centre of the universe - the dreaming: Why are 'morning' and 'mourning' homonyms?

03/10/2003: "Why are 'morning' and 'mourning' homonyms?" Most of the night I slept like a log. But then Captain Proton asked me to sleep on the floor beside his bed, and because sometimes I'm the biggest suck in the universe, I spent three or four hours sleeping on the floor. The good news is that the hot air vent runs parallel to his bed so it was like sleeping on a nice warm rock. The bad news it that I am not built like a lizard and now most of my joints are sore.

It's cold in my house right now, and I really ought to be thinking about preparing myself for the concept of going in to work today. I'll be back soon.

Back in Orlando, my father is trying to find our hotel. On road trips, my mother is the navigator, and my father is the guy who questions most of what she says until he nearly gets in to an accident, or worse yet, actually does. Mum is reading the map and telling Dad where to turn. This eventually turns into reading the map and telling Dad where to *go*, but in the beginning, it's still amicable.

From what I remember, that first day was rather uneventful. We find the hotel, register, and dump our belongings in the room. I wander down to the front desk to try to get the hotel manager to say "Saskatchewan". Then I try to get him to say "Saskatoon". Then I try to get him to say "Saskatoon, Saskatchewan". The U.S. really is a hotbed of good entertainment. The fellow tries to counter by getting me to say "Mississippi" and "Kissimee", but those are old hat.

The time comes for us to partake of our First Supper. Like the Last Supper of Christian fame, but slightly different, in that there are relatively few Messiahs at our table, and even fewer Disciples. We're driving along, trying to find someplace that isn't a "Family Restaurant". Did I mention my mother hates family restaurants? She has a thing against screaming children. Which is fair, since she taught them for over 30 years. Really though, she just wants to eat somewhere licensed.

Dad eventually stops at a gas station, turns around, and asks me if there's anyplace in particular *I* would like to go. This is new. Usually I have no say in these things. Probably why I read so much, actually. On family trips, my opinon was usually not asked, which wasn't that bad, since I usually didn't care. But this time I thought I'd take the opportunity to voice my own thoughts.

"Yeah!" I exclaim, putting my book down and leaning over the front seat, "let's go see a crack house!"
"What?" my parents ask in unison.
"A crack house. I was reading up on current events in Orlando, and it said that there are more crack houses per capita here than almost anywhere else in the US, except maybe for LA!"
My father's stare is blank. My mother scowls. "We're NOT going to a crack house."
"Could we just drive by them?"
"NO."
"Not even for pictures?"
"For CHRISSAKE," my mother growls, "just *drive*".
"But how am I going to know where *not* to go in Orlando if I have nothing for comparison?"
"Drive."
My father pulls away from the gas station, shaking his head. Once in a while, he glances at me in the rear view mirror. I grin and mouth the words, "crack house". Eventually we find a restaurant and settle in for a good Christmas meal. Or Boxing Day meal. They don't celebrate Boxing Day in the States...which is okay, because I'm not really sure what it is or why we celebrate it here. I suspect it has something to do with putting all the weird pastel-coloured doilies and brand-name sweatshirts from your grandmother *back* in the boxes they came in to exchange them for cold hard cash.

To be honest, I don't remember much of the first day or so, except for the screaming match my mother and I had (did I mention I was a terrible child? You may have picked up on that), which got so bad that my father removed me from the room and took me for a walk. I do remember he begged me to try to be nice to my mum. I remember asking (in typical teenager fashion), "who's going to tell her to be nicer to *me*?" Typical. I don't remember what the fight was about. Something about Mum and Dad going off to the pub and leaving me to watch cable in a stuffy hotel room.

The next day, we prepared ourselves for Walt Disney World! I had been to Disneyland when I was 7, recouperating from a near-lethal bout of Whooping cough. Ten years later, I was ready to greet Mickey with a new resolve and a stronger constitution. Disney World was first on our list, but by mutual consent, we decided to hit Busch Gardens first.

During the car ride to the theme park, I am again in the back seat. No book this time, though. I'm staring out the window playing 'tour guide'. It's a great game. It involves picking rather mundane things and treating them like tourist attractions. It's best done while donning a British or Australian accent, but French-Canadian inflection is good for a hoot too. It also involves a lot of BS.

"If you'd care to look out the left side of the vehicle, you'll see the trademark Palm Trees which are so integral to the Florida landscape. Originally imported from lesser Slovakia, the Palm Tree is a symbol of Florida's independance. In 1782, Galvanis Teal, interim King of Florida (then called Nanaganistan) created a work program in which the lesser privileged were hired to plant the over 5 dozen trees now decorating the horizon. And on the right, Orlando's famous "Payless Shoes", a retail orthotics dealer orignially created by Mabel Imps, whose dream of alieviating club foot disorders never quite came to fruition. Many visitors to Orlando are not aware of the fascinating history of traffic lights. Yes, it's true; traffic lights were originally developed to control the sale of whiskey to minors right here in our own town. History isn't always flattering, but it's always interesting, isn't it?"

The downside to my parents both enjoying the running commentary is that Dad nearly drives off the road a couple of times, trying to gawk at what I'm talking about.

We did make it to our destination safely. We even enjoyed Walt Disney World. Did I mention my mother is terrified of heights? And speed? We managed to convince her we were standing in line for 45 minutes for a ride similar to the whatever Mountain ride in Disneyland. It wasn't. We lied. It was an indoor rollercoaster. We get up to the front of the line, and mum is getting suspicious.

"Why are they strapping those people in?"
"Safety, mum. Think about potential lawsuits. Things have changed a lot in ten years."
"Oh...why are people screaming?"
"It's just a soundtrack. Nothing to worry about. Oh look, it's our turn. Why don't you take the front seat? You're the shortest, and I wouldn't want you to miss anything."
"Oh, that's a good idea, sweetie. Thank you."

Heh. Evil me. I think after Mum was done on that ride they had to X-rate it. You should have heard her language. Dad and I just about had hernias laughing, and I swear to God, if retroactive abortions were legal, I wouldn't be telling you this story. Wow she was mad. Picture a five-foot-tall woman, smartly dressed, wearing glasses, carrying a purse big enough to store a six pack, with red eyes of rage and sporting an adrenaline rush not seen anywhere but in wrestling rings and front line combat. Beautiful.

In one of the lineups, a stocky fellow sidles up to me. He's built like a truck. Not a bad looking truck, either. His skin is a rich deep brown; almost black. He looks me up and down. Literally. Looks up one side of me and down the other. Doesn't make a qualm about doing it, either. He finally finds my eyes and says, "Damn!"

I say, "Pardon?"
He says, "Damn!"
I look around. "I'm sorry?"
He says, "Damn, girl, you don't got *nothin* to be sorry for." I grin like an idiot and try to pretend the tourists in front of me are not my parents. "Yall from around here?" he asks. I'm getting used to the accent now.
"Uh, no, actually we're from Sas...uh...the north."
"Illinois?"
"Further north."
He pauses, give me a hopeful look, "Deee-troit?"
"Further."
He stares blankly. "Canada," I say. "We're here from Canada."
He opens his eyes really wide now. "I didn't know there was white people up there." I try not to laugh. "There a lot of white people up there?"
"Yeah," I say, "a few. But they keep getting lost in the snow."

That broke the ice, whatever was left of it, and we have a wonderful conversation about whether or not we celebrate Christmas in Canada, and why I'm in Florida. I tell the man that actually we *don't* celebrate "Christmas", which is, as we all know, only celebrated in the United States. Instead, we celebrate Blubberfest, when we all go out to club our government-alotted seal. We spend a day hunting and skinning, and the rest of the time eating raw blubber seasoned with Maple Syrup. He gives me the required 'you're full of crap' look and then apparently resigns himself to believing me.

At this point, my father turns around and bitches about lineups. Rather than being mortally embarassed, I point out to my new friend that this man is my father. Dad is not listening, and has decided to bitch to my mother about lineups. Just before we actually get on the ride, the fellow pokes me in the shoulder.

"Hey," he says indignantly, "Yall are pulling my leg about Christmas." I raise my eyebrows by way of inquiry, and he replies, "Everybody knows Santa lives at the North Pole. And the North Pole is in Canada. So yall do have Christmas." He grins.

I nod, tell him he's caught me, and shake his hand. It was good to meet him.

Later that day, my father takes my picture in front of a large statue of Neptune. Did I mention how gullible I am? Dad gets me to pose. Wants me to do an 'Egyptian Stance'. I am about to point out that Neptune was a Roman god, not an Egyptian one, but it's just a picture. So I do my little Egyptian stance thing. A few weeks later, when I get the pictures back, I realise Neptune is rather scantily clad, and my father has had me pose so as to tenderly grasp the Water God's nards.

My father has a strange sense of humour. Later on at Busch Gardens (or earlier, at this point I can't quite remember which came first), I had the honour of holding a 24-foot long python. Did I mention my mother is deathly afraid of snakes? The Snake Booth was kind of in the middle of a walking path; I ran in one end, grabbed "Betty's" head and wrapped it over my shoulders. "Betty" was not a small animal. "Betty's" head and upper...uh...neck, I guess...weighed at least thirty pounds. I poked my head out of the booth on the walking-path side and called my mum.

"Mum! C'mere! You have to see this!" I call, poking my head back in the tent. Mum turns around and walks in the side entrance of the booth. "Hey look, Ma! Can I keep her? Her name's Betty!"

Mum swears a blue streak, tells me to "get that thing off your shoulders; you don't know where it's been", and flees. Cursing the whole time. My father managed to snap a photo or two before my mother freaked out, and I think in one of them he caught everybody in the tent laughing. I love snakes.

We also had to do the requisite shopping, but when we left Orlando for Fort Lauderdale, my eyes were alight. I LOVE the beach.

Did I mention my mother hates swimming? She watched JAWS in 1978 and never had the urge to set foot in saltwater (or really any swimming pool water bigger than a hot tub) since. Ah. Maybe that part's for tomorrow.

"Back to the Beginning" "ALL STAN, ALL THE TIME, ON THE ALL STAN NETWORK!"

distractions