My husband and I were on our way to the "Happiest Place on Earth," Disneyland! We've been planning this trip since our very first meeting at The Disney Store at Valley View Mall. Needless to say, it was our dream vacation! We saved our pennies and for Christmas, we gave each other a plane ticket to beautiful Anaheim, California. It was a very funny Christmas because, just like in that wonderful story, I sold all my Snow White sweatshirts, Cinderella jewelry and Tinkerbell snowglobes in order to afford our plane tickets. You think I had it rough, my husband sold the car, took out a third mortgage on the house and sold his kidney through Ebay. I sure hope FelchingFreddy puts that kidney to good use.
Once we landed at the scenic John Wayne Airport in Orange County, we knew we needed to find an affordable hotel. We had heard that the places next to Disneyland were a little out of our price range so we decided on the charming town of Norwalk. We were really drawn to it because, not only is it a mere 12 miles from Disneyland, we were also able to make jokes about the word, Walk, in the city's name since my husband was stuck in a wheelchair and unable to walk himself. There were a few complications from the kidney surgery, word of advice - I will never again use a Groupon for kidney removal. The fact that Dr. Midnight's office was the back of a rusty van should've been a sign, but the semi-framed diploma from "Doctor's College" put us at ease.
We took a super shuttle to the Norwalk Villa, and were a little alarmed when the driver said he had to drop us off 2 miles from the motel. He also warned us that we shouldn't wear any red on our walk/wheelchair ride to the Villa. Lucky for us, the Pinocchio cargo shorts my husband was wearing turned from red to brown, courtesy of the bowel control issue he was experiencing since the kidney removal. We arrived at the place a little late since the super shuttle driver told us the wrong directions. He said to go right by the Math Lab. We didn't see any school or any building resembling the studies of Arithmetic anywhere on that 2 mile hike. The only building we saw was small beaten up house with a heck of a lot of chemical barrels outside on the lawn. We did have a pleasant encounter with one of the residents of the house, Toothless Sally, who offered to blow my husband for twenty dollars. I guess she noticed the breath controlled electric wheelchair that he uses to get around since he's now paralyzed from the neck down after the botched kidney surgery. It was very sweet to find someone willing to help!
We eventually found our way to the hotel which was a relief because while walking through a park on the way, I accidentally stepped on something that went straight through my Sleeping Beauty flip flops. At first I feared it might have been one of the shards of broken glass that scattered the park. I was surprised to look down and find a hypodermic needle sticking through the heel of my foot. It must've been from one of the diabetic teenagers sleeping on the park bench. My cousin is diabletic so I understand that when you need your insulin, you need your insulin. Whether it's in the comfort of your living room or next to a rusty swingset in a grassless park at midnight. I was able to limp the rest of the way to the hotel and by the time we made it into the lobby, I was feeling great. Almost as if someone had injected me full of that medicine they give you right before they fill a cavity at the dentist. I guess it was the adrenaline of being so close to Disneyland!
They only had one room available, and we did have to share it with a delightful young woman. She wore a snakeskin mini-skirt, bright pink crop top and the heels on her shoes must've been 10 inches high. What a brave look! She also had the most defined Adam's Apple I have ever seen on a woman. She was very popular and she must've had about 20 friends come over and visit throughout the night. It was a real funny moment when we found out that every single one of her beady eyed chums was named, John. What an interesting coincidence!
All in all, the Norwalk Villa was a great place for the money. Fifteen dollars an hour! Of course, you did have to leave your wallet with the front desk so I guess we'll find out what kind of hidden fees there are when they mail us back our belongings like they said they would. They have a unique system because I don't even remember giving them our address upon arrival. They must have looked it up when they rummaged through our bags in the middle of the night. Luckily, we had our Disneyland tickets in my husband's fecal stained back pocket. Of course, we weren't able to use the tickets since my husband wasn't able to recover in time from the knife wound he received when one of our roomate's buddy's thought he "looked at him funny." The joke was on John because my husband hasn't had any vision since the the removal of his kidney.
I give the Norwalk Villa 4 1/2 stars!
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
I'm Scared of the Dentist
I'm not scared of many things. Spiders don't bother me. I don't mind public speaking. I've seen "The Shining," like, 4 times. There's not much that can bring my normally manly, brave self running for cover and screaming in terror, but the dentist is absolutely one of them.
I went to see Dr. Teeth today, and no, I'm not talking about the leader of the Muppet band. I'm not sure what my dentist's name is, I like it better that way. I wouldn't have wanted to know the names of the guards at Auschwitz either. Now, I'm not comparing dentistry to the worst thing to happen to the Jews since they raised the price of the nickelodeon to 7 cents, I'm just saying that the dentist is a horrible experience. Kind of like the first time I kissed a girl. It makes me scared, nervous and there's normally plenty of spit. Oh, I forgot to tell you that my first girlfriend was a pitcher for the 1978 Montreal Expos.
Today, I decided to take the subway/metro line to Dr. Filling, and no, I'm not talking about Oprah's mustached "doctor" buddy. I say "decided" to take public transportation because I don't have a car. Therefore, there was no actual decision. I either take the subway or walk approx. 13 miles alongside a highway. Now that I think about it, I should've walked. Maybe I would've been hit by a car going 70 miles per hour and it would've been slightly less painful than going to the dentist. So, because of L.A. County's finest public transpo, I'm running a bit behind schedule and show up a few minutes late. By the time I'm walking into the fear factory, I notice a voicemail from the place where nightmares go to get scared asking if I'm coming in for my appointment. That's like Freddy Kreuger calling to confirm your reservation at Elm Street's Neighborhood Block Party. I'll never understand why they put Freddy K. in charge of such a joyous occasion.
I show up and am immediately escorted into the chair of a thousand pant shitters. I don't know if people actually shit their pants in that chair, but it wouldn't surprise me. I mean, there's a Taco Bell AND a Del Taco right next door. I psych myself up for my teeth cleaning/butt clenching and think to myself, "Well, it could be worse. I could be watching "Man of Steel" on blu-ray." Then I realized I don't own a blu-ray player, so the dentist just beat Superman.
I'm not going to bore you with the details of my visit with Dr. Smile, and no, I'm not talking about some birthday party clown who secretly pleasures himself to youtube footage of 7 year old's limboing. I will just leave you with this little piece of advice for all you dentist fearing folk: Next time you're in the dentist chair, awaiting your fate, just think about how great it'll be when you're old and have no teeth... I'm gonna go buy some polident right now.
I went to see Dr. Teeth today, and no, I'm not talking about the leader of the Muppet band. I'm not sure what my dentist's name is, I like it better that way. I wouldn't have wanted to know the names of the guards at Auschwitz either. Now, I'm not comparing dentistry to the worst thing to happen to the Jews since they raised the price of the nickelodeon to 7 cents, I'm just saying that the dentist is a horrible experience. Kind of like the first time I kissed a girl. It makes me scared, nervous and there's normally plenty of spit. Oh, I forgot to tell you that my first girlfriend was a pitcher for the 1978 Montreal Expos.
Today, I decided to take the subway/metro line to Dr. Filling, and no, I'm not talking about Oprah's mustached "doctor" buddy. I say "decided" to take public transportation because I don't have a car. Therefore, there was no actual decision. I either take the subway or walk approx. 13 miles alongside a highway. Now that I think about it, I should've walked. Maybe I would've been hit by a car going 70 miles per hour and it would've been slightly less painful than going to the dentist. So, because of L.A. County's finest public transpo, I'm running a bit behind schedule and show up a few minutes late. By the time I'm walking into the fear factory, I notice a voicemail from the place where nightmares go to get scared asking if I'm coming in for my appointment. That's like Freddy Kreuger calling to confirm your reservation at Elm Street's Neighborhood Block Party. I'll never understand why they put Freddy K. in charge of such a joyous occasion.
I show up and am immediately escorted into the chair of a thousand pant shitters. I don't know if people actually shit their pants in that chair, but it wouldn't surprise me. I mean, there's a Taco Bell AND a Del Taco right next door. I psych myself up for my teeth cleaning/butt clenching and think to myself, "Well, it could be worse. I could be watching "Man of Steel" on blu-ray." Then I realized I don't own a blu-ray player, so the dentist just beat Superman.
I'm not going to bore you with the details of my visit with Dr. Smile, and no, I'm not talking about some birthday party clown who secretly pleasures himself to youtube footage of 7 year old's limboing. I will just leave you with this little piece of advice for all you dentist fearing folk: Next time you're in the dentist chair, awaiting your fate, just think about how great it'll be when you're old and have no teeth... I'm gonna go buy some polident right now.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
The Olympics Make Me Feel Old
I wake up every morning with my back achier than the day before. I'm developing a widow's peak that rivals Dracula and Pat Riley. I've started to really enjoy "60 Minutes." But none of this makes me feel as old as I feel while watching the Olympics.
First off, all the athletes are so young. Actually, they're not that young - they're normal athlete prime age, but I'm so old, they seem so young. The other day I saw a commercial during speed skating that showed one of the U.S.'s most respected skaters in home movie footage from when he was a small child. It was adorable footage of a tiny little guy, all bundled up in the snow, wearing tiny little ice skates and falling on his tiny little ass over and over. I guess the commercial is showing that at everyone at one point, even the greatest athletes in the world, could do amazing impressions of a baby giraffe. What you're supposed to pay attention to is the small child growing into a gold medal winning Olympian. All I could pay attention to is the date displayed on the screen in the lower left corner. The date was DEC. 17, 1993 - On that date, this Olympian was figuring out how to not fall while standing at the same time I was trying to figure out how I was going to scrounge up enough money to put gas in my car and get a pack of cigarettes. Writing that made me feel older than I did before because I just remembered that gas was 96 cents a gallon back then. And people stilled smoked.
Another way I feel old is, since these Olympics are in Russia, the announcers will bring up the 1984 Los Angeles Summer Games because Russia boycotted these Olympics. They will talk about how long ago it was and that most people won't even remember these games because they were so long ago. You know who remembers these "so long ago" Olympics? Me - Old Man Schwartz - because I was there at these long ago Olympics. They talk about them as if they took place in Julius Caesar's Colosseum instead of Carson Palmer's Colosseum. My family and I drive from Dallas, Texas in a big blue van all the way to Sunny LA so we could attend the Olympics. Although, if you asked me and my brothers we traveled over 1000 miles in Friendly Chevrolet's finest so we could go to Disneyland. I have very fond and defined memories of my first trip to LA and now Bob "One Eye" Costas is speaking about that time as if Moses was on Israel's curling team.
All that makes me feel pretty old, but the oldest I'll feel is whenever the Moguls skiing is on TV. This is the event where the young skiers race downhill over little snowy humps that look like what Frosty the Snowman's sister's chest might have looked like at her Bat-Mitzvah. How do I know Frosty's family was Jewish? Their last name is Snowman. When we watch these events, we're supposed to notice the beauty and grace of the world's greatest athlete's balance and concentration but all I think about is how my knees would explode after the first hump. These spring chickens go over these young snow woman's boobs and are still able to flip 30 feet in the air and land on their feet without even a grimace. I just watch it and immediately have to ice down my whole body.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn.
First off, all the athletes are so young. Actually, they're not that young - they're normal athlete prime age, but I'm so old, they seem so young. The other day I saw a commercial during speed skating that showed one of the U.S.'s most respected skaters in home movie footage from when he was a small child. It was adorable footage of a tiny little guy, all bundled up in the snow, wearing tiny little ice skates and falling on his tiny little ass over and over. I guess the commercial is showing that at everyone at one point, even the greatest athletes in the world, could do amazing impressions of a baby giraffe. What you're supposed to pay attention to is the small child growing into a gold medal winning Olympian. All I could pay attention to is the date displayed on the screen in the lower left corner. The date was DEC. 17, 1993 - On that date, this Olympian was figuring out how to not fall while standing at the same time I was trying to figure out how I was going to scrounge up enough money to put gas in my car and get a pack of cigarettes. Writing that made me feel older than I did before because I just remembered that gas was 96 cents a gallon back then. And people stilled smoked.
Another way I feel old is, since these Olympics are in Russia, the announcers will bring up the 1984 Los Angeles Summer Games because Russia boycotted these Olympics. They will talk about how long ago it was and that most people won't even remember these games because they were so long ago. You know who remembers these "so long ago" Olympics? Me - Old Man Schwartz - because I was there at these long ago Olympics. They talk about them as if they took place in Julius Caesar's Colosseum instead of Carson Palmer's Colosseum. My family and I drive from Dallas, Texas in a big blue van all the way to Sunny LA so we could attend the Olympics. Although, if you asked me and my brothers we traveled over 1000 miles in Friendly Chevrolet's finest so we could go to Disneyland. I have very fond and defined memories of my first trip to LA and now Bob "One Eye" Costas is speaking about that time as if Moses was on Israel's curling team.
All that makes me feel pretty old, but the oldest I'll feel is whenever the Moguls skiing is on TV. This is the event where the young skiers race downhill over little snowy humps that look like what Frosty the Snowman's sister's chest might have looked like at her Bat-Mitzvah. How do I know Frosty's family was Jewish? Their last name is Snowman. When we watch these events, we're supposed to notice the beauty and grace of the world's greatest athlete's balance and concentration but all I think about is how my knees would explode after the first hump. These spring chickens go over these young snow woman's boobs and are still able to flip 30 feet in the air and land on their feet without even a grimace. I just watch it and immediately have to ice down my whole body.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Changing Lightbulbs
A lightbulb went out in the hallway. Since I'm the man of the house, I have to change it. I'm only the man of the house by definition of what exactly a man is. My girlfriend and our two dogs are much manlier than me, but I am the only one who was Bar-Mitzvah'd so that makes me the only real man. Of course the benefit of changing a lightbulb is that it reminds me of all the "How Many (blank)s does it take to change/screw in a lightbulb" jokes. Below are my favorites:
1. How many mice does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 2, the trick is getting them in there.
2. How many psychoanalysts does it take to change a lightbulb? 1 - but the lightbulb has to really want to change.
3. How many Freudian psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb? 2 - one to change the bulb and one to hold the penis... uh, I mean ladder.
4. How many blondes/Aggies/Poles/etc./ does it take to change a lightbulb? 3 - one to hold the bulb and 2 to turn the ladder.
5. How many Jews does it take to change a lightbulb? 5 - one to find a lightbulb at a discounted price, one to find a coupon to knock more money off the discounted price, one to sell the lightbulb from his family owned lightbulb store and one to sue the lightbulb company for going out in the first place.
6. How many Jewish mother's does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but why would you want to change? You're perfect the way you are!
7. How many drummers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One - two, and a one-two-three-four.
8-a. How many sorority girls does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 5 - One to change the bulb and 4 to make T-shirts.
8-b. How many sorority girls does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None - they don't screw in lightbulbs, they screw in pools of vomit.
9. How many women with PMS does it take to change a lightbulb? JUST CHANGE THE DAMN LIGHTBULB YOURSELF!!!!!!!
10. How many M. Night Shyamalan's does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 2 - One to change it most of the way, and one to give it a surprise twist at the end.
These aren't really my favorites, they were the only ones I could remember.
1. How many mice does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 2, the trick is getting them in there.
2. How many psychoanalysts does it take to change a lightbulb? 1 - but the lightbulb has to really want to change.
3. How many Freudian psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb? 2 - one to change the bulb and one to hold the penis... uh, I mean ladder.
4. How many blondes/Aggies/Poles/etc./ does it take to change a lightbulb? 3 - one to hold the bulb and 2 to turn the ladder.
5. How many Jews does it take to change a lightbulb? 5 - one to find a lightbulb at a discounted price, one to find a coupon to knock more money off the discounted price, one to sell the lightbulb from his family owned lightbulb store and one to sue the lightbulb company for going out in the first place.
6. How many Jewish mother's does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but why would you want to change? You're perfect the way you are!
7. How many drummers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? One - two, and a one-two-three-four.
8-a. How many sorority girls does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 5 - One to change the bulb and 4 to make T-shirts.
8-b. How many sorority girls does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None - they don't screw in lightbulbs, they screw in pools of vomit.
9. How many women with PMS does it take to change a lightbulb? JUST CHANGE THE DAMN LIGHTBULB YOURSELF!!!!!!!
10. How many M. Night Shyamalan's does it take to screw in a lightbulb? 2 - One to change it most of the way, and one to give it a surprise twist at the end.
These aren't really my favorites, they were the only ones I could remember.
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