bowl things. No one will be moving to Vermont for six months to observe me in action just to make sure they are accurately portraying a living character. I won’t have to pay a dime for the rights to the original cast recording of Pippin for the montage.
Life will return to normal up on the hill. I call Shirley again to inform her that the movie is off and that, for now, she can be the Type A in the friendship. Shirley is not home. I put the phone in the bowl.
Good Grief
• • • • • •
Buzz did not have a breezy childhood. He was, like many ‘70s kids, the product of a mangled home. When things fell apart, his mother put on her smartest cardigan and marched herself over to a Jewish singles mixer at the synagogue with the intention of fixing what broke. There, by the tray of noodle kugel, she met a young widower—a benign accountant with two boys of his own. It wasn’t long before the two families merged. A gift, as Buzz’s mother saw it. And although this gift was sheathed in bargain wrapping paper and none-too-sticky tape, at least, she thought, at least there’s a gift at all.
If you meet Buzz at a barbecue, he will ask you umpteen questions about yourself. He’ll hang on your words and you will relish feeling you are that night’s guest on Charlie Rose. Secretly, you’ll marvel at how interesting you are and leave the party chock-full of potato salad, and yourself. You will, however, have learned nothing about Buzz. An armchair Freud might diagnose Buzz’s parlor tricks as deflection. Claim that he is using the old switcheroo so he doesn’t have to give up much of his own history. This would be a fair interpretation. However, if you stick around long enough like I have, eventually a few childhood nuggets will surface. The ones he remembers, anyway.
Like many of us casualties of lackadaisical parenting, Buzz has great plans to do things differently. Traditions and celebrations were not big players in Buzz’s young life, so they feature heavily in his adult one. Taco Tuesday! Family Hike! Let’s Make a (Dessert) Deal! Our life together is a series of bar mitzvah parties, complete with omelet bar and fajita station. You can’t get in his way, though, and you’d be a pill to try.
Buzz suffers from a bad case of emotional pica, an insatiable craving to fill himself up with the sand and dirt of childhood he missed out on. It’s draining but (on my compassionate days) I understand it. I roll my eyes while rolling out pizza dough or ordering the piñata because I know what it feels like to be slightly defective. And so when Buzz said to me, “Kim, we’re going to Disney World,” I wanted to politely decline and say there was no way in hell I was making that trip, but I smiled and nodded, then took to the bed, and secretly thought, Good grief.
Mention the word Disney out in public and you’ll get two different reactions. One person hearing it will develop little Mickey Mouse silhouettes in
place of his pupils, Saturday-morning-cartoon–style, complete with sprays of hearts and fireworks shooting from his scalp and ears. The other will rant, letting you know her daughter does indeed not need a prince to live happily ever after, thank you very much. If you go further and mention Disney World, you will witness a conniption or be forced to relive someone’s memory of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride or how they almost barfed on Dumbo.
It seems like everyone has a Disney chronicle to recount. Even Buzz. I learned that his blended family made the trip via Chevy Impala wagon. Not enough seats in the car forced Buzz to be stuffed, alongside his stepbrother and all the luggage, into the trunk section of the wagon. Buzz’s strongest memory was begging his stepfather to hit the Wet ‘n Wild water park, the one you encounter a mile before the entrance to Disney World itself. His request was denied. The only other thing Buzz recalled was hearing his stepfather mutter to his wife on the long drive home, “Well, we are never doing that again.”
My own revisionist Disney history lives in Tomorrowland, when no one in my family could handle a ride speedier than the Hall of Presidents. And although I begged for any of them to ride Space Mountain with my nine-year-old self, I was met with three absolutely nots. My father held on to his Gucci belt and suggested I ride by myself because he’d probably barf. My brother told me to forget it, too fast and scary and also the barfing. My mother, sensing my indecision, insisted I make up my mind already because she thought she heard thunder and also she wasn’t feeling well. An imaginary chalk line was drawn at that very moment, separating me from them. They had become a band of lame superheroes—the Non-Avengers. Together they fought nothing, setting out to actively not save the world, because they were worried, nauseous, and chicken. I studied their side of the line and thought, Fine, maybe I will ride alone. Maybe someone will steal me. Maybe I’ll fall out and die and then they’d see. Which is precisely what I did (ride alone, not get stolen or die). I recall nothing else.
A trip to Disney World, like parenting, is a giant do-over. Some return to the park with their young families to relive the magic. Others go back to patch up well-worn holes. Buzz and I handle our childhood fix-it kits with different techniques. He plans fiestas and Best Day Evers and I make sure no one rides alone. But, even with all the wrongs I wanted to make right, I still had no interest in taking the trip. I pulled a signature move of mine. I tried getting out of it.
“You know, I was thinking. Disney is kind of expensive,” I said one night, while loading the dishwasher. This defense usually gives Buzz pause.
“Well, you only live once,” he said. “They’ll remember this forever.”
“Isn’t it hurricane season?”
“There won’t be a hurricane,” Buzz said. He was on the couch, deep into researching the best memory-making pool in the greater Orlando area. “Do you care if we don’t stay on campus?”
Campus. Already using the argot. I was in trouble.
“What if something happens while we’re there?” I said. “Something bad.”
“Like what?”
“Like, you know.” I widened my eyes as a clue but he didn’t even look up from his iDevice.
“Do you think a four-acre pool is big enough? It has a waterslide.”
“Because it could happen, you know.”
“Come check out this hotel.”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“What are you even talking about? What could happen? Someone gets sick? We’ll go to a doctor. It’s Florida, not Siberia.”
“I’m not talking about getting sick.”
“Well, then, what are you talking about?”
I shut the dishwasher door, wiped my hands on a bar mop. “What if someone blows the place up while we’re there?”
Buzz looked up. “What?”
“Like a terrorist or something.”
Buzz sighed. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You are so narcissistic,” he said. “Why would something bad happen when you are there?”
“Why wouldn’t it happen when I was there?”
Buzz squinted at me. “Kim, no one is going to blow it up.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know.”
“You don’t know. You don’t know there won’t be a hurricane and you don’t know there won’t be an incident. It’s actually kinda arrogant to think you do.”
His head was back down again, focusing on his research, which was code for I am done with this chicanery.
“If I were a terrorist,” I said, “I’d totally blow up Disney.”
“Okay,” he said, shaking his head. “Noted.”
“I just want to know how you know no one will blow it up.”
“Because people don’t just go around blowing stuff up!”
This was a popular defense for Buzz, one I find very aggravating. When buying a front door for our house in (isolated) Vermont, Buzz wanted one made entirely of glass. I vetoed this door, for obvious reasons.
“If a serial killer comes to the door,” I said, looking for a steel option in the catalog, “he could see right in.”
“If a serial killer comes to the door,” Buzz said, “and it was a solid door, couldn’t he just look in through the window next to the door?”
“Maybe we shouldn’t get windows.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Buzz. “People don’t just go around being serial killers.”
We bickered about the door for a week, eventually compromising on a one-pane-of-glass situation. But I keep the porch lights off when it gets dark so Ted Bundy can’t find his way in.
As usual, I had to talk my own self off the terrorist ledge by deciding that if there were to be nefarious happenings at the Kingdom, they would most likely take place on an auspicious date like July Fourth or Christmas. We were only going on June 12. This thought assuaged my fear but still didn’t address why I had no interest in taking the trip. Sometimes, when I don’t know how I feel, I consult friends and strangers so they can tell me what I think.
I took an informal poll. My findings showed that people have some real gripes with Disney World. There are six factions:
Occupy Disney: Veins bubble on foreheads when spitting out what they believe to be wrong with that world. Consumerism! Commercialization! Corporate capitalization! This hostile group has no problem telling you what’s what, reminding you also that Walt was an anti-Semite, along with various and sundry other issues. If you brought these politicos to the park, they would pack (along with their sunscreen and rain ponchos) buckets of blood with which to soak Goofy along the parade route. They might be heard shouting “Racist!” or “Nazi!” at Gaston.
The Mickey Moderates: These guys don’t get as riled but that doesn’t mean they are happy with the place. These are more of your middle-of-the-road haters. They feel it’s overpriced, the crowds are annoying, the food is processed and terrible, and the whole thing is a giant waste of money. They take issue with paying seventeen dollars for a plastic spray bottle with fan attached. Many of this group will end up at the park, at least once in their lifetime, but they will grumble about it while getting soaked on Splash Mountain.
The Wanderlusters: These traveler types wonder, Why pick Disney when there are so many other places in the world to see? There are ruins and mountains and pyramids out there. Shouldn’t we explore a legitimate castle in Bavaria, instead of being forced to just stand outside one because the only way to actually gain entry is to call up 180 days in advance to make a reservation at Cinderella’s table or pay an obscene amount of money to get a royal makeover at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique?
The “I Hate Florida” Fan Club: Pretty self-explanatory, but these people don’t even want to set foot in the state, let alone Orlando. Be it the politics or the climate or the belief that they’d feel too Middle America–ish, this group steers clear of
the place.
The Odd (Donald) Ducks: This is a hodgepodge of a group, a sprinkling of people with disparate concerns. I have subsetted them into three categories: (a) believe they will have to wear a fanny pack to enter the state, (b) do not want to be told they have to have fun, (c) can’t stand tourists.
And finally, my all-time favorite group, the excuse I enjoyed most and refer to every time I need a quick mental pick-me-up:
Rage Against the Machine: This group is anti–Disney World because—well, because the place has too many kids.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love ire and a group of complainers as much as the next guy. I just couldn’t get as worked up as my test groups, try as I might, because (a) lines and consumerism don’t really get my dander up, (b) I’m not that political (Canadian), (c) I don’t usually get worked up over things that actually matter, and (d) at the end of the day, being part of a group stresses me out. It was only a couple of days later, when a friend called after hearing we were Orlando-bound, that it all started to make sense.
“Have fun,” she said, laughing at her own joke. This friend takes great delight in my grumpy nature and malcontentish personality. She called to share the secret tips Magic Kingdomers like to dole out upon their return. But insider information and guidebooks were not all she was interested in sending along. She had one more chestnut to impart before she hung up.
“I cannot wait to hear how you handle the Happiest Place on Earth.”
(1. denial)
Our black rent-a-Prius was directed to the Heroes lot, Simba section, spot 111. I noticed the other parking option, the Villains lot, and immediately wanted to switch, but since we got there early, like the Book insisted, we were stuck with all the other goody-two-shoes and corporate-capitalist-loving rule followers. Apparently the Villains lot was closed and would open later when the cool kids showed up. Buzz and I each took a kid’s hand (let’s call them Minnie and Pluto) and marched with the other Heroes to the shuttle, which took us to the monorail, which took us to the entrance of the Magic Kingdom, which was already swarming but not yet officially open.
