Star Struck!

It was just like that time at Disney World, when My Lovely Wife and kids jumped out of the van and ran to the bathroom because they all had to pee furiously after a nine-hour ride from North Carolina.

Well, okay, it wasn't exactly like it, because no one had to pee and we had driven only an hour north to Raleigh, but you'll see what I mean in a minute.

When they came back from the bathroom that day in Florida, a young woman with a clipboard was following them. She told us we had been chosen, as part of Disney's Year of a Million Dreams, for a free upgrade to Concierge Level at the Grand Floridian Resort. The building required room keys for entry and provided a free breakfast, free evening reception, and even free beer and liquor in the evening. We later researched the value of this gift from the Great Mouse of the Everglades only to find we would have paid well over $1,000 for the luxury.

You must understand, we're not the kind of people who often get smacked in the back of the head with that kind of luck. So, when fate does smile upon us from time to time, we are genuinely taken by surprise and just as genuinely grateful. We get gratefully giddy, in fact, and trip all over ourselves to repeatedly express our gratitude.

Such was the case this past Sunday evening.

We had traveled to Raleigh for an evening performance of the "Mythbusters: Behind the Myths" live stage show. My Lovely Wife and I have watched the Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel ever since the show premiered almost a decade ago. Our children have grown up admiring the antics of the show's stars, Jamie Hyneman and Adam Savage. Now, there they would be, just a hundred feet in front of us on stage. Talk about perfect entertainment for the entire family!

On the way into the theater, the Italian commented on how awesome it would be if we got to meet Jamie and Adam, shake their hands, maybe even talk to them. We made sure he understood that was not going to happen. We were there only to see the show.

After running back out to the van to get our camera after finding out we were allowed to bring them in with us, I heard My Lovely Wife frantically calling my name. A very tall man with a clipboard in his hand and backstage credentials hanging around his neck was standing next to her. She excitedly explained that our boys had been chosen to appear in the show. Would that be okay?

Let's see. Hell, yes!

Will, the young man with the clipboard, led us to the stage left dressing room where Bob, a model of calm efficiency, explained the parts the boys would play in the show and fitted them with eerily lifelike masks of their scientific heroes. The Italian balked at first -- the whiskers scratched his face and the mask made him a little nervous -- but he quickly recovered. The German was thumbs up from the word go.

The five of us watched the first act backstage from the wings which, though exciting, rather limits what one can see and hear. We got the general gist of everything, however, and the cast and crew danced excitedly around us in a neatly choreographed production.

When it came time for the boys to get ready, we headed back to their dressing room and got them fitted in their costumes, complete with matching outfits to those being worn by the Mythbusters. The joke went over with a tremendous laugh from the audience as the boys took the place of Jamie and Adam on stage for a quick sight gag. Adam even got the boys' names right when he introduced them to the crowd.

We got to meet the Mythbusters twice that evening during the intermission, before and after the boys got out of their costumes. A crew member took pictures as the boys and their big sister got autographs and chit-chatted with the two down-to-earth stars of the show.

Jamie and Adam thanked us for letting the boys be in the show, while we tripped over ourselves to thank them for giving our family an experience we will never forget.

© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Chronicled Hives

My experiences with hives vary from minor irritation to throat-tightening panic. That said, the infrequency of occurrences hasn't led to an exhaustive search to figure out the cause of my breakouts. They come, they go, I put them behind me.

The first time the German turned up hivey, we didn't make any more of if than a fluke occurrence. We medicated him until he was clear and didn't really give it much thought until he had a significant breakout five months later.

We were assembling a seesaw the twins had received as a birthday present when I noticed the red splotches. That weekend, at his sister's dance recital, we had to pump the German full of Benadryl just so he could tolerate his own skin. Beginning that May, we entered into a period in which our family phsycian prescribed multiple rounds of prednisone and allegra, which would help until the medication ran out and the hives returned full force. His condition would occasionally kick into overdrive, causing his skin to swell and making him almost unrecognizable.

A visit to a local allergist proved almost useless. If you've ever been to a doctor who could care less whether or not people continued breathing, let alone sustained a bearable quality of life, that was the kind of "expert" to whom we were recommended. The only good thing that came out of that visit was his referring us to Duke. Not that he had high hopes for us. When we asked which doctor we should request, he said "Just be happy with who you get," and then told us it could take months to get an appointment.

To shorten a long story, we ended up in the hands of a dedicated, inquisitive, experienced professional at Duke. She asked questions. She ran mulitple tests. She considered all the possible options. Then, when we felt she was on the cusp of resolving the German's hive issue, she transferred to research and referred us to someone else.

We headed next over to Duke Children's Hospital where we met with a doctor whose name I don't recall. We saw him only once, maybe twice, but he wanted to go in a completely different direction from the other Duke doctor we had been seeing. The change unnerved us. He also talked about running tests, such as a biopsy of one of the German's hives, that sounded painful and, to my uneducated ears, futile. I could understand a biopsy of a permanent item, like a mole or a wart or a birthmark, but what possible good could come from cutting a chunk out of a transient discoloration of the skin of a six-year-old boy?

During those first months we heard many scary words we were told might be associated with his condition. For some reason, some of the more frightening of them began with the letter L, like Lupus and Leukemia and Lymphoma. The only thing we weren't hearing was a name for the German's condition. Not knowing what to call it only heightened our fears.

There were many times when the hives kept the German from participating. Being around animals seemed to make his skin worse, as did spending time outside on hot days and working up a sweat playing with his siblings and friends.

He was hit hard by a flare-up during a trip to Disney World in 2008. Although we had kept him on his regime of prescription medications, all the activity was proving too much for him. The night of his sister's birthday dinner he desperately wanted to experience the fun of a flume ride in Epcot's World Showcase, but his skin crawled with red splotches and the itchiness drove him to tears. We took him to the Epcot infirmiry where they graciously provided a dose of Benadryl. It gave him relief only because it knocked him out.

That said, there were some not-so-subtle reminders along the way for us to keep our imaginations from running amok.

One day, at Duke Children's Hospital for yet another round of bloodwork and assessment, we passed a mother and young child, maybe 9 or 10 years old at most. The mother tried to provide a comforting embrace as her child wept uncontrollably. A woman with a clipboard and a handful of brochures was talking to them about the Make A Wish Foundation. It was one of those moments when you wish you hadn't intruded on someone else's suffering, even if they hadn't noticed you. It also was one of those moments when you tell yourself things could be much worse than they are. Our son had hives that itched. That child had been handed a death sentence. Note to self: Quit bitching.

Luckily, at the same time we saw Duke's Dr. Biopsy, we also were referred to an infectious disease specialist whose attitude moved and encouraged us. Not that she took us any closer to a resolution, but she was readily available to us via email and was genuinely concerned with helping us figure out what was going on.

Through pure good fortune, a volunteer at the boys' school who had been working with the German on his reading skills noticed the hives. She knew of another family that had a son with a similar condition. She approached My Lovely Wife and asked if it would be okay if she put our family in touch with that other family. It was an exciting breakthrough.

Not long thereafter we found ourselves at VCU, Virginia Commonwealth University, meeting with a pediatric immunologist widely considered to be one of the nation's leading authorities in her field. She and her team spent four hours with us, exhaustively questioning, poking, proding, observing, reviewing past bloodwork results, ordering new bloodwork, and looking over the slew of prescription medications we had been pumping daily into the German at the advice of the doctors who came before her.

It was the first time in over a year of medical appointments that we had a name to put to the condition: Chronic Hives. As the specialist explained, if you have hives for more than three weeks without a clear indication of a related allergen, then you call it chronic hives.

Turns out the German's mast cells, which create and distribute histamines throughout the body in response to an allergic reaction, were confused. They were pumping out histamines at breakneck speed even though no allergens were to be found. For lack of a better analogy, they were stuck in the "on" position and have remained so ever since.

The best thing to come of our visit to VCU was the elimination of prescription strength medications we feared could have deleterious effects if taken daily over long periods of time. They weren't even doing a very good job of keeping the hives at bay.

Each day since that first meeting at VCU, the German has taken only two Pepcids and one Zyrtec, and the results have been consistently clear skin and an elimination of the itching.

Thinner By a Strand

Two months ago, I tried behaving myself.

"No more pizza, French fries, or beer," I said.

Our spring break Disney cruise was fast approaching and I didn't need a scale to tell me I was overweight. When your "skinny" jeans won't button and your shirt collars make your head feel like it's about ready to pop off, you know you've been over-indulging. Fortunately, I wasn't too far gone. Maybe just 10 pounds would do the trick, get me into the zone in which I could kid myself into thinking the lack of love handles meant I was in good shape.

One month ago, I made a second attempt at behaving.

"Stop dropping handfuls of dark chocolate into your fat free yogurt," I told myself.

I had managed to nix the beer, fries and pizza, but the chocolate kept throwing itself at me, demanding to be eaten while simultaneously preaching to me about the many suspected health benefits of two ounces daily of dark chocolate. And, if two ounces is good for me, then ten ounces is like a super strength multivitamin with a V8 chaser and a few laps around the block thrown in for good measure.

Portions were also undermining my efforts. I was reminded of a time, long ago, when I went to a salad bar with a friend who was trying to diet. He layered his plate with lettuce, then piled it high with eggs, cheese, croutons, bacon bits, and full fat thousand island dressing. Hey, it was a salad, right?

Two weeks ago, I started giving up.

"Just try to maintain the weight you're at now," I said.

Maybe if I hold at my present puffiness, I can pull a desperation fast at the last minute and board the ship with a few pounds of wiggle room. I gain five pounds once my feet leave the gangplank, so I've got to give it some kind of effort before hitting the buffet, the formal dinner, the cocktail hour, the poolside cantina, the breakfast buffet, and the room service.

One week to go, and the hard reality of a failed effort presented itself in the form of a half dozen pairs of shorts that no longer fit comfortably around the waist. I could try kidding myself into thinking there must be something wrong with our storage bins, because these all fit fine last summer, but what's the point? Besides, we bought enough new clothes for the trip that I don't have to worry about running around the ship pantsless, which is a good thing since this is a family cruise.

At the very least, I feel better about myself since yesterday because my Lovely Wife cut my hair, and not a moment too soon. No longer thick enough to be called shaggy at any length, my hair was nonetheless far too long and becoming increasingly unruly. It either poofed out in ways that made me look like I'd been dropped on my head at birth, or it was shellacked into place like I'd combed it with buttered toast. Now at a much more reasonable length, it draws less attention to the chubby roundness of my face.

But maybe it isn't just a trick of the eye. Maybe this magical haircut actually did help take off some of that excess weight I'd been trying to shed for the last couple months. A quick trip to the bathroom scale proved my assumption correct. I had lost four pounds since that morning, all thanks to my Lovely Wife's tonsorial talents!

Of course, keep in mind the scale is psychotic. On Saturday, it said I was 211. This morning, it told me I was 164. Regardless, I choose to believe my haircut makes me look four pounds thinner, and therefore I am.

All I need to know now is which deck has the midnight buffet...



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

What Price Movie Night?

Let's set the record straight from the get go: we are a Disney-loving family.

We've spent enough money on Disney movies, vacations, toys, clothing and other assorted paraphernalia that our children ought to be entitled to Disney-funded college scholarships. When we travel to Disney World, we schedule and map the experience ad nauseam. We know which park we are visiting on what day, where we will be eating at exactly what times, and we carry a customized itinerary with us lest we forget.

Some time in early 2011 we will board the brand new Disney Dream -- our first Disney cruise. Not that we're obsessing, but my Lovely Wife and I have read every blog post and watched every snippet of construction video Disney has thrown out to the cyber world. I could probably walk the ship, bow to stern, with my eyes closed and tell you exactly where I was.

Such is our fascination with and admiration for all things Disney.

So, when the German and the Italian selected a classic Disney feature cartoon for our family movie night this evening, I was suitably pleased. Which one did they pick? No, not Cinderella. Not Dumbo, either. Not even Jungle Book. The Italian nominated and the German seconded The Sword in the Stone.

Released in 1963, The Sword in the Stone was the last animated feature released while Walt Disney was still alive. It was a financial success at the time and fairly well received by the critics. Of course, this was only one year before Gilligan's Island premiered on national television and won the hearts of millions, which goes to show even fifty years ago you couldn't put much stock in public opinion.

It might seem strange to those of us too young to recall but the Disney studios did not always sustain the film-a-year average the company has maintained since 1985. At the time of its release, The Sword in the Stone was only the third animated feature film from Disney since 1955's magical Lady & the Tramp, and it would be another four years before the release of the passable Jungle Book. This makes it all the stranger to me that the film should lack not just one or two, but all the ingredients that make other Disney films delightful. You'd think with that much time to pull the project together it would work on at least one level.

But our sons had happily and jointly selected the mercifully short film for our viewing. Although I know they were more excited about the prospect of a shared family experience than which movie we ended up watching, I still didn't want to hurt their feelings by ragging on the film they had picked. I remember my younger days spent playing songs for all in the house to hear and thinking how much fun everyone else must be having listening to my music. Doesn't everyone want to hear "The Tennessee Birdwalk," "You Can't Roller Skate In a Buffalo Herd," or the flip side of the "New Zoo Review" album for the millionth time?

If my parents could humor me way back then, then I can do the same for my children now, especially when all they really want is to snuggle up next to us and share an hour or two. Unfortunately, our love for our children didn't make the movie any less painful to watch. After 79 minutes of horrendous story-telling, screeched dialogue, and mind-bogglingly disassociated musical interludes, the only reward necessary for our time served was the smiling faces of our boys as they thanked us for letting them climb into our bed for a movie night.


© 2010 Mark Feggeler

Burgers Are Out?!

I fear my faith in Disney World -- that holiest of holy purveyors of Americana -- might have been shattered!

Someone representing their Portobello Restaurant this very evening posted on Facebook that "burgers are out." According to this subversive propaganda, which I think somehow links to an as-yet-unidentified international conspiracy, meatball sliders are replacing burgers on the restaurant's menu.

Deep breath... Count to ten, slowly.

Okay, shake it off. It must be a mistake. Meatballs?

Now, I love meatballs as much as the next man, maybe even more. It's no mistake that I married an Italian, and while I didn't marry her just to get her Mother's meatball recipe, it did sweeten the pot. What also sweetens the pot is the homemade tomato sauce my Mother-in-Law taught us to make. Throw in a few sweet Italian sausages and you have yourself a party in your mouth!

Meatballs have every right to be on every restaurant's menu. They've earned it. They're yummy, and fattening, and they make you happy.

But to suggest these delectable Italian lumps of ground meat and seasonings should take the place of iconic American lumps of ground meat and seasonings is, well... It's un-American! That's what it is! And for this to happen at Disney World, the mecca of American capitalism and overindulgence, is sickening.

I say, let the meatball take center stage for a little while before it joins the ensemble cast of a menu. I'm fine with that. The burger has no ego to protect. It's unassuming and gracious.

Just look at all the other foods that get along so well with burgers: pickles, coleslaw, chili, cheese (too many kinds to list), onions, breads & buns of various backgrounds, bacon, ham, lettuce, barbecue sauce, mustard, mayonnaise, special sauces made of wildly different ingredients (but mostly just a mix of mayonnaise and ketchup with some relish thrown in), relish, and bleu cheese dressing.

And don't forget that staple of Italian cooking itself, the tomato. The tomato loves burgers so much it can go on sliced or processed into ketchup! I don't see it double-teaming meatballs like that, do you?

Come on, Disney, quit screwing around!

You want to have your luau feast at the Polynesian? Go for it! You want to feature cuisines from around the world at Epcot? More power to ya! You want to serve me a turducken and tell me it's the latest craze in Portugal? Well, that would be a little strange.

But when you think you can topple the greatest, most beloved representative of American culinary culture from its rightful place at the top of the mountain and then boast about it to the world on the internet, you have gone too far.


ⓒ 2010 Mark Feggeler