I hate putting away Christmas. I hate it. It just stinks. This year, though, marked a milestone - the Santas this time didn't get lugged back to the basement of Sterchi. This year, they went to DJ Smith's house where they are under his stewardship. I'll open them in November of 2016 in OUR house.
Yea. That's exciting!
Here's a shortened version of how Saturday's packing up of all of Christmas went:
Me: Oh, Benny, don't pack regular Christmas stuff in the Santa box. Put it in the regular Christmas stuff box.
DJ Smith, pausing mid-wrap: I already packed some regular Christmas stuff in here.
Me: That's ok. I'll get it when I open the Santa boxes first next year and put it in the regular Christmas box. But don't pack any more in that box. Use the regular Christmas stuff box.
Roomstress: I packed some regular Christmas stuff in the Spode box too. Is that ok?
Me: Yes, that's fine, but did you find my flat Santa box in the Spode box when you opened it?
Roomstress: Flat... Santa?
Me: Benny, that's a flat Santa! Give him here - don't pack him in the Santa box, I have to put him in my flat Santa box.
Benny: What the hell are you talking about?
Me: IT'S FLAT. They all go together. There's a box from JC Penny's that they go in.
Roomstress: I.... no. I didn't find a flat Santa box.
Me: I'm going to need a box for them. OR A FOLDER. Do you have a folder? A folder would be perfect.
Benny: I need another box to start packing in.
Me: DON'T USE THAT BOX. It's a Santa box. Only Santas go in the Santa box.
Ad infinity.
All I've got for today. Over and out.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Disney World junkie
I love me some Disney World. I do. I worked there as a participant in the College Program, and I proudly display my Ducktorate Degree framed at my desk at my current job. I had such a fun time last year with my person, Heath, and her 40th birthday trip to the Land of the Mouse, and came home talking about how great a time it was, Dipsey and Mama decided to take the whole Venable Clan to Disney World for Christmas.
It was wonderful. So much fun.
And walking into the theme park did indeed bring back a flood of memories.
But something this time was different. And it got me thinking.
Of all those children I helped make magic for all those years ago. And some of them were rapt with delight. Some weren't. And some were scared by what was going on, especially so when they realized that they'd wandered off and mom and dad weren't in sight.
I got to know "lost little kid" horror stare real well. Every kid reacts the same. Looking at each face, desperate to recognize someone - anyone! - and frighted of so many strangers surrounding them.
I knew what to do. Most parents will tell their child in the event that they get separated to find someone with a name tag and ask for help. So I'd walk up to and increasingly freaking out child, smile and point to my name tag and make sure he or she knew I worked there and I was going to help them find their parent. Ice cream sometimes helped too.
But that name tag was always the ticket. I once had a frightened child running away from another employee stop short when he saw my name tag and trusted me enough to let me pick him up. Every time it worked - that name tag meant I was here to help, and every child trusted me to help him or her back to mom and dad.
By the way, parents will never thank you for finding their lost child. They're too relieved for anything but maybe a desperate "thank you!" as they clutch their found little duckling closer to their chest, promising themselves that next time they will be more vigilant.
Back to this vacation. Walking in the park. Looking down to the little girl gleefully clutching my hand, eager for her day to begin at Disney with her Auntie. To the first child that ever held my heart in his hand, ready to don a Jedi robe and light saber duel Darth Vader. To the child who, quite soon, will be my step-daughter, whose care and concern are increasingly becoming more and more my care, concern and responsibility.
And with a lump in my throat, I bent down and whispered, "Guys, if anyone gets lost, find someone with a name tag on. They'll help you get back to us."
It was wonderful. So much fun.
And walking into the theme park did indeed bring back a flood of memories.
But something this time was different. And it got me thinking.
Of all those children I helped make magic for all those years ago. And some of them were rapt with delight. Some weren't. And some were scared by what was going on, especially so when they realized that they'd wandered off and mom and dad weren't in sight.
I got to know "lost little kid" horror stare real well. Every kid reacts the same. Looking at each face, desperate to recognize someone - anyone! - and frighted of so many strangers surrounding them.
I knew what to do. Most parents will tell their child in the event that they get separated to find someone with a name tag and ask for help. So I'd walk up to and increasingly freaking out child, smile and point to my name tag and make sure he or she knew I worked there and I was going to help them find their parent. Ice cream sometimes helped too.
But that name tag was always the ticket. I once had a frightened child running away from another employee stop short when he saw my name tag and trusted me enough to let me pick him up. Every time it worked - that name tag meant I was here to help, and every child trusted me to help him or her back to mom and dad.
By the way, parents will never thank you for finding their lost child. They're too relieved for anything but maybe a desperate "thank you!" as they clutch their found little duckling closer to their chest, promising themselves that next time they will be more vigilant.
Back to this vacation. Walking in the park. Looking down to the little girl gleefully clutching my hand, eager for her day to begin at Disney with her Auntie. To the first child that ever held my heart in his hand, ready to don a Jedi robe and light saber duel Darth Vader. To the child who, quite soon, will be my step-daughter, whose care and concern are increasingly becoming more and more my care, concern and responsibility.
And with a lump in my throat, I bent down and whispered, "Guys, if anyone gets lost, find someone with a name tag on. They'll help you get back to us."
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| my handprint from the great movie ride, twenty years later. |
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