How I Know I'm Not a Disney Princess

In this world of confusion and disagreement, I would like to present you with something upon which we can all agree: I am not a Disney princess. Hopefully this won't shock too many of you, but I'm not. Just in case you still doubt me in my statement of fact, I have compiled a list of some of the ways I know I'm not a Disney princess. This could have been an infinite list. (By this I simply mean that there are a lot of ways in which I differ from Disney princesses. Logistically, it couldn't actually be an infinite list because someday--before I run out of reasons--I will die. This is an event that would probably be hastened if I were to devote my future to maintaining an infinite [and pointless] list.)

When I was very young--say, under the age of four--I wanted to be a Disney princess, and even sometimes thought that I was. As a result, I did things like stop to count to make sure that the Seven Dwarfs were still following me. There was also an incident in which I told my grandma to hurry to the door because someone was there. After my grandma, who had been in the middle of applying lotion to her feet, hobbled to the door (on the sides of her feet in order to avoid getting lotion on her carpet) to find the porch vacant, she asked who was there. My answer? "It was Princess Aurora, but she's gone now." I no longer believe myself to be a Disney princess, but just in case any of you were wondering, here is proof that I am not.

Reason Number One That I Am Not a Disney Princess:
A Disney princess would never lie to her grandmother about Princess Aurora being at the door.

2. My sixteenth birthday passed without incidence. No spinning wheel. No betrothal. Not even a date. I remember reading the story of Sleeping Beauty to my little brothers and sisters at the aforementioned age of sixteen and being somewhat disgusted by the expectation that anyone, royal or no, would be expected to be married at 16. I was also perturbed by Aurora/Briar Rose/Sleeping Beauty's clear complexion at what should have been the height of hormonal eruptions--at least, according to my own experience--which brings us to my next point.

3. Disney princesses don't have acne. I mean, while others in the world are waiting for more ethnically diverse princesses, I'm here waiting for a princess of any color or nationality who possesses the age-appropriate facial blemishes typical of teen years/early adulthood. (Sorry teenagers, somebody has got to tell you the truth: those spots aren't going to magically disappear on your eighteenth birthday. Maybe not even your twenty-first. Disney--and everyone else--lies. My apologies, but this is the cold, hard reality that you will soon be facing.) The best representation I've gotten so far is this guy from Tangled who sings, "I have scars and lumps and bruises--and something here that oozes. And let's not even mention my complexion!" (He also has a goiter and an extra toe.) Don't worry, though, he finds his love connection in the end, so it's fine.

4. I'm not exactly chipper and perky. Sometimes I even yell. Not the "This is the best day ever!" or "Leave him alone (I'm defending justice)!" kind of yell, but the "Stupid! Adult acne! I HATE . . . ! (Grumble, Grumble)!" kind of yell. When I was in the "I wanna be a princess" phase of my life, my mother told me that princesses don't shriek while their hair is being brushed. Try as I might to softly whisper "Ow!" as my hair was pulled, I remained unsuccessful in my attempts at royal behavior. That might have been when my application for princess status was originally declined.

5. I don't rescue and allow mice to clean my house or make me dresses while they sing. (Nor do I rescue and allow mice to clean my house or make me dresses while they don't sing. Animal servitude: just another thing for PETA to get worked up about.) In fact, I go out of my way to kill and remove mice that enter my house. And by that I mean, I have my charming husband do it because I don't like to be within singing distance of the little critters. (Some of you will remember my last year's run-in with a mouse in my house.)  It's always nice to make new friends?! Not if they have furry-scurry feet and the potential to carry hantavirus, it's not!

6. I guess the most compelling argument that I'm not a Disney princess is that I'm a real person. I'm not animated and living in a fictional world where the best options one has for friendship include chipmunks and an enchanted tea set. I suppose, though, if we consider Pocahontas (who I was quite convinced was named Hocahontas with an "H," for some reason. Probably the same reason I thought that "Ballyball" was a sport: an early affinity for alliteration.) to be a Disney princess, she was a real person. She just wasn't the same real person as she was animated to be. Maybe I could be a Disney princess; Disney would just have to take a lot of liberty and exercise a lot of artistic license in telling my story.

Now that I consider it, not all Disney princesses befriend rodents. At least a few have been known to throw temper tantrums. And with the additions of Merida and Elsa, not even all of the princesses had beaus by their sixteenth birthdays--or even the end of their respective films. When I'm downright honest, I'm not familiar enough with any of the Disney princesses to say that there isn't one who wouldn't lie to her grandmother about Sleeping Beauty's presence at the door. Apparently the only thing standing between myself and Disney-fied Princessitude is a few blemishes. And really, what is artistic license for, if not the removal of pimples?

It would seem, that as in so many instances of examining the "facts," I am just as lost and confused as I was when I began. Is there nothing in this world of which we can be sure? We--the possibly royal "we," not the Gollum "we"--are not amused with this prospect. After all, Descartes postulated that we can't be certain of anything--except the whole "I think, therefore I am" bit. But I don't think his theories--or those of any other philosophers, for that matter--included quotes to the effect of "I think, therefore I am NOT a Disney princess." Could Descartes be a . . . Oh, don't be ridiculous!

What sort of skeptic's attitude is that, anyway? Of course there are absolute truths in this world of which we can be certain! For example, I am absolutely SURE that, at least in my head, Pocahontas' name is spelled with a "P," there is a sport called volleyball, and that in spite of these things, I still like alliteration. And you know, if I AM a Disney princess, I am the uniquely unorthodox underdog of the upper class.
 

Cat-astrophe: The Sequel

In which we adopt a ghost cat.

In the past week, I've apologized to my husband many times for adopting a cat. I've apologized for taking him by surprise. I've apologized because it wasn't a kitten. I've apologized because it was so loud. I've apologized because we had to keep it inside for a bit, that it somehow found its way into our vents, and that it showed up on our bed last night when we had locked it in the basement. Well, I am now done apologizing for our cat. Mostly because I think it has made its permanent escape.

Guys, I don't even know what to say anymore. Somehow I adopted either a feline ghost or Harry Houdini's kitty incarnate. How do these things happen?

WELL, let's rewind and see. *Whirring of a VHS tape* (if you don't know what that is, I've included a link to a historical site that can explain it) and, roll film:

Me: “Blah, blah, blah . . . pick up a cat . . . ?”

Alex: “WHAT?”

And later . . .

Me: “We should probably keep it in the house until it gets used to us. Just in the back room/basement area. It will be fine. What could happen?”

I now cut to an excerpt from Willa Cat-her's diary.

Day 6: IT'S A TRAP! Having fully explored my limited spaces, I approach madness. I don't think they can hear my cries. If only I could get closer, perhaps then they would listen.

The long winding tunnels have brought me closer to the humans. I hear them, and know that they must hear me, but they still ignore me. I have formulated a plan that will get me out of here. This will be my last entry, as tonight while they are sleeping, I will make my escape. I think for good measure I will stop by and jump on them on my way out. Vengeance is mine . . .

So, as you can see, our cat was no ordinary cat. We fed it, gave it water, brushed it, and pondered the best way to get it to stay with us when we let it outside. We had plans to start feeding it on the back porch today and transition it to the great outdoors. Unfortunately, once we became aware that the scheming demon had somehow found her way into and out of our duct work, we knew we would have to change our plans . However, we didn't want to put her out at night, so we went to bed hoping that she would be okay until the morning. My last comment was, “I think she'll come out when we go to bed and turn off the lights. I mean, there won't be any sound or light to attract her anymore. She'll come out.”

And she did—just not the way she went in.

We had been asleep maybe an hour when we were awakened by the loud mewing that doesn't usually come from our closet. I was ready to chalk it up to a crazy dream I was having when Alex jumped up saying “SHE'S ON OUR BED!”

He was mad. And as he chased the cat, she ran into to Melody's room and woke her up, which just made things worse. And thus it was that once Alex got his hands on the cat, she went unceremoniously out the front door along along with all the psychology with which we had planned to gain her trust. It was, as this entire cat and mouse business has been, quite unfortunate.

This morning, in a final effort to win our kitty's affections—if she's not already back with her previous family—we put her towel, food, and water out on our back porch. We keep checking for her, but I think she's long gone. If that's the case, I don't think we'll play this game again until it's kitten season. That leaves us lots of time to think about what we've done.

The moral of this story is:

Don't spontaneously adopt a full grown cat as a means of getting rid of mice. You will only be astonished at just how easily cats (and therefore mice) can find their way around the inside of your house.

Darn cat.

REST RANTS. (They're Gonna Catch On.)

While driving home from Spanish Fork after a particularly long day involving hours in traffic due to an accident (not our own, thank goodness!), Alex and I were venting about how stressed and tired we were. Suddenly, as we approached Nephi, Alex pointed off the right and said, “Hey, maybe we ought to go there!” I wasn't very excited to stop the car for any reason before we reached home (No, not even food; I was done with the trip.), but I looked anyway and saw that he was pointing at a restaurant. Except the lights for the “a” and “u” were out, so it claimed instead to be a “REST RANT.”

(For those of you who may not get it, I will explain—although, I want you to know that it won't be as funny now. The reason we laughed was because we were 1. tired and 2. complaining. Hence, we were in need of both a rest and a rant.)

This ought to be a real thing. I think it could work. Places with comfy chairs and listening ears. I think it could work a bit like some churches have confessions: you walk into a small booth, and with complete anonymity you can say whatever you want about whatever is bothering you. Then you can leave.

I think everyone wants to be heard, at least occasionally. I know I do. In fact, I frequently get the urge to yell like Tarzan when I'm in a large, noisy group. (I know it's weird; I just don't know why it happens.) Anyway, REST RANTS Patent Pending (Psh. Like I'm that tight with the patent office!) would be a great way to remedy this. There could even be complimentary stickers (that you would end up paying for in some “hidden” way) that said ridiculous things like “Somebody listened to me today!” and “This mouth was made for talkin'!” in order to validate people in their quest to voice their opinions, no matter how irrelevant and rambling they may be.

The downfall to this is that only very special people would be able to work there for more than say, a day and a half without beginning to gripe to the customers. There are people who would fit the bill, but they're already called therapists and they charge more than the menial amount most people would pay for service at such a venue.

I guess there's also the teensy detail that grumping about problems doesn't usually make them better. One of my favorite (because it's so well-put) but also least favorite (because it's a well-put way of reminding me how I shouldn't be venting) quotes on the matter comes from Neal A. Maxwell's talk “Murmur Not” (a good one for when you're feeling like you just wanna whine a bit): “Letting off steam always produces more heat than light.” *Sigh.* He's right. No REST RANTS for me.

It's a shame this idea wouldn't work out. It kind of upsets me. In fact, it's almost the type of thing that makes me wish there were somewhere I could vent about it. What would upset me even more is if somebody were to steal my idea and get rich off it. If it happens, you'll know where to find me.

REST RANTS . . . Coming to a Blogspot near you!