Lessons From Disney

I’ve have been taught many lesson from Disney:
1. I can expect a man on a white horse to show up at my door minute now (BTW, Disney, if this doesn’t happen soon, heads are gonna role).
2. All stepmothers are evil.
3. I wasn’t crazy; my toys did talk and move about when I left my room.
4. Fish are friends, not food.
5. Never trust a man who sings about being covered in hair or eating five-dozen eggs.

So it will come as no surprise that I found myself intrigued by the royal wedding. It was a real life Disney film that I would get to witness. Because of my fascination with this event, my brother Ryan bought me the DVD for my birthday. He was so excited about his gift, even going as far as to send me a text telling me that my gift was “tight.”

The DVD was lying on the counter on Saturday and I kept seeing my niece look at it with wonderment. Who is this man dressed in red? Who is this woman with a crown? Being the good auntie that I am I asked her, “Do you want to see a real princess get married?”

We sat down to watch the wedding. That’s when I discovered that everything American’s know about the British comes from Disney films. Annie began by asking where the Queen was. When I pointed out the lovely woman in yellow, she followed up her question with, “Is she good or evil?”

When they arrived at the alter, Annie asked me, “Why does that man have a funny outfit on, like in The Little Mermaid?”

Annie then asked where William’s mother was. AWKWARD. Gramps stepped in by saying that she had passed, but that his stepmother was present. Annie quickly replied, “Oh, stepmother, so she’s not nice.”

I couldn’t help but giggle. Another generation ruined by Disney.

Pop Culture Expert: Strange or Endearing?

I have been known to be a pop culture expert. I could act out “Titanic” by the end of 5th grade. I could quote “Gladiator” by the end of 8th. I could give you a synopsis of every “Friends” episode ever made by the end of high school. I was proud of my abilities.

I’ve never been ashamed of my Harry Potter trivia. That includes the time I sat in my young adult literature class and answered deep, thought provoking questions such as: What does Harry Potter want most in the world (a family)? How will Harry Potter obtain this (by destroying horcruxes)? Who or what stands in his way (He Who Must Not Be Named/Lord Voldemort).

I was proud of the fact that I was the only person able to think of words in Harry Potter that started with X (Xenophilius Lovegood) and Z (Zonko's Joke Shop). I left that class with my head held high, despite the girl in the corner holding up a big “L” with her fingers. No one was taking away the pride I felt. I was a pop culture expert.

But something happened the other day. Something I just cannot abide by. While watching polo, I found myself unnerved. There was music playing. Awesome music! Thriller. Brown Eyed Girl. Here Comes the Sun.

I then found myself singing along to a song. A song that I had never heard before, but I knew the lyrics. How is that possible?

“I will never say never (I will fight)
I will fight till forever (Make it right)
Whenever you knock me down
I will not stay on the ground
Pick it up, pick it up
Pick it up, pick it up (up, up, up)
And never say never.

I thought to myself, “what is this song?” Then it dawned on me. Dear Lord! It’s Justin Bieber. I had entered the vortex. It happened. I don’t know how it happened, but I got sucked right in.

It is my prayer that “Bieber Fever” has not spread. Do we know if there is a cure? Good Lord, please let there be a cure.

The Much Dreaded Run-In

It may just be me, but I have the worst luck with people. I’m sure it’s due to my anti-social tendencies. It just seems that I never run into people I want to see. I have to tell you, it’s terrible luck.

It’s always the worst timing too. It’s when I decide to run to Target after the gym (make-up gone, sweat, hair a complete disaster) that I run into someone from church. It’s when I run into someone from high school and realize I have no idea what his or her name is. It’s when I see someone I absolutely can’t stand and realize they are walking my way. HORRIBLE LUCK!

I never come across people I would love to see. What can I compare it to? Oh, yes! It’s like when you’re sitting at church and that cute guy walks by and you think to yourself, “please sit by me, please sit by me,” but they never do. Instead I always get suck with the guy that I swear I just saw a clip of from “Book of Mormon: The Musical.” The weirdo. HORRIBLE LUCK!

So…just think of me. I’m sitting in Barnes & Noble trying to avoid the men working on the bathroom at my house. It should be my happy place; I’m combining two of my favorite things in the world, books and chai.

That is until I looked up to see a man I had no desire to talk to. For the sake of this post, we’ll call him Richard. Don’t get me wrong. Nice man. I just couldn’t see myself having a conversation with him. I knew he would ask about every detail in my life and then report back to his wife. Someone I like to keep my distance from.

My heart fell. I got butterflies in my stomach. “Oh, dear Lord! Has he seen me? Please say no! Oh, dear Lord! Please let me escape!”

OH! The Hell I was in! What was I to do? I was scared that any movement would attract his attention. I felt as if I had to be quiet as a mouse. Any sound or sudden movement would force me into a conversation.

I wish I had a mask! I wish I was a covert agent for the CIA then I would have known exactly what to do.

So I gently closed my book. Gently got my bag. Gently picked up my chai. Slowly stood. Turned my back to him. And walked gently toward the bookracks. Where I proceeded to walk to the door like a bat out of Hell.

I got to my car…a little out of breath. I sat in my car and called my mom and right in the middle of this exact story, “Richard” walked out of the door. “Oh my gosh! He’s like a bad rash. I can’t get rid of it.”

I started the car. I drove to the gym. Where I kid you not I ran into a girl from high school. Couldn’t tell you her name for a thousand bucks. HORRIBLE LUCK!

TOMS Shoes: Brilliant Scam?

I absolutely love TOMS Shoes. The whole concept is just amazing. "For every pair you purchase, TOMS will give a pair of new shoes to a child in need. One for One." How generous is that? The putting aside of greed to help kids around the globe. It's just a true inspiration. Of course that's what I thought until my ill-fated conversation with my dad.

Dad: What are you wearing?

Me: TOMS. They are awesome. So comfortable. Plus, when you buy a pair, a kid in need is given a pair.

Dad: How much did you pay for those life changing shoes?

Me: 50 bucks. I know it seems expensive, but I'm helping a child with no shoes in India or Uganda. Totally worth it!

Dad: You know what I think? I think it's a scam. I bet they have kids making the shoes you're wearing. Then say, "Go ahead and make yourself a pair, too."

Me: Wow! That is the worst. I can't believe you think that. You have just ruined my shoes and my good deed.

Dad: Yeah. Well. The truth hurts.

So instead of thinking about changing the world one shoe at a time when putting my TOMS on, I find myself wondering, "Is dad right? Am I apart of a brilliant scam?

Zumba Awkwardness

It should be stated that I am not a dancer. Even in the pictures above, those poses were forced. Which is why my dance career ended at age seven. I just don’t have the coordination or balance. My body rejects dance.

Don’t get me wrong. I imagine myself to be a fantastic dancer. Good enough for Broadway, because you know my singing voice is almost as good as my dancing. I imagine that I could keep up with those Glee kids or participate in a flash mob, like nobodies business. But this is all fantasy as I found out during ZUMBA!

In an effort to mix up my workout routine I decided to enroll in my local ZUMBA class. I’ve seen people do it, I’ve heard people talk about it, and dag-gon-it I wanted to get my groove on! What I quickly realized during my two classes is that there are six types of Zumbaers:

The Teacher:
These are the women that have obviously downed 2-3 cans of Red Bull before entering. They walk in with pure energy. They’re muscular…because you know that they spend all day at the gym and all night dropping it like it’s hot. They are the women with a bandana wrapped around their head like the karate kid. You’ve probably seen them at Whole Foods buying glucose free pretzels and organic fruit. They are also in there 40’s, making my 24 year old self feel completely inadequate.

The Grandma:
These are the women that are in their 60’s-70’s. They still rock out a sweatband, tights, and leg warmers. You know from the good old days of Jane Fonda. Goodness! I loved those videos. Reminder to self…check Amazon later. They have no moves, since they learned swing dancing and not Beyonce dancing.

The Mom:
These are the women I totally respect in that room. They are gonna shake what their mother gave them (the woman in the sweatband next to them) and not care who watches. They are going to pretend they know every J-Lo song and the lyrics to “Forget You.” They are going to shake that thang.

The Stripper:
This is the girl that will inevitably be in every class. There is always one. She comes half dressed, hair down, make-up fully done. She will brush her hand through her hair at least 12 times in the 60-minute class. She’ll pull a Reese Witherspoon “bend and snap.” She will go all dirty dancing on you when it’s time for free-style. These are moves that should stay in buildings with no windows and bad lighting.

The Semi-Expert:
These are the girls that have been to at least five classes. They can keep up. They’ve given up being perfect, but have skill. They are the ones that will one day teach the class. They are the ones that can move their hips and shimmy. They are who I aspire to become.

Me:
Then there is me. A mix between Phoebe Buffay running and a newborn giraffe. I can’t figure out the rhythm. My legs kick out from me like I’m a member of River Dance. My arms fly to the side like a bird set for flight. But I will not let this deter me! I will show up day after day and tell myself that I will be good enough to be pulled to the front of the room.

I mean. Who cares? It’s not like anyone is watching me. Who has time for that when you’re dancing? Oops. Wait. Me apparently. Now there’s a scary thought.

Negative Nancy

I have always been a pessimist. I always focus on the negative in situations. It is a trait I am not proud of, but recently discovered it to be hereditary.

The other night I graciously accompanied my dad on a trip to “Vitamin Cottage.” Of course by “graciously” I mean I tagged along. During the car ride I can tell you that we embarked on a list of “I Hates” that left me laughing.

Dad: I hate when people I see on a regular basis call and say their first name…pause…then their last. I mean really, I KNOW YOU! I TALK TO YOU EVERYDAY!

Me: I hate when people say, “Don’t let this deter you.” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Dad: I hate that unhealthy people work in health food stores. It’s not right.

Me: I hate when random people come up to me in grocery stores and start talking about the food I have in my cart. I mean, what is that?

Dad: I hate that this store doesn’t have bags! COME ON!

Me: I hate that that man is wearing his bicycle helmet in the store…and I bet he’ll go home and tell people how far he rode his bike today.

Dad: I hate that the bananas purchased the other day are “organic.” I personally like a little pesticide in my fruit. It’s delicious!

Me: I hate that I woke up early to get dressed and let contractors in that DIDN’T EVEN SHOW UP!

Dad: Well, I hate that I woke up to no Wheaties and no Cheerios. I had to eat Honey Nut Cheerios. They were so sweet I thought my head would explode.

Me: I hate when people put cryptic or depressing Facebook updates.

Dad: Yeah, well, I just hate Facebook.

Me: How can you hate Facebook? You’re famous on there for your great one-liners!

Dad: I hate that too.

Me: You love it!

LeMasters’ Sock Complex

I have always been fascinated with my dad’s socks. I remember watching him put his knee-high, black, gold-tips on every morning before taking me to school. The process captivated me. I found myself wondering, “Do those stay up all day?” I never asked.

My dad is a great storyteller and I always enjoy his stories about his childhood. My favorite was his story about “The Sock Box.” The Sock Box was full of socks that he and his siblings would have to dig through in order to find a pair of matching socks. I always felt like this ordeal left him scared for life. I recently found out, I was correct in my assumptions.

The other day it was raining and I was in need of a pair of boots. The pair I was after was my favorite knee-high, black boots. This meant I would need a good pair of socks to wear with them. So, as I had done for the past three months, I went to my dad’s drawer and grabbed a pair of knee-high, black, gold tip socks. My mistake was walking downstairs…

Dad: Are you kidding me right now?
Me: I’m feeling uncomfortable. I’m not sure what’s happening?
Dad: Are those my socks you have on?
Me: Um. Well. You see…
Dad: Take them off.
Me: Are you kidding me? I need these!
Dad: Don’t just help yourself. Those are my socks. I don’t wear your socks!
Me: I’ve been doing it for three months.
Dad: Things are starting to add up. I’ve been short socks for three months.
Me: Wow. Selfish.

It would seem that my father, Nick LeMasters is not comfortable sharing his socks. I of course shared this story with my cousin, Colleen, when she visited. Strangely, she had a similar interaction with her dad (my dad’s brother). This leads me to believe that all LeMasters have a strange sock complex.

Oh…in case you were wondering…the knee-high, black, gold-tips do stay up all day. I highly suggest them.