|Weird, right? My future will never be the same.|
So this is what could have happened during the Great Disney Extravaganza. (This portion is best read while having Tiffany's Could've Been playing in your head.)(Don't know it? Click here.)(You're welcome.)
When we were eating our lunch outside the Pirates of the Caribbean ride in Magic Kingdom and I was a little *stressed* we might miss our Fastpass time for the Jungle Cruise (which was dope), I could have insisted we stay and watch the pirate show that was starting on the stage ten feet from my person and worry about the Jungle Cruise at a later time. Then, had we stayed, I might have noticed that the man playing Jack Sparrow on the stage ten feet from my body was actually Johnny freaking Depp. Because apparently sometimes Johnny D likes to sneak in to Disney World and play Jack Sparrow for fun without announcing it to anyone.
Had I chosen to stay and been the only person to notice with my keen Sublurban Mama Spidey Skillz (actually a thing) that it was really Johnny Depp, I would've
Johnny Depp would recognize from my fine bantering that I'm probably a world class blogger (obviously), follow me on my blog, and in his next public interview, make it known that he is a Sublurbanite. My blog would blow the heck up, and I would be bigger than The Bloggess, landing my own book deal(s) and becoming a famous New York Times Bestseller, while simultaneously fulfilling the occasional demand to be interviewed by the real David Letterman.
However. Instead I rode the Jungle Cruise.
|That elephant? Animatronic. Don't you feel let down? Guess who's not animatronic? Johnny Depp.|
That Jungle Cruise was a pretty costly ride. It cost me my entire retirement plan as I lost my book deals as well as denied me a best friendship with Johnny Depp. (Which? Priceless.)
Or it cost me the opportunity to take his picture from ten feet away. Semantics.
So that is the story of how I did not meet Johnny Depp. Honestly, his loss. Totally.
|"I can't believe I don't read Sublurban Mama."|
This is the story of what could have happened if our friend Ed wasn't so darn reliable and Jack White had a bigger bladder.
Picture this. It's the Saturday of our return around 1:00 p.m. and we are back at the airport in the D. I am wrangling a toddler who has had little to no sleep over the course of seven days. He has had more chicken nuggets and apple juice than one child should consume in a year. He has been confined to a bus seat, stroller, airplane seat, and a stroller again for six hours. So I let him
*Detroit Metro Airport is a little intense about the curbside pickup. I always feel like I'm shooting a war scene while airport employees hustle us along with shouts of, "NO PARKING!" "NO STANDING!" "LOAD UP AND GO!" "KEEP IT MOVING!" There is no meandering towards your ride. There is no room for idle chit chat. When your ride arrives, you book it (not a prison joke). Because that's how Detroit rolls.
It was at this time that I saw Jack freaking White. Jack White of the White Stripes. Jack White just chilling out twenty feet away, looking up at the baggage claim board, searching for his flight numbers so he could collect his luggage the same way I did a half an hour earlier. It's like we already live similar lives.
I freaked the heck out trying to find my camera, which of course was in my purse which was in the basket of the stroller buried under everyone's jackets. Seriously?
As I was frantically pawing around for my camera, Jack White turned and started to walk away...straight to the bathroom. And I couldn't follow him because
But that's okay. I'm patient. I could wait for Jack to finish his business.
Except this is when our super dependable friend Ed showed up in our minivan, ready to escort us home. (Disclaimer: Ed is the jam. I appreciate him so much. He got up at o'dark thirty the week before to drive us to the airport, and was giving up his Saturday afternoon to be on call to come and drive us home. He is awesome.) I'm not trying to imply that Ed ruined my life with his impeccable timing, but if I was given five more minutes, this would have been my future.
If I would've made it over to Jack White, I would've offered him a ride home. And because my minivan packed with four kids and a week's worth of luggage for six people is way more inviting and comfortable than some personal and private Metro Car, Jack would have jumped at the chance to accompany us.
On our drive home, Jack would be witness to my unparalleled air drumming (which is 95 percent passion and 5 percent actual rhythm) and be so blown away he would insist that we jam together in real life. This would lead to a new collaboration with Jack freaking White and Sublurban Mama that would obviously go double platinum and provide me the rock star lifestyle I know is somewhere in my future. (This may happen with Jack White, or happen as part of a cover band at Disney World.)(I'm still undecided.)
But none of that will ever happen; Jack and I have no future, because our meeting was over before it began.
So while I tried to corral the kiddos into the minivan, buckling car seats and booster seatbelts, I glanced over my shoulder into the airport to see Jack again. And I did see him once more. Forlornly, out the window of my vehicle, while it was driving away. Slowly but surely driving away from Jack White who never got the pleasure of meeting me. My nose may have rested on the window, my palm pressed beside my woebegone face while I mouthed, "Jack." (Okay, maybe that's just me being a bit dramatic.)
|"Hi, I'm Jack White. I can't believe I grew up so close to Kelly and we never crossed paths. Now, as I have a return visit to my hometown, I still can't believe I didn't meet her. Looks like money and fame can't buy you everything."|