Disneyland Survival Kit (Suzanne Forster)

Can you tell I’m grouchy? Wanna know why? Probably not. I can almost hear the chorus of NOs! out there. Well, tough nuggies. I’m going to tell you anyway because that’s the kind of mood I’m in.

I’m going to Disneyland. Again.



I have a friend from high school visiting, and that’s where she wants to go for the day. Make no mistake, she’s a great lady, to know her is to love her, but can you imagine? She went to school in the Jurassic period, same as me. Her kids are grown and gone. She’s staring her golden years dead in the eye, and she wants to spend the day getting blisters at a theme park? Somebody get out the tranquilizer gun.

I was thinking lunch at a lovely restaurant with a glass or two of wine where we could reminisce about the good ol’ days, congratulate each other on having come a long way, baby, and toast our survival. I’d imagined following that with a leisurely walk through one of our world-class malls, or if we’re in want of fresh air then maybe a stroll in the park. But not a theme park!!

Now, I know lots of you who live in other parts of the country and don’t have a Disneyland in your back yard would probably love to go to the historic original version, right here in sunny southern California, and my friend is one of you. But I’ve lived here going on thirty years, and I swear, everybody who comes to visit wants to go to Disneyland. I could be a tour guide! The Disney people should have me on their blinking payroll. Yeah, that’s what they should do.

But I’m not holding my breath. What I am doing is preparing—and here’s my survival kit so far:

Industrial strength bandages, the highest number sun block in existence, bulk antacid for the theme park fast food, orthopedic shoes, Mickey Mouse repellant, and LOTS OF MONEY. Disneyland doesn’t come cheap these days. Dramamine might not be a bad idea for those death-defying thrill rides, and a rain slicker for the one where they try to drown you.

For the long lines to the rides, maybe a portable stool and a good book? And for the restroom lines? NASA diapers?

Let’s see, what else?

Gatorade, blister ointment, sunglasses, floppy hat, Tylenol, preferably with codeine, moist Towelettes to wipe up the inevitable cotton candy that some kidlet will paste me with, my chiropractor’s cell phone number. And, oh yes, a big honking backpack to put it all in, which, of course, I will have to lug around all day.

Am I too young for one of the HoverRound chairs they advertise on TV? Actually, I’m hoping Disneyland has those golf cart-type thingees. I’m going to rent one and drive too fast. And let this be a warning to any humans dressed like mice or other furry creatures. I don’t brake for animal impersonators. Meanwhile, I’m going to put in another call to my friend and see if she’s come to her senses.

Big cleansing breath, Suzanne.

Okay, better. Good to get that off my chest. Now, maybe I can go and not be dangerous to society at large. I always did like Pirates of the Caribbean, and I hear it’s new and improved since my last visit. I might even run into some Johnny Depp look-alikes.

Captain Jack, take me away …

Suz