mousecommunication

"Any time you can end with the word 'shiskabob', you know you had a solid set."

-- Charlie Hatton, after my set at the Studio

MouseCommunication

By: Jenn Dlugos

Mickey was serenading my cell phone.

I just returned from the annual Mother-Daughter Orlando shopping expedition. Mom’s shopping mirrors a grizzly bear hunting salmon. Everything upstream from her shopping cart is fair game. Full schools of closeouts, sales, and clearance racks meet extinction in her presence. My father, the innocent bystander to Half Cost-eau’s expeditions, enrolled Mom in a hotel-rewards credit card after MasterCard sent the monthly statement in a musical greeting card that played “Taps.” They now own a small Marriott in Northern Sweden.

As grizzlies don’t migrate until salmon run dry, Mom departs a destination only after the acquisition of the Perfect Souvenir. Said souvenir’s technical specifications weave a complex flowchart of height/width requirements, décor considerations, and seasonal fads. Previous vacation knowledge rarely assists the Quest, as the last three nominees into the Souvenir Hall of Fame included a Grinch Santa Hat, a hand-woven Nantucket rug, and a miniature wooden grizzly bear nativity scene. These items coexisting under one roof remain proof positive that my mother runs the Matrix. Or at least the Matrix gift shop.

This year’s Quest hit an iceberg immediately.

“Nothing caught my eye at the airport.” Mom announced.

Our Christmas tree dons an I KISSED SHAMU! ornament. If Shamu found out about this, he’d sue Mom for slander. We have never met Shamu or visited Seaworld. Every Orlando theme park has its own airport store, so Mom can initialize the Quest before even stopping at baggage claim. This year’s initial inspection indicated that the entire Orlando Kingdom failed to design the Perfect Souvenir.

For days we hunted from the waters of the Caribbean to the plains of Neverland. I lost count how many times I held up items grunting “This?”, only to be shot down with a Souvenir Technical Specification. We entered the final store a mere 16 hours before departure, the impending doom evident. We neared Mordor without the One Souvenir to Rule Them All.

I thought the Orlando heat caused the seraphim chanting. I never saw the clearance sign -- the heavenly glow, blinding.

“A singing Mickey Mouse egg timer!”

Mom’s egg timer broke during the 2006 Christmas Baking Inferno. For the last 11 months, she searched for the quintessential replacement for the 30-year-old artifact. Quest fulfilled.

Two days later, my coveted daytime cell minutes were speaking to the egg timer. When it ceased its serenade, Mom confessed her only Quest regret.

“I should have bought two. It’s a perfect gift. ”

I glanced at my shirt which sported “I met a pirate and all he pillaged for me was this stupid shirt”. A perfect souvenir that doubles as the perfect gift? It really is the most magical place on earth.