The Disney Driven Life

Community Blog for Neurotic Disney People

Pulling up to the guardhouse at Disney’s Polynesian Resort, I feel the hair on my arms stand-up as goosebumps break out like a bad rash.  I can hardly believe what I am about to say when the words form in my mouth. “Hi!” I greet the guard with a wide grin.  “I have a reservation at the Polynesian for the Social Media Moms Celebration.”  I have a reservation at the Polynesian . . . sweeter words were never spoken.

Being approved by the security tiki hut and parking the car, my little Hawaiians and I jump out and skitter across the pavement towards the lobby.  We have passed by these tropical water gardens and magical glass doors before when resort hopping, but we have never done it as actual resort guests.  I note that the feeling is very different.  Rather than feeling self-conscious about intruding on the “home grounds” of park guests with bigger pockets than myself, I am breathing deeper, stepping lighter, and wearing a crazed smile on my face.  “Welcome to the Polynesian Resort.  Can I assist you with anything?” a pleasant greeter offers while he adorns me with a multi-colored lei.  I must have that “new person” expression because he doesn’t hesitate to give me a verbal tour of the lobby.  I take in every sight that he points out as if it were the first time I’ve laid eyes on them.

A huge rock formation is the focal point of the lobby.  Accented with tropical plants and flowers that climb its height in a nature-esque manner, I am drawn to the beauty of multiple waterfalls that descend the  stony crags and gather in small ponds that are surrounded by bench seats.  The children’s area is to the left with its Disney cartoon-playing TV, coloring table, and lei-making center.  On an upper level that is open to view from the ground floor, I am soothed by the sight of the well-rated Kona Cafe and tropical gift shops.

Off to the side, a small group has gathered for hula dancing lessons.  “I want to take hula dancing lessons,” I mentally but emphatically tell myself.  After all, when in Polynesia, do as the Polynesians do.  I wonder if it is hard.

“. . . . the check-in counter,” the friendly greeter directs.  I snap back to attention and realize that I’ve been so caught up in the aura of aloha that I have inadvertently tuned out the greeter who is giving me instructions about checking-in.  “Actually, I don’t think I’m supposed to check-in yet.  I’m here for an event, and the information that I have specifically instructs me to find a hospitality table when I first arrive,” I explain to my Polynesian professional.  However, my comment is met with a quizzical expression.  He clearly has no knowledge of said table.

We both begin to look around the lobby.  The set-up of a hospitality table is clearly absent.  A panic-stricken look crosses my face.  Were the plans changed, and I somehow missed the memo?  The helpful greeter who embodies hospitality himself reads my expression and says, “Don’t worry.  Let me go over here to speak with someone.  I’m sure we will find out where you are supposed to be.”

After a brief moment our personal Polynesian assistant returns with a smile.  “We don’t see the table because it is in a completely separate room.”  With that he escorts me to a back door of the lobby and leaves me with directions on finding the hospitality room.  This time I am focused and attentive, listening to every word.

The kids and I make our way to an adjacent building that has a couple rooms designated as the hospitality suite for my event.  I can feel the excitement bubble up within me, and I squeeze the hands of my little Poly people when we step in line to see what awaits us.

While I wait in line and look around the room, the mom standing behind me holds out her hand and greets, “Hi.”  “Hello,” I return.  I look over her adorable family.  Her supportive husband appears to be attending to their well-mannered children so that she can focus on the event at hand.  The sight reminds me of my own husband’s flight dilemma which may leave me with three children and no care-taker, but I try to push this horrific situation to the back of my mind.

“I’m Maria,” she says.  “My name is JL,” I respond.  “What is your site?” she asks.  Caught off guard, I say, “I don’t know. Hopefully they’ll tell me when I get up to the table.”  She looks at me confused, and I realize that somehow I have misunderstood her.  Suddenly I remember that the theme of the event is social media and that she means WEBsite rather than room site.  Again I have found myself so enraptured by my surroundings that I have forgotten about life outside of this occasion.  “Oh! You mean the name of my blog,” I blush.  She giggles and says, “Yes.”  “It’s thedisneydrivenlife.com,” I confess.  “I blog about how I incorporate Disney into my family’s lifestyle and the funny adventures that happen as a result.  It is also a place where other Disney fans can contribute their personal expressions of Disney fanaticism.”  “OK” she says, looking surprised by my explanation.  She continues, “My site is mychicagomommy.  Here is my card.”  With that a calling card is extended to me.  She has cards?  Her blog must be of the professional variety.

“May I have your card?” she asks.  I can feel my cheeks flush.  My blog is far from a professional gig.  Most of the time I feel like I am flopping around, trying to keep my head above the html just so that I can write about Disney and build relationships with others who share my Disney passion.  I never suspected that I should have calling cards.  “Well I would love to give one to you, but I don’t have any,” I sheepishly admit.

“I’m MomRN,” a voice behind Maria announces.  We both turn around to see another smiling face.  The smiling face explains, “I host the talk show, Ask MomRN.”  MomRN is warm and friendly; however, I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable and completely out of my league.  My first friend is obviously a professional mommy blogger with business cards.  My second new friend is a host of her own talk show.  How was I able to secure a position at this gig with such fantastic people who obviously are pros in social media?  They came here to do business.  I came here for a pool view at the Poly.

Maria and MomRN hit it off and chatter away in line.  Feeling rather self-conscious, I step up to the hospitality table which is now available to me.  The pleasant woman now facing me asks for my name.  “Knopp with a K,” I say and wait for her to check her list.  Mentally I elaborate in a timid manner, “I’m the insignificant one without calling cards or talk shows.”  Then from behind there is a tap on my shoulder and someone says, “JL?”

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Contributed by: Eric H. (NDI#2). Eric is our resident Disney restaurants, recess and relaxation expert.

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BOARDWALK BLUNDERS

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CLOTHES THAT DON’T MAKE THE MAN

 The introduction to the twins has been a little rough.  Angel, my precocious niece, has developed a way to look down her nose at people who aren’t “acceptable” even if they stand three and a half feet above her.  Unfortunately, I have discovered that I am amongst the “unacceptable.”  This would not normally be so disheartening considering that we only just met, but DH—who is drastically less interested in procuring the affections of munchkin snobs—has immediately secured a place in her clique.

Meanwhile Pooter, my sturdy nephew, has yet to give me any indication of his regard.  When placed in my vicinity, he stared at me with no response.  His steady and stern gaze was a bit unnerving, for I couldn’t discern whether he was going to run from me or charge at me.  I was told that he doesn’t talk much because his sister “runs the show.”  I was told that it takes him a while “to warm up.”  I was told not to ever take the swimming goggles off of his head because “he would have a nervous breakdown.”

In the hours since those initial meetings, I have also learned that the twins love to play a game called “Terrorize The People.”  This game is fairly simple.  The two primary players are the twins.  The rest of us are the pawns.  The players control the pawns to the best of their ability through a clever tag-team technique of tantrum behavior.  One twin screams and wails for a spell while the pawns try to problem-solve the crisis.  Once the wailing twin has been pacified, the pawns are given a five-minute rest.  Then the other twin—who was previously playing in a cherubic manner—erupts into irrational fits, throwing the pawns into a tizzy once again.  The game is played non-stop, and it proves effective in driving the pawns to the brink of insanity.

Hoping to regain a mental marble or two, I know I must get out of the villa soon.  I announce, “DH, our kids and myself are going out tonight. We’ve never been to Disney’s Boardwalk Area, so we are heading out there after dinner.”  Grammy adds, “Why don’t we all go?”  “That’s not necessary,” I reply.  “I know we are here together, but you shouldn’t feel obligated to do everything we do.  The twins might be too tired to do all the running around we intend to do.”  It is my hope that Auntie—who looks quite exhausted—will take this easy-out for her family.  Grammy exclaims, “Nonsense!  The twins will love it and fall asleep in their strollers when they get tired.”

I smile and concede defeat in my mind.  There is no way to escape our boardwalk companions without blatant and aggressive exclusion.  Contrarily, Grammy has a plan to enhance the concept of our solidarity.  “I have the perfect thing for everyone to wear tonight,” she announces.  “When I was at Wal-Mart, they had Pirates of the Caribbean shirts on clearance.  I bought one for all the men.  I also found princess outfits for the girls.”  The children squeal with happiness at the news.

Feeling her effort of camaraderie has been endorsed, Grammy jaunts to the villa’s second bedroom and returns with a box.  Everyone waits for the ceremonial unveiling of our unitarian apparel.

With great fanfare Grammy pulls out the first pirate shirt.  It sports an edgy skull and crossbones dressed in Captain Jack Sparrow headgear and Pirates of the Caribbean banner, but the shirt is a shocking gold color.  I can see the reason for a reduced price, for the shirt screams “TASTELESS!”  Buddy and DS5 congratulate each other with high-fives.  They feel they have won the fashion lottery in scoring these scallywag duds.  DH and Uncle look on in complete horror.  They cannot believe they are expected to don that outrageous hue.

DH looks at me with big eyes that plead for rescue.  I shrug in his direction with a regretful expression.  I feel helpless to squash this moment of bargain hunting victory in Grammy’s life.

“I’m sorry to say,” Grammy expresses, “that I couldn’t get all the shirts to match perfectly.  They didn’t have the gold color in men’s sizes.  They only had black.”  With less fanfare but still some excitement, Grammy pulls out a much larger version of the same pirate shirt in a masculine black.  I see DH and Uncle take on relieved postures and smile gratefully as they are handed their evening attire.

“The girls have outfits,” Grammy declares.  As she pulls out each one, handing them off to Angel, DD7 and DD2, I see they are—in fact—rather adorable playsuits.  Frilly shorts in a floral pattern accompany a soft, graphic screen t-shirt of all the Disney princesses.  The girls are pleased.  Auntie and I smile at the thought of our darlings proudly being Disney branded for the evening with such appeal.  All that is left is the viewing of the women’s wear.  I don’t know whether I should be excited or frightened.

“Sadly, there were no Disney shirts for women on the sale rack,” Grammy explains.  “But I was able to find a couple in a thrift store.  They don’t match because—obviously–at thrift stores you just get what you find.  Grammy then pulls out two used and uninspiring tees.  There is no style in the shape of the shirts.  There is no “personality” in the design.  They have some clipart images of a few primary Disney characters and the generic word “Florida” printed in common fonts.  I can tell these were originally purchased in a gas station somewhere along a Florida highway.

Auntie speaks up, “Grammy, you know I have a hundred of those.  You can give them both to NDM#1.  I was going to wear my Chip-n-Dale shirt tonight anyway.”  Auntie is already dressed in her vintage-inspired chipmunk ringer tee and looks ready for a Disney night in style.  Grammy proudly responds, “How generous!”  She then turns to me and hands me my newly acquired treasures.

I hurry with them back to the safety of my villa bedroom as my mind races to find an escape from the current predicament.  The bottom line is these shirts are ugly, and—Mickey Mouse or no Mickey Mouse—they make me look ugly.  It will be my very first night experiencing the elegant seaside-themed Disney’s Boardwalk Area.  I want to stroll it in confidence and without care.  Wearing either of these shirts will condemn me to a night of insecurity and self-consciousness.  I will hardly be able to focus on my surroundings if I can’t see past my unbecoming tourist couture.

I search the core of my NDM being for the solution.  Think, think, think.  I will find the answer.  I must find the answer.

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THE TRAVELING CIRCUS 

When I was a young girl, Christmas mornings always started out awkwardly. Right after waking up, the first order of business each year was to empty our stockings of its contents. In the homes of my friends this was a highly anticipated event because they could look forward to finding things like cassette tapes, candy, and other really cool items. In my family, however, this was not the case.

Grammy, my mother, was always too practical and frugal to splurge on desirable stocking stuffers. Instead of the latest recording by New Kids on the Block, I would pull out trial size bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and hairspray sprinkled among pencils, erasers and thumbtacks. These meaningless fillers never expressed “love” to me. To me they expressed Grammy’s desire to meet an obligation rather than her wish to make me happy. The difficulty was showing enthusiasm for these Christmas Day bombs when I usually felt a bit appalled by the apparent lack of consideration. Year after year, though, I pasted a huge smile on my face and gushed with gratitude as I held up my pack of q-tips for everyone to see. It was an exercise in forbearance.

In this moment, I am reminded of that old, familiar feeling that accompanied every Christmas morn. Our 2-bedroom villa at Disney’s Old Key West Resort has a room capacity of eight plus a child under three. Grammy was expected to arrive with my nephew, Buddy, which would bring our room occupant number up to six plus a child under three. However, standing at the door to greet our new arrivals, I find Grammy and Buddy accompanied by my sister, brother-in-law and their set of toddling twins.

I stand at the door in shock as the traveling circus files into my peaceful retreat. Grammy sets her bags down near the couch, turns to me and says, “SURPRISE!” Politely I remark with a wide grin, “It sure is! Wow!” From here, the appropriate rounds of hugs are given to our new additions.

As Auntie and Uncle make multiple trips carrying in all the equipment that typically accompanies a pair of 18 month-old twins, Grammy gives her explanation for this unexpected treat. “Well, you’ve never had the chance to meet the twins since you live so far away, and there was room for two more here. I figured I’d bring everyone with me for the trip. Even though the twins put us over room capacity, no one will notice they are here. They are very quiet and as good as gold.”

I shift my position and face Angel and Pooter who have littered the entire living room with all of their playthings in a matter of minutes. DVDs, stuffed animals, riding toys, and countless plastic figurines are scattered everywhere. Every item has some type of electronic feature that loudly speaks, sings, or plays music, and the twins have mastered the trick of activating them all simultaneously. As Pooter glides by me on a toddler-sized fire truck that comes equipped with siren effects, I remark at an elevated decibel, “Oh yes, I’m sure that we’ll hardly know they’re here.” Grammy smiles in agreement. Obviously, the fact that I have to yell over the cacophony of preschool electronics to communicate with her escapes her observation.

I try to think of a statement of gratitude that would hold truth. Shouting above the escalating racket, I exclaim, “I am glad that I can finally see the twins! I’ve hated that I missed their first year of life, and I’ve longed to meet them!” This is accurate. In spite of the fact that Auntie never made a trip to my home for the sole purpose of visiting my children, I still regret that challenging circumstances have relegated me to the same fate. I have fully looked forward to introducing myself to my precious niece and nephew . . . just not necessarily in an overcrowded condo on my romantic 10^th anniversary get-away.

I excuse myself from the conversation with Grammy to step out the front door and check on Uncle and Auntie who are still making trips back and forth from their SUV. I wonder if any Key West neighbors have spotted them. Is it possible that someone has been watching and keeping track of our party’s size? Would someone actually tally who goes in and out of our door, realize that we are in breach of room capacity restrictions and turn us “in” to Disney authorities? What consequences await those who dare to sneak in an extra two heads? Are we risking our good standing with Disney and in danger of being forever banned from Disney resorts?

I quickly glance back and forth to see if I can detect any suspicious onlookers, but no one is in sight. Perhaps the massive amount of unloading taking place has gone undetected, and we are clear for now. I can’t help but worry, though, as I wonder whether we will be able to keep our illegal activities under wraps for an entire week. The shame of being labeled a Disney criminal would be more than I could bear. 

I turn to go back inside. Once I open the door, I am lambasted with the wailing of a little one. Something has upset Angel, and she wants everyone to know about it. Much to her dismay, though, no one is paying attention because there are too many other things happening. The television has been turned on and is playing at a high volume. My kiddos, who were napping, are napping no more. Instead, they have joined their cousins in an orgy of wild behavior in the living room. There is shouting, jumping, and dancing.

Grammy looks as if she has just entered Heaven. Finally seeing all six of her grandchildren in one room together has given her the treat of her life. She beams with pride, sitting on the plaid couch, and encourages the youngsters to get more riled up.

To myself, I do admit that it is a joyful site to behold. I just wish it had taken place at another time and in another location. I hadn’t intended on sharing my 10^th anniversary with more than half of my extended family. When will DH and I ever find the time and space to be alone now? And will we be able to keep this menagerie from drawing too much attention to itself?

I bite my nails in my anxious state and close the front door. But as I walk toward the three-ring circus in my living room, my nerves subside a bit. I consider that this is not what I hoped for on my vacation. Nevertheless, it is the situation I now find myself in, and no matter what the show must go on.

Angel and Pooter still haven’t been formally introduced to me, and I realize it is time to correct this unfortunate fact. There is fun to be had with these little monsters, and I don’t want to miss it. “Angel and Pooter,” I call to the little people and gather them to my side, “How are you? I am your auntie. Have you ever heard of a Neurotic Disney Auntie? No? Well, you are looking at one.”

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Stepping inside the two-bedroom unit at Disney’s Old Key West Resort instantly cures my stair-induced depression.  After the entryway, I step into a large open area.  Windows are in abundance, allowing the sun to brighten the room with natural lighting.  I survey the space and note that it showcases a great kitchen, a large living room and an eating area for meals. 

The first area to hold my attention is the living room.  There is a sofa that pulls out into a queen-sized sleeper as well as a matching loveseat.  Both are upholstered in soft, hues arranged in a cozy plaid.  A large television is cleverly tucked away beneath the kitchen’s island that directly faces the living room.  Still having room for a coffee table, end table, extra chair and ottoman, I am stunned by the sheer size of this space. 

My eyes move to the kitchen.  Again, it is obvious that Disney did not skimp when creating these accommodations.  Here I find a refrigerator, large sink, dishwasher, oven, stove and microwave.  They are intelligently placed within beautiful cabinets and granite countertops.  A colorful green and white tile arrangement pulls double duty on the wall as a protective backsplash as well as a cheerful element for this culinary spot.

Next is the dining area.  The table sits near an alcove where more cabinets and a shelf are tucked away.  This furniture coordinates with the cabinetry in the kitchen and is lit beautifully with recessed lights.  The shelf supports a couple artifacts that I would have selected to decorate my own home.

Behind the table, I lay eyes on two glass French doors that open to a balcony.  “AH,” I scream as I run to the doors.  After wrestling a bit with the locks, I fling open the doors.  Taking in a deep breath, a grand smile overtakes my face. 

The balcony affords much space just like the rest of the unit.  Here I find a sizeable table that is surrounded by four patio armchairs, yet there is still ample room for my children to play.  I overlook a pond that is complete with spouting fountain and have a pleasant view of the other Old Key West buildings that encompass our shared water view.

I step back inside our villa.  The aesthetics are perfect.  The décor is so tasteful and soothing.  The casual aura of it instantly makes me feel as if I am in my very own residence rather than a borrowed unit.  I know I could live here permanently if given the opportunity.

“I just love it,” I gush to DH who is beaming as he watches me glide across the room in princess fashion.  I ramble, “Can you believe we are actually here?  We did it.  I don’t know that I ever thought I’d get to stay in a Disney Vacation Club resort, but here I am.  Thank you!  Thank you so much for helping me get here for our anniversary.”  I run over to DH, throw myself into his arms and shower him with kisses.  Chuckling, he says, “Well, you haven’t even seen the bedrooms or bathrooms yet.”  “BLUE FAIRIES,” I exclaim, “You are right!” 

The big, open room was so large, I completely forgot that there was more to the unit; however, I realize there is a lot more to the unit when I see the second bedroom of the villa.  It is an enormous size, holding two queen-sized beds, an armoire with television, small table, two chairs and closet.  This ample space also claims its own personal bathroom with tub, sink, and toilet. 

Cheerful and bright pastels are the color scheme for this area.  When Grammy and Buddy arrive, I am certain the size of the room will overwhelm them.  It will be just the two of them in this space made for four.  Hopefully, the ample room will allow for me to be in the villa with Grammy but not feel like she is breathing down my neck.

Discreetly located on the opposite side of the entryway, I find a room dedicated to laundry.  There is a full-sized washer and dryer here, and an ironing board and iron hang on the back wall.  Being a significant room as opposed to a large closet, it is more than I expected.  It is definite that I will have to do our family’s laundry before returning home, so I am relieved to know that it will not consume the rest of our accommodations and can be confined to this location.

There are two exits in the laundry room.  The one I walked through came from the entryway.  Looking through the other with great curiousity, I see that it is an entrance to the master bath.  I gasp.  It, too, is gigantic, exceeding the size of any bathroom in my personal home.  Actually composed of two separate rooms, the one I find myself in has a shower, sink and a large counter space.  The other area is where the whirlpool tub, sink and vanity are located.

I move into the whirpool’s vicinity.  The atmosphere of this bathing location is incredible.  A corner cabinet and hutch provide the homey factor that is consistent throughout.  The walls are covered in paneling that resembles the sun-washed siding of many Key West homes.  But the final touch is an open cut-out in the wall that is behind the tub.  It has functional shutters that will enclose the bathroom for privacy or open it up to the master bedroom for television viewing in the adjacent room.

I giggle a little as I approach the space that I will claim as my own this week—the master bedroom.  The master bedroom is engulfed in muted pastel colors and is a romantic paradise.  The bed is so wide that I wonder if I will be able to find my way out of it once I finally tuck myself in its covers.  Not surprisingly, there is a storage bench, armoire with television, stuffed armchair and end table.  The thing that does take me by surprise is a glass door on the far side of my sleeping quarters.  What is this?

Fumbling anxiously with the lock, I release the barrier and step onto the same balcony that connects with the eating room.  I whisper to myself in awe, “A direct entrance to the balcony from the master bedroom.”  This will give me access to the balcony without disturbing my kiddos who will be slumbering on the pull-out sofa.  I swoon in my state of rapture. 

I retreat back to the master bedroom.  I notice a door that allows entry from elsewhere as opposed to from the bathroom.  I deduct that a hallway leads from here to the living area and completes a layout loop of sorts.  I have walked through so many doors at this point, though, that I am not completely certain I am right.

It all is so dreamy.  I collapse upon the bed in my temporary home—partially from exhaustion and partially from being overwhelmed by my surroundings.  Sighing, I know that nothing will be able to disturb the perfection of this trip.  It is so magnanimous that any unexpected difficulty will seem trivial.

 Just then, there is a knock on the front door.  Grammy and Buddy have arrived.  It is time to introduce the remaining two of our party to our villa that comfortably houses eight.

Walking to the doorway, I acknowledge that challenging circumstances often accompany Grammy.  I am so captivated by the beauty of our accommodations, though, that I’m sure even she will not be able to shatter the illusion of my utopia.  But when I swing open the front door, I realize that nothing could prepare me for my discovery.

“HELLO,” Grammy sings and smiles from ear to ear.  She pushes her way into the peaceful villa, dragging luggage.  My mouth is agape, for her entourage is composed of more than just Buddy.  It also includes Auntie, Uncle and my toddling twin niece and nephew.

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OUR KEY WEST KINDGOM

As we pull into our parking space, I look upon some of the most inviting condos I have ever laid eyes on.  Surrounded by tropical palm trees and lush shrubbery, three stories of pastel-painted units sit behind a section of white picket fence and a pleasant bench area.  I can hardly wait to find out which unit is ours.

I turn around to face the back seat of my van and capture the look on my cherubs’ faces when I am abruptly reminded of our incredible amount of luggage.  In the past we have never required this much stuff during our trips, but this time we needed to literally pack everything but the kitchen sink due to the childrens’ medical condition.  The thought of lugging all these boxes, coolers and suitcases through long, winding paths is a very unappealing one.  Even though we are now in the midst of Key West bliss, nothing can make that chore magical. 

“I hope our unit isn’t too far,” I slightly whine as I think of past escapades that involved walking endlessly to designated accommodations in Disney’s moderate resorts.  “It isn’t,” DH cheerfully remarks, “It is right in front of us.”  I say with surprise, “What?  I thought you said we have a water view.”  DH exclaims, “We do!”  “I don’t understand,” I reply with confusion, “Are you telling me that we have parking just outside of our unit and we still have a water view off of our balcony?  How can that be?  When we wanted a water view at Disney’s Coronado Springs, we had to walk at least five minutes around fountains and cacti, towing all our luggage, before we reached our room.” 

Apparently I had been too preoccupied with my DVC status inferiority complex during check-in, and I failed to hear the lovely hostess explain that all OKW units have parking directly outside their front doors.  I am completely tickled by this, for nothing gives you the feeling of “home” quite like your own parking space.  “Wow,” I exclaim, “unpacking the van is going to be a breeze compared to our past trips.” DH agrees. 

We excitedly jump out of the van and begin removing baggage and children from within.  I suggest that I start taking luggage up to our unit on the second floor while DH continues to unload the van’s contents.  Finding this to be a good idea, DH nods his head, tosses me a key card to our Key West Kingdom and tells me the number of our “home away from home.”

I carefully balance multiple bags from my neck and shoulders while I pull a rolling duffle bag with one hand and a tired two-year-old with the other.  It is an extremely awkward task, but since the door to my unit is so close I am not bothered.  It will be over soon.  Inching down the sidewalk, I pass some stairs on my left that lead directly to my unit’s front door.  However, with all this baggage, I am not about to take the stairs.  I walk further in order to find a nearby elevator. 

Ever so slowly, I progress down the cement walkway near the front doors of the first floor units. I pass a janitorial closet, a staff-only elevator, a couple designated smoke areas and beautiful landscaping.  Somehow, though, I fail to find the elevator.  “It must be here somewhere,” I mumble to myself.  “Mommy, where are we going,” DD2 asks in a voice that indicates her patience is wearing thin.  I respond, “Mommy is looking for the elevator.  If you see the elevator, tell Mommy.  OK?”  DD2 says in an irritated tone, “OK.”

After painstakingly walking the entire length of the condo complex, I am flustered with the fact that I must now walk all the way back and hope for better luck in spotting an elevator.  Centimeter by centimeter, DD2 and I trudge back towards our point of origin.  The luggage seems to be a lot heavier now, and it rythmically hits my ample rump while I walk.  A time or two bags slip from my shoulders, causing me to lose equilibrium and allow multiple sachels to fall in a pile on the sidewalk.  DD2’s tolerance for my misadventure grows thin and her fussing takes center stage.  I sigh heavily and long to have an elevator in my sight.

Eventually we come back to the foot of the stairs that lead to my second floor condo.  How could I miss the elevator for a second time?  At this point, I am too invested in the elevator hunt.  I cannot give up now.  “C’mon, DD2,” I prompt, “The elevator is here somewhere.  We’ll find it.”

Once again we begin a trek down the length of the building.  As I am about to pass the staff-elevator for a third time, I consider that the guest elevator must be in this vicinity.  Telling DD2 to wait with the luggage, I walk around the entire structure that houses the elevator shaft, looking for the hidden entrance to the luxury I long to find.  None is too be found.  “Pixie wings,” I expel in frustration, “Where could the dumb elevator be?”  I rejoin DD2 and my luggage on the path that lies between the staff-elevator and the front door of some DVC vacationer who is fortunate enough to have a unit on the ground floor.  Completely flabbergasted, I tell DD2 that the elevator must be camouflaged well.

Just then, the fortunate DVC Member with the ground floor unit emerges from his front door.  He obviously has some great vacation event to attend because he has a big smile on his face as he heads towards his car.  “Excuse me,” I yell as I quickly waddle in his direction with baggage and child trailing behind, “Can you tell me where the elevator is?  I have an incredible amount of luggage that I need to get up to the second level.”  The fortunate member’s big smile transforms into a sympathetic frown, “There isn’t an elevator for guests.  You’ll have to carry it up the steps.”  With that the pleasant member’s smile appears on his face again, and he says, “I hope you have a great vacation.”  Then he turns and continues on his way.

My jaw drops open at the words just spoken to me.  I have been up since one o’ clock this morning, driven nine hours in a crowded mini-van, listened to several hours of crying and complaining from bewildered children and suffered a severe blow to my self-esteem while waiting in the check-in line behind Botox Barbie.  Happily I withstood it all. But the injustice of enduring so much emotional pain and stress, clawing my way to get here, only to find that this deluxe resort property does not afford me the luxury of transporting my luggage from the ground floor to the second floor via a simple elevator overwhelms me.  The reality is too much for me to take.

As I hobble with my bags and daughter back to the foot of the stairs, I feel defeated.  I look up to the second level.  My door is almost directly above me.  It is so close, yet it is so far away.  Something in me gives way, and I feel a huge swell of exasperation overtake me.  I plop my sorry backside right on the bottom step and begin to sob.  It’s just too much, and my own personal meltdown begins.  DD2 has ceased to fuss and just stares at her NDM who has completely lost it.

“Love,” DH’s voice calls to me.  I look up and see DH looking strangely at me from the upper level where I want to be.  “Where have you been, and what are you doing?”  As I gasp for breath in between sobs, I try to relay the whole ordeal I just experienced.  But rather than a rational explanation, I am only able to spout nonsensical blubbering.

DH assesses the scenario and joins me at the bottom of the steps.  “Alright,” he says in a comforting tone, “It’s going to be OK.  I’ve already got all our stuff upstairs and in our condo.  I think you might need a nap.  Why don’t you go on up with DD2 and lie down.  I will bring the rest of these bags.  Can you do that?”  “Uh-huh,” I affirmatively answer through my sniffling, getting up and finally making my way to the front door and welcome mat that were meant for me.

 

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I rock back and forth, balancing my posture on my toes first and then heels. The fidgeting feeling travels beyond my lower limbs, though, and begins to creep into my fingers.  I try to still my digits by clasping my hands behind my back, and this does seem to help quiet my overly excited body to some degree.

 It is difficult to see much through the mass of people, but I crane my neck to get a good look at the lobby.  As I piece together the fractured scenery between the heads that tower over my slight 5’2” NDM frame, I make out a beautiful mural on the wall behind the check-in counter.  It portrays colorful beachfront homes, a lighthouse and some docked boats in a coastal setting. The colors are bright, yet they induce a sense of ease and care-free living.  In the foreground, actual lampposts catch my eye.  Then I realize that in a clever move of interior design, Disney has mounted these appliances at each hotel clerk’s post.  It is one of those special touches that make Disney stand out among its competitors in the aspect of theming.

I close my eyes and focus on the Jimmy Buffett song I faintly hear beyond the murmur of chit-chat.  As I imagine being immersed within Key West, I can almost smell the ocean.

My smile has now become a permanent fixture on my face.  My cheeks burn from being held in a contracted position, but I can’t help their discomfort.  This is a moment in my life that I will always retain, and my grin is an inevitable response.

 A cheerful Cast Member, dressed as a beach attendant, begins handing out folders with resort information tucked inside.  I am handed my very own Pluto-clad portfolio, and I beam as I read the “Welcome Home” message scripted across the cover.  My guess is that due to the length of the wait, this folder was given to provide me with reading material while I bide my time in line as well as make the check-in process move a tad more quickly.

In order to enhance this special moment, I decide that I should strike up a conversation with another happy vacationer.  “Have you been here before,” I ask the woman in front of me.  My excessive amount of perkiness would even shame the High School Musical pep squad, but it seems to come naturally to me as I stand in the middle of Key West bliss.  She looks down her perfectly constructed nose at me, gives me a “once-over” glance, and haughtily says, “No.”  Her condescending tone catches me off guard.  Suddenly, I am cognizant of the fact that she is an actual Disney Vacation Club Member, and I have now betrayed the reality that I am not with my embarrassing amount of enthusiasm. 

My smile immediately transforms into a humbled expression. My eyes dart from side to side to see if anyone else has noticed the fact that this silicon-implanted female has just verbally undressed me with one word.  I feel completely naked as a non-Disney Vacation Club Member in the middle of a Disney Vacation Club Resort.  My acute self-awareness has left me feeling like a sham . . . a poser.  Sheepishly I chuckle, “Oh. This is my first time.”  She looks at me with a knowing smirk and says, “Yes.”  I gulp and feel my pride being swallowed along with my saliva.  Is there somewhere for me to hide?

In addition to feeling bare as a result of my diminished vacationer status, I now feel naked upon the realization that I’m not holding a credit card.  Since DH is the credit card keeper, his presence becomes necessary as I find myself getting closer to our check-in opportunity.  I catch DH’s gaze and motion that he should arise from the striped sofa and join me in line.

We find ourselves poised behind the line’s last boundary.  In a brief moment we will be invited to approach the check-in counter with a cordial, “May I help you?”  As we continue to wait, I look to my immediate left. Marking this threshold of vacation initiation is a sign that states: Welcome Home Disney Vacation Club Members.  Once again, it brings to my attention that I am a fraud, assuming a position in a Disney Vacation Club Member line when I have not put my signature on a DVC deed. This is not actually “my home away from home.”  Instead, I am merely enacting some queer form of breaking and entering.  I shrink away from the sign and accidentally bump into DH’s side. As I demurely apologize for my imposing existence, DH looks at me curiously.  I am not usually a NDM that presents as meek and mild, so he is slightly alarmed by my changed demeanor.  He asks, “Are you OK?”  Averting my eyes from him, I softly speak, “I’m fine.”

A beach attendant looks up from her post and waves for us to join her.  I follow behind DH, watching my feet and not daring to look at the others whom still stand in line.  DH motions that I should begin speaking with the hostess and acquire our accommodations, but I can’t bring myself to do it.  I am far too nervous about the DVC intrusion I am about to commit.  DH looks at me with a furrowed brow, shakes his head in confusion and takes over the dialogue.

I stand in agony while the sweet beach attendant goes over each item in our Disney Vacation Club folder with DH.  Due to us booking our reservation under the name and ID number of Bill.Knows.Disney, our driver’s licenses must have given away the fact that that we are not true members . . . that we are merely renting DVC points.  I’m sure this endearing Cast Member is aware of our fraudulent activities, yet she continues to treat us with the utmost respect.  The guilt builds inside me with every kind gesture she extends.  I fear I may burst.

When she finally wraps up our check-in formalities with the friendly phrase, “Welcome Home,” I can stand it no longer.  I break my silence with the confession I feel compelled to announce. “We aren’t members. We are just wanna-bees,” I blurt.

I dare to look upon her face in that moment and am met with a strange expression in which I can’t quite read a meaning.  A nervous giggle escapes my throat.  I blush in an awkwardly shy manner.  Then quicker than any woman with plastic body parts could say “botox,” I grab DH’s hand and make a quick exit with my family.

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THE ZENITH OF OLD KEY WEST

“Disney’s Best Kept Secret” reached my ear back in 1997.  I was on my Walt Disney World honeymoon, strolling hand-in-hand with DH through the landscape of Downtown Disney, when an attractive kiosk caught my attention.  The sign attached to the kiosk promised to reveal a carefully protected Disney confidence if I would only approach the kiosk-keeper who smiled pleasantly beside the booth.

DH was very reluctant to stop.  Disney secrets were not his forte, and he was suspicious of individuals who oozed happiness in temperatures nearing a hundred degrees.  Nevertheless, because his blushing bride was so eager to learn this critical morsel of gossip, DH consented to a brief encounter with the kiosk that now held me in a spell-binding trance.

It only took a few minutes to learn that “Disney’s Best Kept Secret” was a concept called the Disney Vacation Club.  It was Disney’s version of a timeshare, but it functioned with quite a bit more flexibility.  I found it appealing on so many different levels, but the bottom line for me was that it somehow enabled a person to get to Walt Disney World every year.  The bottom line for DH, though, was “the bottom line,” so he dragged me away from the company of my kiosk-keeping friend in an attempt to protect our joint bank account. 

DH was too late though.  The dream of joining the Disney Vacation Club had taken root deep within my soul.  I knew that at some point my fate would bring me to the doorstep of a Disney Vacation Club resort.

Ten years later I find myself finally realizing my dream.  Our mini-van turns into the entrance of Disney’s Old Key West Resort.  We pass the inviting sign that proudly displays the Disney Vacation Club logo and resort name on a stark white background.  I feel excitement rise up within me, for this is hallowed ground. 

As the vacation club’s first resort, Disney’s Old Key West Resort is the birthplace for this elite organization.  For far too long I have hoped to know more about the carefully guarded secret of this DVC spot.  For far too long I have wished to see what lay behind the picturesque guardhouse.  The time has finally come for my questions to be answered . . . for my curiosities to be satisfied . . . for my DVC yearning to be fulfilled.

I sit in awe of the beautiful architecture of the porte cochere and the buildings behind it.  The very familiar feeling of Disney neurosis begins to take hold of me as I acknowledge my arrival here.  The nirvana is heightened by the fact that this previously off-limits part of Disney will now become a part of my Disney journey.

I am in my own realm at this point.  DH and the kiddos barely enter my consciousness.  It is just Disney’s Old Key West Resort and me in this surreal moment.  While my eyes bulge and my smile takes on Cheshire Cat-like characteristics, I feel unable to control myself entirely.  The car is still in motion since we have not found a parking spot as of yet, but I fantasize about jumping from our moving vehicle since I might gain an extra minute of Disney life with my hasty action.  In his best automated voice, DH recites a familiar script that instructs all persons to not exit the vehicle until it has come to a complete stop.  And like all NDMs who are trained to not question the authority of automated safety scripts, I obey.

Once the car is parked, I leap from my seat, grab the children and rush to the shelter of the porte cochere.  DH is left to take care of gathering pertinent items like identification and reservation confirmation numbers.  I cannot be bothered by such trivial details.  All that matters is entering the magical aura of Disney’s Old Key West Resort. 

As soon as my mouseketeers and I step underneath the shade of the porte cochere, we hear the mesmerizing sound of Harry Belafonte.  His call to tally bananas slows our run to a leisurely pace while we all join in singing, “Day-O! Da-a-ay-O! Daylight come and me want to go home.”  I feel myself being transported to a life of beaches, boardwalks and flip-flops.

We pass by a kind beach attendant who is behind a guest relations stand placed on the pathway.  He has a gentle smile and beckons my soon-to-be beach bums to approach his stand.  They are only too pleased to follow the call of this pied piper when he dangles Mickey Mouse stickers before their eyes.  After each little one has been branded as Disney property with their prominently placed sticker, this helpful attendant offers to escort us to the Hospitality House.  I am happy to accept since I have never been here before and am uncertain which building houses the check-in counter.

I am shown the appropriate door to the lobby and take a deep breath before gripping the door handle.  This is a moment that I have anticipated for a decade.  My moment is abruptly spoiled, though, when I open the door to find that there is a long line that ends right at the door.  The enormous amount of people gathered in the room makes it difficult to even enter this place.  Apparently this is a peak time for arrivals and the check-in line nearly extends out of the lobby.  I realize that the children will not be able to remain happy in such a long line, so I burrow a path through the crowded lobby to find an alternative for my exhausted mouseketeers.

Happily, I find a den of sorts adjacent to the lobby.  It has a pleasant and relaxed atmosphere, showcasing floor-to-ceiling bookcases, inviting stuffed armchairs and sofas, cozy table lamps for reading, a fireplace and lush potted plants.  I entertain the idea of avoiding the check-in line and simply living in this den for the week.

Then I lay eyes on the solution to my problem of impatient children.  There is a TV tucked away in a corner, playing classic Disney cartoons.  Set up directly in front of the electronic babysitter are two rows of miniature wicker chairs.  They are perfect for my pint-sized brood, so I usher my little people to the few remaining seats available.  My avid Disney channel watchers are pulled in by the novelty of this charming nook, and I can see that the ambiance of Old Key West Resort has captured them in a powerful way.

DH finds our cheerful group in the cartoon-viewing area.  He looks happy but exhausted from the long drive.  Due to my adrenaline rush, I am unable to sit.  I offer to take the pertinent materials from DH and wait in line while he rests on a striped sofa.  He accepts my offer and quickly assumes a comfortable position on the furniture.

I glance towards the lobby area.  It is crowded, but it is time to take my place among this privileged group of vacationers.

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