Disney World Volume One: You have no idea how little thought we put into this. — Confessions of a Professional Five Year Old

Your first trip to Disney World is supposed to be something you remember for the rest of your life. Man, does mine ever fit the bill, my trip is something I will NEVER forget. Not even if I tried. Like really really hard.

Volume One:

The winter of 2015 found me and Chummy in waist deep snow and wasted to try and cope. But as there is only so much alcohol you can use to cope with Manitoba’s winter climate before turning to hard drugs… we decided to turn to the hardest drug of all: Walt Disney.

More specifically, Walt Disney World.

As anyone who has ever met me can attest, I am a fucking Disney princess (description courtesy of Chummy.) And a pilgrimage to the mothership was what dreams were made of. On December 26th, we decided we should go to Disney World, and on December 27th, we booked the trip. I’m not going to say that alcohol played heavily into our decision to book so quickly, but I’m not going to say that it didn’t. So as Captain Morgan steered the ship, we set sail, blissfully unaware that we were on the Titanic.

After what felt like years, but was actually only a month and a half, the day to leave (February 14) finally came. Basking in the cleverness that was us, we set off for Fargo in the dead of night, in order to make our flight the next afternoon, thinking we could avoid any potential weather-related setbacks, as Winnipeg is known for plane-halting blizzards and shitty road conditions. As we pulled into the hotel in Fargo, it began snowing. We got out of the car and laughed in the face of Mother Nature, rejoicing at our good decision making.

I woke the next morning, to the sight of Chummy, standing in the doorway, a muffin in one hand and a coffee in the other, eyes only half open and hair stood straight up, akin to a troll doll. After a moment of “five-more-minutes”ing, I remembered why we were there and shot out of bed for the window. “Don’t do it” Chummy warned, but I didn’t listen.

I whipped open the curtains, “Here we come, Disney Wowwhat the fuck???”

Mother Nature had laughed right back at us, and told us to just 'Let It Go' as she blanketed Fargo with snow. As I quietly whimpered, Chummy went for optimism.

“It’s okay, at least it’s not snowing anymore. It shouldn't cause any delays.” Clinging to that small bit of hope, my eternal optimist shone bright, and we soldiered on.

We arrived at the airport three hours early, at Chummy’s insistence, and finally found, after much circling, the airport getting smaller and smaller on the horizon, a spot in the snowy wasteland (the long term parking lot). Then we had the conversation that any winter-folk going on a sunny holiday have -

Chummy: “Are you going to bring your jacket?”

Me: “No, that will take up too much room. I need that room for stuff!”

Chummy:“Yeah, it’s not even that long of a walk to the airport, and it’s only like -20.”

So we left our jackets (Chummy also left her gloves) and pulled our massive suitcases out of the trunk, ready to run.

Or, a pantomime of running, wherein we couldn't pull the suitcases as their wheels got clogged with snow, and so we were dragging the heavy things and shouting dramatic go-on-without-me’s, Ok, I shouted the go on without me's..while the snow plow driver looked on unimpressed. We finally arrived, ready to make our dramatic and frozen entrance… and…

Surprise!

The airport was the size of tiny.

And only one person works there.

And evidently no one else was flying that day because the airport was also empty.

With high hopes we zoomed through checking, where the bored clerk looked up from her worn out copy of Twilight to see me hopping up and down in one place and Chummy holding out our paper work, and sighed heavily.

“You’re a bit early, but I guess I can do it now.”

We trotted up the escalator to security, where I flirted with the TSA guy giving me a pat down “This is the most action I’ve had all Valentine’s Day” Wink. And then tempted fate by responding to the standard questions about leaving with, “God I hope so!”

We had a rather long wait ahead of us, and no stores to browse, so hunkering down with the iPad to watch children’s cartoons on Netflix it was.

Then, the worst (or what we perceived to be the worst) thing happened. That beautiful little screen with our flight time, flickered. We both watched, heart in our throats, as that blasted word took the place of our departure time. DELAYED. We waited, staring in silence at the screen for minutes, hoping that if we didn't acknowledge it out loud- it wouldn't be so. The screen flicked back to our regular departure time, and both let out long sighs of relief...

...until it flicked back.

Then there was a high pitched whining sound that filled the empty hall of the airport, until Chummy poked me and I stopped making it.

As our flight slowly clicked between ‘on time’ and ‘delayed’ on the Departures screen, we ended up where anyone in an airport that long ends up - the bar. Which was, on scale with the airport, tiny.

Despite my extremely despairing mood, my talent for making friends couldn't be quashed. Two drinks in the same number of minutes had me feeling rather chatty, and other people waiting with the same bated breath were slowly trickling into the bar to watch the same line on the screen and sigh into their drinks.

I’m not good with names, so decided that going with their place of origin (a la Zombieland) was the way to go. Chummy is less chatty, and instead put her energy into doing the math on how ‘delayed’ we could be before missing our connection. The answer was, not at all. The amount of time between our connecting flights, in Chicago, was 35 minutes. Chummy went off to see about switching our flight to the one that wasn’t delayed.

I made some friends. Turns out, Alabama is from AL-A-BA-MAH, and not Mississippi. With what I believe to be great class, I did my best Forrest Gump impression, “I’ve never been to Al-a-bam-ah” I said as I finished Chummy’s drink for her.

And then Chummy called me: our flight was cancelled. We were stuck in Fargo. I said my goodbyes to Alabama, Orlando, Dallas, and with a bad cheese joke: “it was gouda to meet you!”, Wisconsin, and grumpily made my way downstairs. Scowling and dragging my feet (I am a professional five year old after all.) I found my designated adult looking as flustered as I’ve ever seen her, (as she is not usually one to wear emotions.)

Through clenched teeth I asked her what happened. She told me, to put it simply, that the incompetent airline airhead at the front desk had bounced us from flight to flight, then gotten confused thinking both flights were to be cancelled. Thinking he would be able to put us on the first flight out for the next day, he disappeared for half an hour with our boarding passes, and caused us to miss the flight we were originally due to be on, which surprise, was not cancelled after all. And in the end we weren’t even on the first or second flight out, but the third.

I am a redhead, a Scorpio, a Gryffindor, and all other things fiery. And upon learning that the sole reason my butt wasn’t on a seat, in a plane, on it’s way to Disney World was the man standing in front of me.. I am not proud to admit that when he finally returned with our information, I lost my goddamn mind so hard that I just about ripped my face off and threw it at him.

After apologetically pulling me away from the man with two new assholes, and wandering listlessly through the airport searching for tourist information, Chummy found some ancient hotel brochures in a dusty corner and made some phone calls. On the fourth try, we found a hotel with a free airport transfer and complimentary drink. When the airport transfer finally arrived, we got to participate in some complimentary waiting for fucking ever with the chipper van driver who was kindly waiting for the flight crew from the cancelled flight we got shoved onto.

Chummy made friends with the attendant while I sat drunk, and extra frowny, updating everyone back home of our trials via Facebook.

The attendant had been bumped to the same flight we were on the next day, and after Chummy shared our sorrows, she took one look at me and sympathetically patted my shoulder and promised to take good care of us, and our beverages on the flight the next day.

After the pilot, whom we were waiting on for 20 minutes, decided to take alternate transportation, we finally left for the hotel. Upon our arrival we were given our room key and the blessed complimentary drink coupon and moped into the elevator like the saddest slugs. We looked at each other, Chummy, downtrodden, me, maximum level frowny, and that’s when my stomach started to speak whale. In our excited anticipation we had eaten almost nothing all day and so we decided that we deserved room service dammit! Of course, nothing could possibly go right, even with something simple like room service. First, they forgot my meal. And then, when they finally brought it, my level of fucks had reached such a low that I answered the door without pants.

After giving the 50+ year old room-service attendant a near stroke, downing my drink, and not enjoying my late and room temperature meal, I decided to literally drown my sorrows in the tub. Which was, as everything had been so far that day, underwhelming. Though up until this point I had been mostly maintaining an outward appearance of a hopeful "it will get better" attitude, mostly, I allowed myself to reflect on the day in the privacy of the two by two bathtub. I sat with my knees up to my ears in the hot, hot water. Crying. But cautiously, because too many tears might have caused the tub to overflow.

What transpired the next day was complicated airline voodoo that involved standing in line forever and pouting while incompetence and bad weather kept us on the ground. Yep, day two meant we were delayed again, and on stand-by lists, and running back and forth between gates and then, finally, we were off to Chicago.

The flight to Chicago was pleasant for Chummy. It was a little plane with two seats on one side and one on the other. She had no seat partner and enjoyed the free drink from our favourite flight attendant. I was in good spirits. Buzzed on my Bailey’s, absolutely jumping for joy that we were in the air, reading my book happily. When I heard a rustling noise. I looked over as my seat partner ruffled through the seat pocket in front of her. Barf bag in hand, she turned and gave me an apologetic half-smile, shrugged, then turned away and promptly began to spew her guts.

I am a sympathetic puker. Which basically means: See it, Smell it, Hear it, and Imma join in.

I almost tore a hole in the side of the plane and flew myself to Chicago on the power of not wanting to be next to Pukey McPartyface. Instead, I hopped the isle and landed in Chummy’s lap.

We arrived in Chicago with little hope of actually making our scheduled connection, and promptly were told by the apologetic flight attendant that we were going to have to taxi on the tarmac for half an hour. So, with heavy hearts we waved as our connecting flight left without us.

But that didn’t stop us from making an Amazing Race style dash across the airport, hurdling over small children and the elderly, comic books in hand and backpacks barely zipped. We arrived at the desk, and took a five minute breather, gasping and using hand gestures, asking about our flight. No go.

The man took our information, looked at his computer and asked: "You're going to Miami right?”

I slammed my head onto the desk. Chummy advised that no, we were going to Orlando, and were supposed to be on stand-by, while I grumbled under my breath. The guy confirmed that we were on a stand-by flight, due to leave four hours later. We would be breathing Orlando air by 10 p.m. We rejoiced and hauled ass back in the other direction to find our correct gate.

After locating the gate, we stopped for a bit of food and reviewed the trials and tribulations of the trip so far, joking that it could have been worse. I mused as I filled three pages of my journal with bullet points of what had gone wrong so far, that:

"We should make it a rule that any time something bad happens, we have to bring out the motto, 'it could have been worse', and think up an example."

Tempting fate yet again.

After what felt like days, we got in line to board. It was at this moment that my brain hit the panic button — wait, with all this bouncing around, how will our bags find us?? I pulled Chummy out of line and dragged her to the counter where she pulled the baggage tags out of her bag and politely asked the gentleman to confirm our bags were coming with us, all while reassuring me that everything will be just fine because they are coded and blah blah blah.

Any who, the guy checked and said right away that mine was on our plane, and after what seemed a moment of difficulty, assured Chummy that hers were coming with us too. Satisfied, we boarded and were off.

We deplaned in Orlando and while Chummy immediately began suffocating on the humidity, my hair turned into a convincing tribble look-alike. After riding the weird space tubes to the real airport, we dragged ourselves along with the small group of people to the baggage carousel. Chummy’s was one of the first to come out, but eventually we were down to just the same sad duct taped bag going round and round, when the carousel came to a screeching halt, and alas, mine was nowhere to be found. My eyes welled up with Sailor Moon tears and I stomped to baggage customer service, slamming the door open, the cheery left over Christmas bells above the door jingling away.

There I was advised that my bag was on a flight that would arrive in an hour or so. “Do you want to wait or have it delivered to your hotel when we can get to it in a day or so?”

My head almost exploded. I swear the tear-drop tattooed gangster that was waiting in line turned to look at me, put his fist over his heart, shook his head with pity and pivoted right around and decided to wait outside. It was not unreasonable for me to be upset at this point. Starving, exhausted, and extremely disappointed, I grumpily informed her that I would be waiting for my bag thank you very much and stomped out of the office.

At this late hour, the Orlando airport was looking positively post-apocalyptic. We wandered pathetically in search of food. With little hope I smooshed my face up against the glass at Margaritaville, making puppy dog eyes at the janitor. I’m not proud, but I will admit that I thought seriously about flashing for some chicken nuggets. We gave up and resigned ourselves to waiting. And waiting. And some more waiting.

Then, finally, the carousel screeched into motion, and lo did the heavens shine down upon us and a choir of angels did arrive to sing the praises because, there it was, my bag.

We boarded the Disney Magical Express feeling decidedly unmagical.

We cursed the bus safety man, and mourned the lateness of the hour at which we were arriving, and our stomachs grumbled, but we did eventually arrive at our hotel. Because of our day late arrival checking in took an extra thirty minutes, I tried my best to stand patiently next to Chummy and follow what the adults were saying... but by the third earth shattering stomach rumble, I not too dramatically bowed out to lay on the lime green sofa and watch a re-run of "Hannah Montana" next to a sleeping toddler.

This was not the best of both worlds.

Then came the walk, and walk, and stairs, and walk to our room which was conveniently located as far as possible from the main building.

It was 1 am, and guess when the resort stops delivering pizza to the rooms? 1 am. Guess when all the other pizza places in the general vicinity stop delivering? You guessed right - 1 am. It was at this point that Chummy was beginning to look like a giant talking drumstick, and so, hearts heavier than our very empty stomachs, we resigned ourselves to filling up on water and falling into bed. In hopes that sleep would quiet our stomachs.

We mumbled our goodnights, set our alarms for five hours later, wished each other a pleasant nights sleep and clicked off the lights...

...Which I clicked back on ten minutes later. Chummy grumbled and turned over to see me throw back the sheets to uncover my bare legs, that were now covered in itchy strawberry hives, because, shocker! I was allergic to the sheets. Chummy choked and wheezed with laughter as I doped myself on Benadryl, flipped her the bird, and fell fast asleep to the sounds of her snorts and chortling.