A Few Life Lessons I've Acquried from Going to Walt Disney World 8 Times as a Kid

By: 

Kimberly

As I was growing up in Columbus, Ohio, there was one thing I absolutely loved doing and was lucky enough to do: leave Columbus, Ohio. This resulted in my Dad taking me to Walt Disney World about eight times. While this may sound like enough to spoil a kid rotten, I feel I’ve instead learned a few life lessons that come with putting into practice all of the “WDW” tips you read in your very own guidebook made for kids, by kids.

 The guidebook that gave birth to my smarty-pants attitude toward "park-hoppin'".

1)   If you want to be sure to see everything, you better take advantage of Extra Magic Hour. It’s not everyday that you’re going to be able to walk right onto Rock ‘n’ Rollercoaster first thing in the morning or while everyone else is scrambling to find a decent spot from which to watch the nighttime fireworks. It really is extra magical (and, well, sometimes a bit surreal, to be honest) feeling as though you’ve got the park to yourself and that group of really happy German tourists you seem to keep running into. Sure, you’ll have to wake up an hour earlier and/or miss the fireworks (which I never much cared for anyway) but you’ve got to consider when or if your parents will schedule another Disney World vacation. (Turns out I didn’t really have to worry much about that, but it certainly kept me on my toes.)

2)   Sometimes the ride has to stop momentarily. And it’s not your fault – unless you’re the d-bag who decided it was a good idea to hop out of the boat on Splash Mountain to take a picture next to your hero Brer Bear. (They have character meet-and-greets, dude!) But sometimes people simply need special assistance getting on or off a ride vehicle and we just have to be patient and wait, because they, too, paid park admission. Other times, shit just happens. The Pirates of the Caribbean is an old ride. One of the boats might be backed up and you’re stuck underneath the pirate dangling his hairy, greasy leg over the bridge. The thing is, however, the ride always starts back up again, and once you get off you’re probably going to want to go back on at some point. Kind of like your youth, only, yes, you can experience it again.  

(Source)

3)   Listen to your crying child as s/he begs not to get on Tower of Terror. It’s actually park policy not to let a crying child onto a ride, and thank God. Some parents seem to have it in their heads that an 8-year-old is going to get onto a scary rollercoaster kicking and screaming and somehow walk off a full-fledged adult with a stable, well-paying job and a suitable spouse. (Insta-parenting!) That is probably why parents tend to whisper harshly, “You big baby!” into their child’s ear as they are asked to drag their wet, soppy-eyed offspring from the ride just before getting on. Because only infants are scared of rides that are meant to be spooky! No ride at Walt Disney World, or any theme park for that matter, is going to turn your son into a “man”. If you’re spending upwards of $1,000 for a week’s vacation in the Happiest Place on Earth thinking that The Haunted Mansion will, say, teach your children not to be afraid of death, then you probably should have neither children nor $1,000.

4)   If you can keep walking onto Space Mountain or Rock ‘n’ Rollercoaster and it’s not right after a meal, do so to your stomach’s content. Because next time you’re waiting 2 hours in line, you’re going to be kicking yourself. There’s something still mystical and relaxing about stepping into the cool, galactic tunnel that is the queue to Space Mountain. If I had the chance, that’s what I’d do all afternoon. So do it while you’re there, because once that cheerleading convention starts it’ll be rather difficult to beat those bouncy teenage girls with glitter gel in their hair to the Fast Pass machines.

5)   Apply these tips to life situations where you feel it’s appropriate, and you’ll be having so much fun that it’s criminal! Well, perhaps not always outside the Disney property of central Florida, but it taught me to get the most out of each trip without feeling cheated or ungrateful. And while I certainly recognize that Disney World and Real Life World are two entirely separate playing fields (I’m not necessarily Becca from Bridesmaids, so give me a little credit, here) it definitely takes some extra critical thinking skills to determine when and where to apply them. 

  Not me, but we could probably share some tips.

Overall, Disney World has not only taught me that trolls have eight fingers and eight toes (thank you, Norwegian pavilion at Epcot,) but also to be patient, take advantage of what opportunities come your way, and that you don’t have to be forced to ride a ride to learn these things.

Troll statue in the Norway gift shop at Epcot's World Showcase. Educational!

While You Were Watching "Degrassi"...

By: 
Kimberly

Based on the articles I've written so far and my little blurb in the Contributors section, you all are well aware of my affinity for Spanish culture and language. That, I don't have to tell you. But I do have something else to tell you: 

I am also pretty obsessed with the Spanish television teen drama Física o Química. (Translation: Physical or Chemical or Physics or Chemistry) To give you a general, cultural perspective, it's basically the Spanish Degrassi. (Or, having premiered in early 2008, it could also possibly be Spain's answer to UK's Skins.) 

More specifically, however, the show follows the students and teachers of Colegio Zurbarán, a high school located in Spain's bustling capital of Madrid. What makes it interesting, of course, is the series of dramatic hookups, breakups, and rumors that circulate amongst both the students and the staff. (See? Spanish Degrassi, in Canadian and American terms.)

Students of the first season

However, I'm afraid I cannot compare specific characters, storylines, and events of Física to those of its Canadian predecessor. No, it's not that Física o Química is any better or worse than Degrassi, or that some things "just don't translate." (After all, we can agree that these are purely guilty pleasure shows, at least for those of us aged 18 and older.)

It's just that I can't enjoy Degrassi. At. All.

For one, I find the acting appalling. I remember sifting through television channels at the Degrassi-appreciative age and cringing in response to the acting even then. So I would wait until someone said "sorry", giggle, and then change the channel. Thus, I could never get into it.

All I know about this picture is that the kid in the wheelchair raps. Right?

One great thing about it is that each episode, or capítulo, lasts approximately an hour and 20 minutes long, so basically, if you were living in Spain, you'd have an entire feature-length film's worth of sex, lies, and Maxi Iglesias' piercing blue eyes every week.

So why and how do I like this and not "Degrassi"? Is it because I watch it to maintain my listening skills? (Maybe all that corny dialogue doesn't sound so corny in Spanish.) Is it the fact that the Pilot episode premiered when I was studying in Madrid? Is it because I want to put a nervous/confused Javier Calvo (who plays Fer, the only openly gay character until he gets a steady boyfriend in season 3) in every future film I hope to make? Am I hoping to recognize areas of Madrid in the background of exterior scenes? Is it because I eagerly anticipate who is going to be the new gym teacher each season? Maybe I'm just waiting for one of them to jumpstart his/her rap career.

Alright, fine, it's because of the hunky jailbird waiter of the cafeteria, Berto.

Whatever the reason, I'm sure a large part of it has to do with being there since the very beginning, during each character's arc. I hear there is an overwhelming number of seasons of Degrassi, so I suppose catching up with the current season (if it exists) isn't a task I hope to take on anytime soon. I was there when Irene, the philosophy teacher during the first four seasons, had her first day at Zurbarán and discovered that Isaac, her one-night-stand from the night before happened to be a student in her class. I was also there when Gorka, of all people, helped deliver the child of Olimpia, the hard-headed English teacher and former principal. I even watched as Fer's parents were relieved to hear that Fer was gay and not an alcoholic. 

As cheesy and silly as it all seems, it's an educational, (in terms of maintaining Spanish listening skills,) cathartic, and sometimes even vicarious way to be entertained. It works in the same way soap operas and telenovelas do, but I'd like to think that Física o Química has a much higher production value and a vague yet existing sense of cultural relevance. (There are definitely lessons to be learned in each episode, thus giving it a dash of "after-school special.") 

Julio (Gonzalo Ramos) was even a nazi skinhead for a few episodes, despite having a gay friend, a Chinese friend, and a liberal ex-girlfriend.

And I'm sure you Degrassi people can say the same thing for your beloved albeit often underdeveloped characters, such as: "I was there when Jimmy got shot."

My Drunk Life

By 

Kimberly

A good number of people I talk to seem to have their wacky stories of the first time they became inebriated. As in most of these story-telling situations, I'm half-listening to the story being told, half-thinking of a similar story of mine to tell and maybe one-up. Then, I find myself zooming through my past to uncover the first moment I felt all woozy and wobbly after a cup of bubbly (or other alcoholic drink.) But once I think I've backtracked to that very moment, I then remind myself of an even EARLIER time I hit the sauce.

And then it actually hits me - I've been drinking since the 3rd grade.

For my fellow Roman-Catholics out there reading this, I'm sure you're thinking, "Psh, BIG DEAL." That's because A. Your first drink was also a sip of Jesus' blood at your First Communion, B. You're also Italian and/or Irish, or C. You were playing in Mommy's liquor cabinet again, weren't you? I happen to be an Italian-American Roman-Catholic, so I'm pretty sure my first alcoholic drink was the one presented to me as the blood of my presumed Lord and savior (which, at the time, explained the "icky, bittery" taste to it.) But transubstantiation aside, I remember feeling  just the tiniest bit of joy in knowing that I was drinking a grown-up drink. 

Then, of course, there's the inevitable cousin's wedding. This is where I learned that appearances - when it comes to figuring out the difference between champagne and sparkling apple cider - can be deceiving, especially when the caterers have already poured the glasses and emptied the bottles. "Gee, this sparkling apple cider tastes kinda funny,"said a naïve, 14-year-old me. I didn't get drunk (or the slightest bit tipsy, for that matter,) but my brother, a college Freshman at the time, totally did. It was an interesting 2-hour car ride from Cincinnati back to Columbus, to say the least.

Let's skip ahead to high school, when I started drinking at family functions and during my school's Europe trip. Now, to give you an idea of the group of people I was traveling with, I'll mention this: I attended the high school that Heathers (1989) was based on. No joke. Needless to say, it was uptight, mostly conservative, and, like all high schools, teeming with assholery. We traveled to Spain, Italy, and Greece, where the respective legal purchasing ages for alcohol are: 16, none (16 in certain public places), and... none. Of course, what do the chaperones so pleasantly and courteously remind us before we go out on the town? That the drinking and purchasing age in all those countries is 18. I mean, I can understand that they didn't want a bunch of obnoxious, idiotic, drunk teenagers on their hands, but to flat out lie? I'm still pissed about that. I was 16 at the time, so I whenever I would order alcohol at a restaurant or bar I was thinking that I was getting away with something, only to discover the truth back in the good ole U. S. of A.

A sneaky 16-year-old me on a boat between Capri and Sorrento.

Two years after my Europe trip (which I took the summer after my Sophomore year,) I studied abroad in Madrid during the final semester of my Senior year. I ended up meeting a lot of great people from all over the world. This was mostly due to the "Copa de bienvenida", a little event my language school provided every Monday evening at a bar located right around the corner from the school for new incoming students to meet and mingle with others. 

Aware of my status as a citizen from (arguably) the most douchey country in the world, I was quite nervous for reasons that today seem pretty silly, because everyone I met was incredibly gracious and excited to meet one another. But I believe it was one of the first instances in which I discovered alcohol as "liquid confidence," as they call it. Thus, I always credit the Copa de bienvenida for both giving me the chance to meet some amazing people and discover the social lubricating powers of sangría and Desperados beer.

That takes us to my college days, those of which I am currently experiencing. Still underage, I've almost developed my alcohol tolerance perhaps to the highest it's ever gonna get. Other than sangría and Desperados beer, I know what my North American "poisons" are (rum and Coke, Stella Artois.) These are the glorious four years of discovery, in which halfway through I will be able to flash my driver's license with confidence. 

But really, there isn't (and shouldn't be) any shame for already having a "drunk history". (At age 20 and a half, I should have a drunk history, despite the U.S.'s rather strict drinking laws.) 

Unless I did something so completely and utterly terrible and unforgivable whilst under the influence or developed an unhealthy, socially damaging habit, then I consider myself a-okay in the drinking department. I'm sure a good number of you have more epic, illustrious stories to tell, but unlike the situation mentioned in the very first paragraph, I'm not looking to win Best Drunk Story or Best Text From Last Night 2010. 

Instead, I'd like to think I have left a beautiful, shining tapestry of empty bottles, cans, and glasses through which I've drunk alcoholic beverages -- one that illustrates the development of my alcohol tolerance and adult self, from my First Communion up untl that last bottle of 312 Urban Wheat Ale I nursed last night.

And, if you drink, hopefully you can imagine your own tapestry as well.

Finding Catharsis in Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988)

By: 
Kimberly

This is just a guesstimate, but I'm certain that about 99.99% of all cinephiles have that go-to movie to watch upon feeling lovesick, unstable, or, as Mexican singer Lola Beltrán warbles in one of her painfully exquisite ballads, infeliz (unhappy.) For most red-blooded American women born after 1968 or so, that movie has been one of the John Hughes variety (Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, blah blah blah.) While I'm unashamedly guilty of eating a bag of popcorn in bed and watching only the scenes that contain Duckie, I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a large part of me that identified with Pepa from Pedro Almodóvar's 1988 comedy Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.

Yes, I know, it's a foreign film. The fact that I'm even writing an entire article on some hot-shot "furn" director in my debut post is enough to get some eyes rolling and some voices muttering, "pretentious." But after watching this film several times over the past four or so years, it still amazes me the lack of recognition and popularity it has gained, despite its inclusion in the Viva Pedro DVD box set and a number of other reasons I will get to - but I musn't get too ahead of myself.

Set amongst the background of a brightly-colored, bustling Madrid, Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (WOTV) tells the story of Pepa, a television actress and voice-dubber desperately trying to contact her estranged (and married) lover  and co-worker Iván before he sets off for Stockholm. Her attempts, however, are continually thwarted by Iván's wife and Pepa's distraught supermodel friend Candela, who seeks help from Pepa after realizing that she has become romantically involved with a wanted Shiite terrorist. Coincidentally, as she is also in the process of hopefully renting out her penthouse apartment, Iván's son and his fiancé visit the place as prospective residents. All of these appear to be distractions and roadblocks preventing Pepa from getting to Iván, but the (supposedly) feminist lawyer whom Pepa seeks to defend Candela happens to be - *gasp* - Iván's new lover!

While Almodóvar is known for cleverly switching the genre of a film without the audience realizing the shift*, WOTV seems to consistently be two genres at once. "It's a comedy, but no one is laughing," quips the narrator in the English-language trailer. It is a comedy, but not so much so that we don't become detached from Pepa, making her a punching bag for which to relieve our romantic fallouts. (That's pretty much Decent Screenwriting 101, but I can appreciate and point out the small accomplishments to make my argument, can't I?)

I don't want to imitate life in movies; I want to represent it. -Pedro Almodóvar (via)

Another thing Almodóvar is known for is his familiarity and understanding of the wild and wonderful World of Women. With a majority of his oeuvre containing films centered around female characters, his insatiable fascination is undeniable. He admits that he doesn't quite know where his interest stems from, but the important part is that it's apparent, and that, as a member of the female sex, I happen to think he's right on the button when it comes to sympathetically and understandably portraying Pepa's distress.


For a large part of the film, Pepa struggles to remain emotionally, mentally, and, at times, physically stable. In order to sleep at night, she takes barbiturates and misses a dubbing session with Iván, who, of course, she's been trying to contact since their break-up. She faints, calls his home and curses out his wife, wanders the city at night searching for him, tosses a telephone out the window, and accidentally sets the bed she and Iván shared on fire, despite her prospects of renting out the apartment as soon as possible. We watch her as she weeps, mopes, and stuffs Iván's remaining possessions and silly gifts into a suitcase. "Soy infeliz", the Lola Beltrán song mentioned above, is the gut-wrenching theme to Pepa's unhappiness, and plays during the opening credits.

But there comes a point in Pepa's hysteric state of being (which comes before the bed fire) when she decides to face her problems head on, whether on the verge of a nervous breakdown or not (and, hell, she has every right to be.) "I'm sick of being good," she proclaims, as she chucks a handful of sleeping pills into a blender of gazpacho. When I'm fed up with something, I often repeat this line to myself in the original Spanish: Estoy harta de ser buena. (It's quite therapeutic - I highly recommend doing it.) 

Like most of you probably reading this, I've been through my fair share of heartbreaks and romantic torments. While I may not have stood outside an ex-lover's apartment at night, hurled a rotary telephone out the window of a swank penthouse apartment I'm hoping to sublet, or felt the need to take sleeping pills in order to get some shut-eye, I wouldn't blame Pepa for doing it. Also, it's just so cathartic to watch Pepa go to the lengths that we only wish we had to guts to go to. In this sense, Almodóvar seems to have tapped into this desire that I, at least, can relate to. As the auteur so insightfully says, "Cinema can fill in the empty spaces of your life and your loneliness." (via) In the case of WOTV, he certainly has done that,  using his understanding and interest of the World of Women to make a film that allows us to cheer on and sympathize with a character who, in any other film, would likely be portrayed as a "crazy ex-girlfriend" - an all-too-common and extremely condescending theme in most movies.

After all, life is both a comedy and a drama - especially when it comes to breaking up with douche bags who most likely don't deserve us anyway. (We can surely agree on that, right?) Almodóvar just chooses to represent it as it is - both, while using that signature bright color palette to accurately depict those burning emotions one gets as s/he suffers a break-up/rejection/any other romantic failure. And it's this representation of life, of desperation and lovesickness, that makes me slip this DVD into the player whenever something major-ly shitty happens in my so-called love life and makes wonder why I feel like the only 20-year-old American college student who has seen this movie and cherishes it like any Sixteen Candles or Pretty in Pink.


SO WHY AREN'T ANY OF YOU PATHETIC, LONELY PEOPLE WATCHING IT?!