That Time I Got Kicked Out of Disneyland

I should start by saying that, by and large, I'm a total rule-follower. Although I talk a good game about being a rebellious free-thinker, at heart I'm just a big old wuss. I hate getting caught being anything less than perfect.

Which is why what happened at Disneyland that night was totally uncharacteristic.

I was seventeen. My first serious boyfriend Kurt and his roommate Mark were about four years older than my best friend Kathy and I were. (Side note - you have no idea how many times I added and deleted commas and fretted over which pronouns to use in this sentence - that, people, is how much of a rule-follower I am.)

I don't remember exactly how it was that we went to Disneyland together that night, but I suspect it was with discount tickets my dad used to get through his aerospace company. I think the whole park was reserved for one night each year by a group of aerospace/defense industry companies. On one magical evening every October, when I was a kid, we'd all pile in the car and go to The Happiest Place On Earth. I remember being forced to take a nap during the day, which was completely impossible for a child who was plotting all the amazing attractions she wanted to visit, imagining all the yummy treats she would beg her parents to buy, and fantasizing about which souvenir she'd be allowed to bring home. So I'd toss and turn and stare at the ceiling until my mom relented and let me vault out of bed and prepare for the big night.

Memories of those annual nights at Disneyland are hazy. I remember us four kids in the back of our station wagon, vying to be first to see the Matterhorn from the freeway. I NEVER saw anything. Ever. My brother Bill used to get so frustrated. He'd be pointing wildly, even grabbing my face and aiming it at the tall mountain, but I could never manage to make it out. I still have this problem today, when people try to point out something for me to look at.

I remember that it was never crowded, and we could race from ride to ride with hardly any wait time. Unheard of nowadays. I remember wetting my pants on the Matterhorn when I was very young (but obviously tall enough to ride), when my poor mom was stuck sitting behind me on the same bench. I remember having an enormous and entirely inappropriate crush on the scraggly, black-haired pirate who taunts soldiers from the ship in the big battle scene (he's gone now, sadly - replaced by some less-scraggly pirate going on and on about Captain Jack Sparrow). I remember how much my mom hated fireworks, and how she'd stand there with her fingers in her ears wincing, while the rest of us oohed and ahhhed.

I remember when I was old enough to invite a friend and separate for a few glorious hours from my folks, how we'd all pick a time when we'd meet up at the bridge at Sleeping Beauty's castle. I remember being mortified when, as a teen, I insisted that we visit the Enchanted Tiki Room. I had loved it as a child, once I recovered from the initial panic that IT WAS RAINING AT DISNEYLAND ON THE NIGHT WE WERE THERE AND THIS WAS GOING TO RUIN THE ENTIRE EVENING. My mom finally convinced me that the rain would end before we left that room and we'd all be just fine. Anyway, when I went back as a tween, the friend I'd dragged in there was way too cool for it - or at least she acted like that. I felt sad to think that I'd outgrown it. I regained my senses and still love the Tiki Room today, by the way - haters gonna hate.

Anyway, by the time I was seventeen, I think my parents were pretty much finished with the whole parenting thing. They were out of town that weekend, either on a trip to a foreign country or on a coaching weekend (or both) for Sweet Adelines (this happened a lot - see my other blog called "Home Again"). So I got discount tickets for the four of us - Kurt, Mark, Kathy and me - and off we went, feeling all grown up and stuff.

We were having a great time at the park. It was fun having a guy to cuddle with on rides. This was, pardon the Disney reference, a whole new world for me. Lots of fun, until one of the boys suggested we head back to the car to drink some booze.

Now, up to that point, I think I had only ever tried beer - Miller High Life, "The Champagne of Beers" - again, because of Kurt (who is probably reading this blog now from beneath the bus under which I just tossed him - heh heh). I think it was a later weekend trip to Anza that introduced me to rum. I began and ended a relationship with rum in one weekend. I still don't care for it. We had run out of Coke and had mixed it with grape Kool-Aid by the end of that very unfortunate night. So, yeah.

So, I had never even really tried any hard liquor before. Remember that first sentence? The part about being a rule-follower? But, the guys insisted, this was special. It was scotch. Really, really aged scotch. Super expensive, blah blah blah.  A funny thing about this is that I messaged Kurt to verify what it actually was, and he wrote: "I doubt either one of us would have known good booze if you hit us over the head with it back then."

He also mentioned feeling very bad for getting us kicked out that night. It's okay, Kurt, no one will ever know... haha!  And for what it's worth, he's a very decent fellow these days... finally. Heh heh...

Anyway, so we headed out to the parking lot, armed with cups of Sprite. Yes, Sprite. Because apparently, that's what you use as a mix for really old, really expensive scotch.

Now, if you know anything at all about Disneyland, it's that they are kind of tight about security. Like, OCD tight. Like, position-snipers-with-binoculars-on-towers-to-watch-over-the-parking-lot tight. So it took about five minutes for a golf cart of security guards to show up at our car with flashlights. I had taken, I believe, exactly one sip of this "good" liquor, pronounced it equivalent to jet fuel, and then boom. We were busted.

There is a Disney Jail. For real. And it's not all cartoony like the one in ToonTown. It's more like, well, a security office. We sat under the bright flourescent lights, ashamed and worried sick about what would happen next. The officer made a call to Kathy's parents, who gave their approval for the guys to drive us directly home to her house. It was a grim, quiet ride home. I think I might have loudly exclaimed a time or two that I hadn't even DRUNK the darn stuff. Kathy probably moaned about what terrible trouble she'd be in when we got home.

We arrived at Kathy's house, and the lights were all on. Kathy's mom and dad were waiting at the door as we slunk up the stairs to the porch, our tails between our legs. We were ushered upstairs to the family room. After briefly but thoroughly ripping into the boys, I remember Kathy's mom, in a very clipped tone, telling them to go home. NOW. They turned tail and fled.

Kathy and I sat on the couch, while Kathy's mom stood there and told us how disappointed they both were. I don't remember many details. I'm sure it was the stock "you've ruined our trust in you and it will be forever before we ever, ever let you forget this or do anything fun" type of speech that comes in the parenting handbook. I don't remember. But what I DO remember is waiting until Kathy's mom had used up all the disappointment and scorn she had in her, and then I timidly and tearfully asked, "Are you going to tell my parents about this?"

Her answer was the most absolutely glorious thing I'd ever heard anyone say to me in my seventeen years of life. She took a deep breath and said, slowly and meaningfully, "I think it's up to YOU to tell them, young lady."

What? Glory be! They would never have to find out!?? WOO HOO!!!! I hope I hid my relief. I think I went home then, joyously skipping down the street to my own home, five doors away, thanking my lucky stars for this gift of secrecy.

Kathy told me later that after I left, her dad broke into a huge grin, clapped her on the shoulder and shouted, "It's about TIME you went out and had some fun, for crying out loud!!!" Kathy was even more of a rule-follower than I, you see...  Her fun-loving father felt like her whole life was passing her by, so he was actually delighted to learn that she'd gone out and done something reckless for a change. She, however, scourged herself about it for years. And was super mad that I never got into trouble for it.

I never did tell my folks. And neither, thankfully, did Kathy's mom. But a funny thing happened, probably 15 years later. I sang in my mom's Sweet Adelines chorus, and we were doing some kind of all-day team-building sort of seminar. One of the day's activities was that each of us had to tell "Two Truths And A Lie" about ourselves, and the others had to guess which thing was the lie. I said:

"I played clarinet in the Trojan Marching Band."
"I once got kicked out of Disneyland."
"I went skydiving once and loved it."

Most people guessed the Disneyland thing. I laughed and said, "No, I've actually never gone skydiving."

My mom paused a minute, then said, "Wait. What? You got kicked out of Disneyland???"

"Oh," I replied casually, "you mean I never told you about that...?"

It led to an interesting conversation and a lot of hilarity among the women who got to listen in...

Butterfly Tales

We have a complicated relationship with butterflies.

I homeschool my now nearly-grown daughter, and for years, we've been big fans of butterflies. One year, Jennifer did a focus group session for the Getty Museum. In return for an afternoon of milling around exhibits while being monitored by microphones and recording devices that were taped to us, Jennifer received an Amazon gift card for a hundred bucks! I'll explain how that relates to butterflies in a minute. But first, a quick side-story.

The Getty Museum was trying to make parts of their facility more kid-friendly. So they'd have a parent and child move through pre-selected exhibits and record how the parent interacts with the child when looking at art. I've always tried to be that kind of mom who just lets her kid hang around and enjoy something until she's done and ready to move on. One time we were at a different museum, where one room had a machine that projected constantly changing, psychedelic images of Jennifer's sillouette onto the wall. She danced and jumped and ran and played for so long that I finally sat down in the corner with a book until she wore herself out.

So at the Getty, group after group of school kids would shuffle in and out, looking bored, while harried adults would give them a few minutes and then yell, "Okay, kids, it's time to move on! Hurry..." We don't roll like that. Jennifer was sitting on this one little bed that was a replica of some king's bed from thousands of years ago. There were books on a little shelf about that king and about the era he lived in. She asked me to read them to her. Then she wanted to pretend she was royal. We spent so much time hanging around there that a researcher quietly stepped in and said, "Um, it's time to move on... we have enough information from you for this exhibit..."

Anyway, Jennifer walked away with this $100 Amazon gift card. One of the things she wanted to order was a butterfly habitat. It was like one of those collapsible mesh clothes hampers, but cuter and with a door, and it came with a coupon for live larvae. For the mere cost of postage, we could receive, in the mail, a little petri dish of butterfly larvae and enough food to keep them fat and happy until they pupated. To this day, I have failed to send away for the larvae. I just keep forgetting...

But we've had other adventures with butterflies. Many of them.

Every year, the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History sets up a "Butterly Pavilion". It's like a big greenhouse-style portable tent outside the main building. They fill it with all kinds of plants and tons of different varieties of butterflies from all over the world. You walk through, and all around you, butterflies fly past you; you see them eating, mating, pupating, and one or two may even land on you, if you're fortunate. It's really, really cool and totally worth visiting.  It's usually there from around Memorial Day through Labor Day.

When Jennifer was pretty young, I took her there to see the butterflies. She was probably around six? Super young. Maybe younger. She loved the butterflies - particularly when she was assured that they can't bite at all. As the docent explained, they don't have teeth. Only a long proboscis, like a straw made for sipping nectar. They're harmless and beautiful. For the most part, she bought this line. She was only a little freaked out when any butterfly got close to her. Which, by the way, is totally my fault. And which leads me to another side-story.

I should explain that I HATE most bugs that fly. Sure, I like butterflies, but they're on a super short list. When Jennifer was maybe two, we took a trip to Orlando for the Sweet Adelines International convention there. It was September, as I recall, and swelteringly hot. Well, as luck would have it, we chose the two-week period that happens, once a year, when these special insects known as "love bugs" emerge. They are black. There's one big one, and one small one. Can't remember which is male/female. They attach themselves together, butt to butt, while they mate, and then they fly together in swarms of fifty gazillion. Like a big slow-flying bug orgy. So when you walk into a cloud of them, they all land on you. All fifty gazillion. And if you try to brush them off your arm, they just splat onto your skin, leaving a greasy black skid mark. They're horrifying.

We had spent a couple of days touring Disney's Epcot Center and Disney World. We kept running into clouds of these disgusting bugs. I was on edge. It was Africa hot and sticky and slimy outside, without much relief. Jennifer refused to ride in the little stroller we had rented, mostly because of these bugs. So I was carrying a hot whiny toddler, and we were all very sweaty and not very cheerful.

At one point, after what seemed like a month of this (it was probably a couple of hours), we walked into yet another swarm of love bugs, and I just lost it. I wasn't holding Jennifer at the time, thankfully, because I dropped what I was carrying, starting waving my arms wildly around my head, and with a high pitched, panicked squeal, I ran away, abandoning my family. Brian (who, by the way, tells a very different version of this story), stood there, watched me run off, looked at Jennifer and Becky and said, "I think Mommy needs a little time out."

Well, that vision evidently imprinted itself on poor Jennifer, because to this day, she absolutely loses her mind if there's even a fly in the house. Which is funny, because the last dog I'll ever own is exactly the same way. He gets super amped and chases the fly for a while, but then he runs and hides under my bed. Jennifer sometimes manages, amidst a lot of drama, to trap the fly somewhere so I'll come kill it. I've almost crashed the car before because she starting squealing madly about a BEEEEE in the car -- and it turned out to be, like, a gnat. Or a small fly. But not a bee.

 I try to be patient, knowing that this bug phobia is 100% my fault.

Anyway, we spent a lot of time at the Butterfly Pavilion that day, trying to identify all the different species. At one point, we got separated, which was fine, because it is an enclosed area, and it wasn't terribly crowded. I happened to see a docent talking to a small group of people, who were gathered in a circle looking down. There on the ground, in a patch of sunshine, a gorgeous, colorful butterfly rested, its wings totally flattened against the ground. The docent explained that it was "basking", drawing energy from the sun through its wings. Just then, Jennifer came walking through the circle, eyes raised heavenward as she watched some other butterfly drifting overhead. I realized, too late, that she was headed directly toward the basking butterfly.

What happened next was exactly like one of those slow-motion scenes in an action adventure movie. I lunged toward her, arms outstretched, with a slo-mo cry of "nnnnnnnooooooOOOOOOO!!!!!!" Before I could reach her, she planted her cute little sneaker squarely onto the little butterfly. There was literally a horrified, collective gasp from the grown-ups standing in the circle. Jennifer, realizing something just happened that just might have somehow involved her, stopped, looked around for me, and said, "Huh?" The docent hardly missed a beat. Without batting an eyelash, she said, "Yep. That happens sometimes. It just shows us how fragile life can be." I, being the stellar parent that I am, burst into hysterical, embarrassed laughter. I couldn't have scripted this or directed it any more perfectly for the ideal comic scene. Poor butterfly.

One day, we found a black, fuzzy caterpillar. In our garage. On the floor. This was weird, because there were really no plants nearby. How did it get there? We brought it into the house and built a little habitat for it. I sent off a picture of it to Brent the Bug Guy, my contact at the L.A. Museum of Natural History Insect Zoo. I can't remember what he told me, but he made some suggestions for its care. This caterpillar was never hungry. Or it's possible we never offered him the right food. In any event, we weren't sure whether he wanted to burrow underground to pupate, or whether he needed a stick to attach himself to. We pretty much did everything for that little guy. I even set up a video camera with night vision to see what he'd do while we weren't staring at him. He sort of half-attached himself to a stick, but he never really managed to do anything right. I think he ended up falling off the stick once.

At this point, we chose to name him "Jeff, the Defective Caterpillar". I don't remember his final fate. I think he finally just withered up and died, much to our disappointment.

In our continuing quest to raise butterflies, we adopted some painted lady butterflies from a homeschool friend. Her kid was selling them as a homeschool project. She gave us a habitat, food for the butterflies, and instructions on how to care for them. I don't remember anymore whether it was mallow or fennel they liked (so many butterfly projects, so long ago...). But we drove around every day and found the right food and took care of those butterflies like a boss. They mated, they laid eggs. The larvae hatched. They ate. And ate. And ate. And they pupated. They even emerged as real live butterflies! It was terribly thrilling to see their progress day after day.

At last, on a fine, warm spring morning, we decided to release our two newly hatched adult butterflies into the world. We carried our habitat out into the front yard. It was a rather breezy day, but warm and sunny.  We opened the habitat and watched as the butterflies were whisked up by the wind... and directly into the path of an oncoming car. They literally splatted onto the windshield of the car as it passed. I, of course, again burst into hysterical laughter, and I spent the next several minutes trying to put this whole thing into perspective for my shell-shocked daughter.  Bad mommy moment.

We have often grown tomatoes in our yard over the years. One year, we were inundated with big giant tomato hornworms. These hugely fat, green caterpillars are quite imposing. The problem is, when they hatch, they are these big, hairy, awful looking moths. Moths that lay eggs that become big fat green hornworms that destroy tomato plants. My neighbor begged me to kill the moth that had emerged from our little experiment. I think I did. I can't remember. I might have driven it far away and released it to bother someone else's garden.

Another time, we found a caterpillar in the yard. It was smooth, rather than fuzzy, and kind of fat and gray. I looked online to see if I could identify it, but I couldn't find one that looked like it did. It never really seemed hungry, and I wasn't sure what to feed it anyway. It seemed fat enough that maybe it was ready to pupate. We had a stick in there, but it did't seem interested in that either. I knew that some moth larvae like to burrow in the dirt to pupate. So we put a bunch of dirt in there to see what would happen. Sure enough, it burrowed under, and I put it on the kitchen windowsill, excited to see what kind of exotic moth would emerge.

Several days later, I was washing dishes, when some movement in the jar caught my eye. I peered into the jar, and there, buzzing around, was the biggest, most disgusting fly I've ever seen. Yes. We had pupated a maggot.

I think that might have been the end of our butterfly experiments. Unless I manage to find the voucher for the larvae I never sent away for...