Magical Journey, Part 2 - "Where"

The Yankee Peach household is all in a tizzy.  We had originally chosen a slow week in September for our trip to Disney.  We've done the same week in other years, so everything was working like clockwork since, as you now know,  the "When" of your Disney trip is your first and most important decision.  However, we have had to move our trip up by several weeks.  Its all good and I will explain when we talk about where to stay.

The second most important decision, before which rides to ride and which overpriced T-shirt to buy, is simply "Where".

You need a place to stay.  And Yankee Peach has tried something new.

First of all, there are several options.

1.  On-site at a Disney Resort

If you can swing it, its the best.  The service is unmatched.  The hotels are carefully themed so that you feel like you are stepping into another world.

Animal Kingdom Lodge - Deluxe Resort

Disney also provides an escape for your inner child.  Trust me, the inner child throws a major tantrum when you are on International Drive watching the same traffic light turn red, then green, then red again over and over and all you want to do is be in Disney World!  You will suddenly wish you'd spent the extra money to already be inside the inner sanctum.  The inner child also feels kind of "meh" about leaving the park at night only to stop at Walmart with "normal people" to get milk and cereal.  It just feels kind of lame.

Disney has three levels of resorts.  Value (which are motel-like), Moderate (Caribbean Beach is our favorite) and Deluxe (very nice, but we've never been able to afford to stay there).

Its more expensive than staying off-site, but there are several nice features of staying on property.

First, you get free parking at all the parks, which saves you $14.00/day.
Secondly, anything you purchase in a park can be sent to your room.
Third, you may partake of the Disney Dining Plan, which has always saved us money and stress.  More on that on a later post

2.  Off-site Hotels

In order to compete with Disney for your business, the off-site hotels are remarkably cheap.  We once stayed in a suite with a full kitchen for $79/night.  That same room would've cost us about $350/night in a Disney Deluxe resort.  When you are pricing these bargains, though, be sure to check for "Resort fees" or "Daily Parking fees".  We have often found that, with those sneaky additions, it puts us within range of a Disney Moderate Resort.

We also have greatly enjoyed the Sheraton Vistana.  It has a pirate pool and family suites, although it is a good 15 minutes from the hotel to the park.

If budget trumps everything.  Stay off-site.  You could also look at renting a vacation home.  We have never done this but many of my friends enjoy it immensely.  You can try www.vrbo.com for help.

BUT!!!! Now for the exciting news!  We have just done something magnificent.  We are staying at a Deluxe Resort in a room that would've been $400/night...for $85/night!!!

Its my brand new third option...

3.  Stay On-site for Off-site Prices with Vacation Club Points

Disney has a timeshare plan called Disney Vacation Club (DVC).  You can front $20,000 to stay in special villas at specific resorts..  You purchase, with that 20k, a certain amount of points, say 150, to use at Vacation Club Resorts.  

However, some people cannot use all of their 150 points up in a year.  SO, they let US...the common folk...purchase them for bargain basement prices.  This is totally legit, by the way.  You are not sneaking in to Disney, they are well aware of this process.  The trick is finding the right person and making sure its not a scam.  Here is a great site for learning about the process and finding links to DVC point brokers.  Using a broker, you know its not a scam and can pay about $13/point.  That site also had DVC points calculators so that you know how many you will need to purchase for your resort.

If an Animal Kingdom Villa is 100 points for a week and you rented Vacation Points, it would be $1300...a MAJOR SAVINGS for you.

Or you could go hardcore like us.  We got our Villa for $6.30/point.  My husband searched craigslist in a couple of major cities.  He found a guy in Pennsylvania who had to use his points by the end of August.  We looked him up on Orange County, FL's Comptroller site and saw that he had entered into a contract with DVC, and was therefore not going to take our money and run.

We then switched our trip to a slow week in August.  We gave the guy our dates and requested a Studio Standard View Room at Animal Kingdom Villas.  (Our "villa" is actually a normal basic room with a kitchenette, but the guy only had 90 points to give us, so we are fine with that.  The resort itself is amazing.)  The man called Disney and made our reservation.  We used Pay Pal and sent him the money.  Once we did, he emailed us our Confirmation Number.

It is up to us to call Disney and add our Dining Plan and make any Dining Reservations.

We have never been able to stay at a Deluxe Resort and we LOVE the Kidani House, where we will stay next month.

I know this blog is loooooooooooong.  I wanted to break it up into 3 separate blogs.  However, with our trip moved up, Yankee Peach is moving a lightening speed to plan our trip!  Strap yourselves in and hold on...there is much more to come!

UnPinteresting

Pinterest.

I have a love hate relationship with it.

I love all the pretty pictures and the fact that I don't have to "read things". 

I love all the ways Pinterest inspires me to be a better person by pinning Inspirational Quotes on Parenting, Interesting Crafts To Do With Your Kids, and Clever Make At Home Family Games...all while completely ignoring my children who are running around the streets naked, covered in mud to protect themselves from the sun's rays and bug bites as they scavenge for food.

I hate the way Pinterest makes me not like myself.  I don't look at pictures of beautiful homes and think, "Some day!" or "I can use my totally applicable life skills to tile my own floor that way".  I think, "Ugh, I never noticed how lame my own house is until this very moment."

And all those boards with clever clothing ensembles.  They make me sad.  I'm secretly so materialistic and vain, that Pinterest awakens the demons inside my heart. My lust for J.Crew and Banana Republic inspired ensembles makes those stinking fashion boards a form of Lady Porn for me.

And then, there is the fear.

The Pinterest Vortex fear.  What if, someday, I drive myself into a never-ending loop of crafts that puts me into a deep and troubling state of psychosis.

For instance, what if, while my kids are trapped outside in the rain trying to make fire and erect a shelter, I find a cute picture of a Make At Home Hello Kitty Shirt.

Oh good, the daughter I own somewhere LOVES Hello Kitty.  But wait!  Here is another Pin about making your own white T-Shirt out of paper plates.  Fantastic!  I'll make that first, then use it for the Hello Kitty craft.  But look at this!  A pin about making your own fabric paint out of melted marbles.  And then I find how to make your own marbles out of old towels.  THEN I FIND HOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN TOWELS OUT OF RECYCLED HELLO KITTY SHIRTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's also the Pinter-exic fear.  Similar to Tanorexia.  Where I become so obsessed with Pinterest that I become a social outcast.  Much like this girl will feel the next time she walks into Target or takes her trash out to the curb...

 Girl, I know.  I've been there.  You've rolled your hair up in a sock for beautiful curly hair, learned a fancy new way to braid your bangs, watched a tutorial on eye make up, used simple craft glitter to make a temporary tattoo on your face, AND followed every rule in the "How To Pose Like Bar Rafaeli for Pictures".  I have that Pin too.

Pinterexia can manifest itself anywhere, not just in "Health and Beauty".  Maybe your Pinterexic tendencies lead you to decorate your home like this...

Oh look.  This lady re-purposed a glass bowl by rolling it in peach paint, re-imagined a dresser into an island, and re-confused my brain with the profusion of frilly, lacy, froo froo.  And, if this lady EVER hoped to get her husband to help in the kitchen, she can kiss that dream goodbye.  Is she supposed to actually make food in this kitchen?  She might need to move that carefully placed antique-inspired Make At Home Apron to rip apart her raw chicken.

Now I'm just getting mean.

Well, I guess I should go check on my kids.  Wait, no, I think that's them in the cul-de-sac roasting a raccoon they trapped over the fire they made.  I guess that buys me a couple more minutes to Pin that article on Raising Independent and Capable Children.  Geesh, maybe reading it will FINALLY free me from the constant needs of my children.

Martyr

If you are reading this, you are part of a greater story.  A story of struggle, rebirth, redemption, and love. 

You are witness to a miracle.   As the dawn breaks over the horizon, so begins the next chapter of my life. 

Soak it in.  Memorize these words.  Repeat them to your children and your children's children.

Yankee Peach.  Was written.  At 6:22AM.

I am a 7:30am girl.  My kids play pleasantly in their room until I arise like Cinderella to great the day, sing a song, and give a cold but melodic shiver as birds pour water on my head and fix my hair.


But today marks the death of 7:30 Girl and the birth of 5:30 Martyr for the Cause.

Why?  WHY am I doing this?

Because I am awesome.  Also because I am the worst.

My husband started a job in November...NO..VEM...BURRRRRR...that requires him to leave the house at 6am for work.  I cheerfully went on with life, watching TV and playing Words With Friends until 11:30pm and beyond. 

At some point, my husband wondered if I couldn't try to get on his schedule.  He is a night owl and my hard-partying lifestyle was much too tempting for him.

I tried.  For one day.  Then I decided to be mad at him for trying to control my sleep patterns.

Fast forward to June.  I announce to my husband that he is The Worst, that his job is The Worst, etc. He came home exhausted, was grumpy, and totally unhelpful.  He, not actually being The Worst, promised to make some changes.

Then, in a later conversation where I told him I was concerned for his health because he was exhausted all the time...a slow realization dawned on me.  Oh.  He never sleeps. 

I came up with a brand new amazing decision.  "I know!", I said, "Why don't I try to get on  your schedule?"

The look on the husband's face.  It was priceless.  A mix of fear and uncertainty.  He was the only person in the room who remembered the huffy indignance I had shown when HE mentioned me changing my sleeping habits.  "Uh..I...um...really don't want to be responsible for forcing you to do that."  Was his very carefully chosen reply.

The Worst baton was officially passed to me.  Hm.  So, when he asks me to do things I am indignant.  If they are my own idea, I'm totally okay with it.  Interesting.  But that will be another post...that I will only write if I want to, not if my husband has the audacity to request it.

So.  Here I am.  5:30 Girl.  Up until the last minute last night my husband was trying to convince me this was a bad idea. 

Nobody loves living with a Martyr.

But, I have not been reading my Bible since the kids got out of school.  I've also been laying around halfway between sleep and "doing things" until 10 am every day.

Also, my husband promised me that, if I made it two weeks, he would buy me a Krupp.

So, with a Krupp only 13 days away and my marriage, prayer life, and devotional life enriched as a secondary bonus, I am now officially a Spiritual Bastion of Humility, Servitude and Awesomeness.

My brain hurts.  My body is tired.  My coffee pot dribbles coffee on my counter every time I use it.  My husband is in fear of what a 5:30 AM Girl will look/act like at 6PM tonight. 

But it'll be worth it.  Oh, look at that.  The sun has come up.  That Classical piece that they always play at the beginning of cartoons when it is morning outside is playing in my head. 

I will rock this Martyr status today, oh yes I will.

North and South

I haven't done a lot of actual Yankee Peach posts.  You know, like, where I talk about my observations as a Yankee on the Peaches that surround me.  Part of it is because I live here and don't want to offend the natives.  But, at some point, it can't be helped.  I've gleaned enough quirks and differences to point them out.

As the Yankees inundate the South, its best to know what you guys are in for so that you can acclimate easier. 

Lets begin.

1.  "You Guys" vs.  "Ya'll"

I did not realized it until a friend pointed it out that "You guys" (or phonetically "y'guys") is part of the Midwest vernacular and has rarely been uttered below the Mason Dixon line.  This is NOT to be confused with "Yous guys" which is NJ/NY Yankee.  They are their own breed.  Although, Peaches tend to lump us all in with those crazy people.

The thing is, you cannot just come down here and start saying "ya'll".  I tried it once a couple years ago and my cousin (who is more Peach than Yankee having moved here when she was 7) looked me straight in the eye and said, "You can't pull that off yet."  It has to come naturally.  For me, that was 3 1/2 years in and working with a youth choir.  It just flowed.  It felt right. 

I STILL have trouble getting it out when speaking to just two people or, worse...one person.  I will never get that.

Also, if someone could tell me the official way to type "ya'll"..."y'all"...whatever...I would appreciate it.

PS...who is impressed that I used the word "vernacular"?  I know I am.

2.  Sweet Tea

Pronounced "Swuyt Tuyee".  At some point, Yankee, you will be offered Sweet Tea as a beverage.  But not just any beverage...it will be offered to you as if it is water.  I've seen this stuff in the sippy cups of 18 month olds.  I once went to a wedding reception where the water goblets were all pre-filled with Sweet Tea and then servers came around to ask if  I wanted wine or soda (pop...coke...etc.).  I looked at the waiter and said, "Um.  Can I just get some water?"  The guy looked at me blankly and said, "You have Sweet Tea."

3.  Compliments (?)

Oh, the Peaches loooooooove their back-handed compliments.  Like, if you tell a story about how you went to the mailbox with your jammies on and got caught in the sprinkler system while the neighbors looked on, someone will say, "Ohhhh, you are so...brave...for telling us that."  Um, what?  It was supposed to make you laugh, not inspire you to climb Mount Everest.  The person obviously meant, "You are an idiot.  Keep your idiot shenanigans to yourself."  Sometimes, its not until days later that I'm suddenly like, "Ohhhhhhhh, that guy didn't want my advice on potty training his son...I get it now...."

This seems insulting toward Peaches, but I tell you, its magic.  Volunteering in ministry, I have several times had to have straight talks with people.  The kids end up crying and the parents end up kind of ticked at me.  But I have seen a Southern Man have the SAME CONVERSATION with folks and the person goes away totally unaware that they have been reprimanded but nonetheless inspired to change.

How do they do that???  Its not the Yankee Way.  But I can sit back and appreciate it as I would a Picasso or a Rembrandt.

4.  Attire

Speaking of back-handed compliments.  I showed up at a meeting once, and a dear friend said, "You look beautiful!  You FINALLY look Southern!" 

Here's me "Looking Southern"

Um.  Thanks.  Sorry that you had to look at my nasty Yankee self for all these years.

I did actually take it as a compliment, having lived here long enough, but it made me analyze what was so Southern about me?  Well, I had just started giving in to the frizz in my hair and curling it instead of straightening it.  My hair was big and puffy and girlie that day.  I had just gotten a new brightly colored shirt with an actual pattern on it (big step for me), and had recently found jeans that fit me well, and may have even had coordinating jewelry on.  I looked polished.

Okay, never mind, I decided to be ever so slightly offended.  I mean, what the heck does it look like when I dress "Yankee" anyways??  This question was answered soon after.  When I caught my reflection in a store window and realized that my hair was in a messy bun and I had somehow managed to wear about 7 shades of black, offset by a gray scarf. 

Oh.

5.  Southern Gentlemen

Okay, I've picked on the Peaches quite a bit, so I will end with this.  There is nothing in the world like a Southern Gentleman.  Truly.  The men at my church, young and old, treat the ladies like they are gold.  I haven't had to get my own door in years.  Compliments on your pretty dress and smooth words to gloss over a glaring mistake you just made make you feel special.  I had to get used to this, however.

Midwest men are also wonderful.  Its just that there is something to the myth of the Southern Gentleman.  I used to bristle at the compliments, the small talk in line at the store, and the offerings of help with doors and groceries.  I was taught to be independent and to exude a sense of spunk.  I've mellowed.  Because I truly like it.  I've learned to be gracious and not to shut down a man offering to help me carry a heavy item to my car.

My 4 year-old son got a lesson in chivalry the other day.   He had fallen asleep in the car on the way to Publix and I was carrying him while struggling to get a cart.  An elderly man walked from his car several feet away and helped me pull out the cart.  He then held the cart so that I could get Caleb into it.  I said, "Thank you" and he said, "Well, ma'am, I couldn't do less for you.  Its how my mama raised me."  He had to be in his 80s.  When my son asked why that man helped me I told him.

"Its because he is a Southern Gentleman, sweetie."

Ever since, my son tries to get my door, offers to help his sister set the table, etc.  I call him a good helper and he corrects me by saying that he is, in fact, a gentleman.

Olympics

Oh, how I love the Olympics!!!

I love the sound of Bob Costas's voice.  I love the Opening Ceremonies.

I love that, every 2 years, I think "America" is going to be one of the first countries in the Parade of Nations and then I realize that its the "United States of America" and I grab some magazines to entertain me until 12:30am.

I love that there is ALWAYS some story that makes the entire world cry.  That little gymnast, Carrie, that hurt her foot but stuck her landing for the gold.  Or, some runner falling but another runner giving up his chance at a medal to help him cross the finish line.  <SOB!!!> 

I love that we go into the games with no knowledge of the contenders but that, within 2 weeks, they are celebrities and kind of our friends.

I love how I have spent a total of 20 minutes of my life on a diving board...most of it crying that I can't jump before I take the walk of shame back to safety (last summer was a tough summer, okay)...and YET, within 2 weeks I'm saying things like, "Oh, she hardly made any splash! Excellent."  or "Tsk, tsk, he is going to get a deduction for that sloppy pike position."

In 1984, when I was 5 years old, I was totally enthralled with this lady...

My sister and I totally had that leotard.  I think my sister wore it for an entire year.  I suddenly begged my mom for Wheaties and even took gymnastics for a couple years after that.  That endeavor went the same way as my diving career.

I love how, although Coke is the official sponsor of the Olympics, we all know that those little Goody barrettes are the unsung hero of Gymnastics.

This girl obviously held back on the Goodys...maybe she was throwing off extra weight for the Uneven Bars, I don't know. 

I also think, every year, that they do the measurements wrong for those leotards.  Doesn't it seem like they are just an1/8 of an inch too short from top to bottom? 

Can those poor girls stand up straight in those things without giving themselves a crotch wedgie??  It makes me uncomfortable every year.  Almost as uncomfortable as typing the word "crotch" in my own blog. 

Crotch wedgie or no crotch wedgie,  I am counting the days until the Olympics.   I love the back stories!  I love the historic pieces about the host nation.  I love learning about exotic, far flung locations like...London.

I LOVE THE OLYMPIC THEME SONG! 

 Daaaah Daaaah da da da da da.  Daaah da da da DAH da da diddy da da DAAAAAAAAAAH.

Come on, you all know exactly what that sounds like. 

A Dad Story

I could share for pages and pages about the awesomeness of my Dad.  My Dad cries over Baseball, America, Jesus, and his grand kids.  I was beyond irritated with his strict rules but knew, deep down, that he was an excellent father and that the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint him. 

But, instead of picking apart what makes him a good Dad, I thought I would share a story.  Its the defining story for me.  It will always be The Story of My Dad.

I can't remember the year, but I was having a rough time in high school.  We moved to a small town half way through my freshman year.  The kids were nice, but they had all known each other since Kindergarten and I could not break in.  I had made friends with some kids that weren't "bad", but were bringing me down and causing me a great deal of drama and heartache.  I walked away suddenly from my group of friends and found myself with no one to say "Hi" to in the halls.  No one to giggle with in class.  And, worse of all for any student, no one to sit with at lunch.  There were nice kids all around me, but I became crippled by fear and insecurity.

Every lunch, I would sneak into the library, wedge myself between a window and some bookshelves so that no one would KNOW I was eating in the library, and wallow in my misery.

On top of this, I had just spoken out against a teacher that I dearly respected but was teaching some things that greatly insulted my faith.  I'm a public school girl.  I can handle Evolution and existential discussions in English Class.  But this particular set of lectures was too much.

So, I was The Girl Who Stormed Out Of English Class on top of everything else.

One morning, I remember getting ready in the bathroom.  I remember it was still dark outside and very early in the morning.  I remember looking in the mirror and thinking, "God, I can not do this again.  I can not get up and face another day at this school."  I was sick in my stomach.  Filled with dread.  Trying so hard to be strong but ready to lay down my sword and crawl back into bed.

I trudged downstairs.  I remember being in the kitchen, in total darkness.  I heard something.  It was a low, soft sound.  It was someone muttering.

I followed the sound through the parlor and to the door of my Dad's study.  He had a glass door.  As I peaked in, I could see my Dad, literally on his knees, his arms resting on the seat of his desk chair, praying.  Praying very intensely.  All I could hear were low muttering sounds and then, every so often the name, "Sara".

I turned away from that glass door a changed girl.  I was strong again.  I could handle whatever came my way.  I suddenly remembered a lesson from my mother, that I don't need to worry about making friends, but about being a friend.  I charged that day at high school armed and dangerous.  Equipped with courage and confidence.  I had a new outlook, and a spring in my step.

Because My Dad was praying for me.

The Bump and the Friend

Once upon a time, I was on a touring team that went around to churches performing dramatic programs.  My first year of Tour, we were all over the Northeast, including the hills of Pennsylvania.  How a sensible state like PA can be so populace and yet feel so isolated and filled with crazy people, I do not know.  But Pennsylvania is filled with crazy people. 

That's another story.

We were driving on these hills in the middle of nowhere, when we saw a yellow caution sign that simply said "Bump".

We were like, "Huh, what on earth does that..."  BAM!!!!!  Our 16 passenger van plus trailer gets catapulted into the air and slams back down again.

Then we were like, "Oh....bump"

As we drove on (trust me, we had done worse to that poor van), we jokingly created a scenario from which the "Bump" sign could possible derive.  In our minds, a backwoods county meeting took place.

One guy says, "We need to fix that there bump by Old Man Higgin's cabin."

The Committee of Weird People for Bump Removal decide that its not a good idea on account of the fact that "We don't feel like it."

So, everyone shrugs and agrees, "Hey.  Why fix the bump, when you can just put up a sign that tells people its there."

That was 13 years ago. 

2 years ago, I met a new friend at the mall for a play date.  She was lovely and quirky, my favorite!  She did something super dorky (which I totally would've done, which gave me a Love Burst for her) and, instead of acting embarrassed, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Sorry.  You should know...I'm sometimes very socially awkward."

And just like that, I had an epiphany!  The bump and my honest friend seemed to defy the Time-Space Continuum and arrive at the same place through the Delorian of my brain and made me realize...

I need to just Own It.  Why go through life feeling ashamed or embarrassed by my foibles?  Instead, I will just create "Bump Signs"

For instance, I am faithful at going to the dentist but detest flossing.  So, I announce as soon as I sit down.  "I didn't floss again...ever...for 6 months...and I never will."  SO MUCH EASIER than quickly flossing for 2 days prior!

I LOVE leading worship.  Worship I can do.  But I am not a musician.  This used to make me feel horribly inferior when I would walk into a praise band practice.  Now, I just announce, "I do no understand what any one of you are talking about, just tell me where my note is."  Liberation!

For the first couple years of motherhood, I tried to be a Family Fun Mom....you know, Family Fun...the magazine birthed from the depths of Hell to make all moms feel bad about themselves.  Its a treasure trove of fun, easy ideas that any idiot could do.

Family Fun's "Easy Cinderella Cake"

   Except me.  A sinking pirate cake, a "princess castle" that looked more like it was discovered by archeologists 400 years later, and a dozen failed craft attempts with my kids later... I raised the white flag and installed my Bump Sign.  It reads:

SARA EDWARDS DOES NOT "MAKE THINGS"

Freedom!

Yankee Peach-style Castle Cake. 

The facets of my life on which I can now limit my efforts are limitless!  There is no end to the countless ways that I do not need to challenge myself!  At any point, I can take a Bump Sign down...as I do EVERY BIRTHDAY to re-attempt a cake...and then put it right back up when I start feeling bad that I cannot help my daughter weave a potholder.

As I am writing this, my son walked by and said, "Oh, I remember that cake...so weird."  And my daughter just said, "Yeah...that was a really bad one."

The Bump Sign might be indicating a trip to the Publix bakery section next year.