Kirsty, Unhinged

Tag: life

  • Jansen Vacation 2026 and Why I Hate Disneyland

    This year, the Jansens decided to go on a cruise.

    A repositioning cruise. We boarded in Vancouver, spent a day in Victoria, two days in San Francisco, and eventually made our way to Los Angeles.

    We’ve never cruised before, and I have to say, it was pretty good. More on that later.

    First, we need to talk about Disneyland.

    My family has been to Disneyland approximately eleventy-seven times.

    Seriously. I’ve lost count. I think this might be our tenth visit? Which is wild considering I hate it here. 🤣

    And yet, here I am. Again.

    Despite my protests, there was no chance that we were going to end our cruise in Los Angeles and go home. Or, God forbid, do something else.

    And not just for a day.

    FOUR. FUCKING. DAYS.

    So here I am, in California Adventure, drinking a $26 margarita and writing a blog post about why I hate Disneyland.

    I know people love this place. I know it’s magical. I know it’s where dreams come true and childhood memories are made and all that. I too came as a child and it was fairly magical though we drove here and it was the 80’s and then I got the stomach flu and had to cut the trip short 😂

    But I have questions.

    Because I genuinely don’t understand how people enjoy this experience as much as they claim to. Either we’re having wildly different experiences, or some of you are lying. 🤣

    First of all, the cost.

    Our Disneyland tickets alone cost more than our entire cruise for three people.

    We spent six days sailing on a giant floating resort, with food and drinks and entertainment included, for less than the cost of walking through the gates of Disneyland.

    And that’s JUST the tickets.

    Now add the hotel. The meals. The snacks. The souvenirs. The endless parade of overpriced plastic crap that will eventually end up in a landfill.

    And apparently $26 margaritas.

    Which, for the record, I’m drinking without complaint. It’s medicinal at this point and probably the best margarita I’ve ever had 😂

    Then there are the crowds.

    People walking too slowly. People stopping suddenly in the middle of walkways. People pushing strollers. Scooters. Wheelchairs. People standing in lines to get into other lines.

    And the heat.

    It’s 30 degrees.

    For those of you who know me, you know I run hot. I’ve always run hot. But now, and perhaps it has to do with my current age, my internal hellfire is out of fucking control 😂

    So while everyone else is enjoying the magic, I’m sweating like a farm animal.

    And then there’s the sheer sensory overload.

    The noise. The music. The people. The merchandise. The food. The smells. The constant movement. The relentless MORE.

    I feel like I’m at Costco.

    Who the hell wants to feel like they’re doing a Saturday afternoon Costco shop on their vacation?!

    Disneyland is the only place that has consistently broken me.

    I’m not even kidding.

    I’m a reasonably capable woman.

    I can handle a lot.

    But put me in Disneyland for four days and I will absolutely lose my shit.

    One time we came when I was pregnant with Jaime. I can see from where I’m sitting right now- the spot they found me crying 😂

    Them: oh no mom what’s wrong?!

    Me: I stood in line to get into the park. I stood in line for fast passes. I stood in line for rides. Now I all I want is a fucking soup in a bread bowl and there was a line 😭

    Them: sooooo, you sat down here and cried? 🤔

    Me: yes 😭😂

    *guy next to us awkwardly picks up his tray and finds another seat* 😂

    Which begs the obvious question.

    WHY DO WE KEEP COMING BACK?! 🤣

    Well, because apparently I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t love Disneyland. 😂

    I do it for them.

    But that doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to become a Disney Adult.

    Sometimes Jim says things like, “Oh, just relax and enjoy it.”

    And I’m like, OH! OKAY! You’re right! I’ll just relax a little, and then we can skip down Main Street holding hands and singing show tunes! 😂

    As I always say, we all have different likes and dislikes, and that’s okay.

    I like cool weather. Fall. Bookstores. Thrifting. Good friends. Slow mornings. Good food. Old pubs. Antiques. Old buildings. Eccentric people. The fringes of society. A little bit of history.

    Basically, give me a hundred-year-old pub full of questionable characters over a Disney parade any day. 😂

    Which brings me back to the cruise.

    The cruise was cool. But the best part was being with our friends, who are like family ❤️

    We ate. We drank. There were shenanigans. At one point, I spent an entire day in bed with a spectacular hangover, and I have no regrets. 😂

    Our first port was Victoria, one of my favourite cities, which we visit often.

    We did a little bookstore tour. I’m collecting vintage cookbooks, and I’m currently looking for copies of Joy of Cooking published before 1975. Sadly, no luck.

    Then I parked myself in my favourite Irish pub while Jim and Jaime went off to play at their favourite arcade.

    See? Everyone doing things they enjoy. 😂

    Then we hit San Francisco.

    We did the touristy stuff. Wandered the piers, ate soup in bread bowls (without incident, I might add 😂), and toured Alcatraz.

    All very cool.

    But what I really wanted to see was the weirder, grittier side of San Francisco.

    Jim and Jaime might be dragging me through Disney hell, but San Francisco was MY time. 😂

    We went to Haight-Ashbury, the birthplace of the 1960s counterculture movement. It was full of colourful buildings, vintage shops, interesting characters, and a whole lot of history.

    This is where the hippies were. Also Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead 😂

    Haight-Ashbury was also connected to the women’s liberation movement. Women were challenging the idea that their lives had to revolve around marriage, motherhood, housework, and keeping everyone else comfortable.

    They were demanding equal pay, access to education and careers, reproductive rights, control over their own bodies, and the freedom to make choices without asking permission.

    We wandered through the Castro, one of America’s earliest and most famous gay neighbourhoods. We stopped at Twin Peaks Tavern, a historic gay bar known for its big windows looking out onto the street.

    It was one of the first gay bars in the country to be so open and visible at a time when being gay was still heavily stigmatized.

    Unfortunately, we couldn’t stop for a drink because Jaime is twelve. But I did walk inside for a look. 😂

    Then we headed to the Mission District for some thrifting.

    The Mission had a completely different energy. Bright murals, old Victorian buildings beside brightly painted storefronts, record shops, thrift stores, bars, cafés, and little sketchy markets.

    We went looking for thrifted treasures but again, no luck.

    We did get yelled at by a homeless man.

    But that’s okay. These things happen. 😂

    And honestly? I loved every minute of it.

    So here we are. Back at Disneyland.

    And I suppose that’s the thing about family vacations. We don’t all have to love the same things.

    Jim and Jaime love Disneyland. I love wandering through old neighbourhoods, poking around secondhand shops, learning about people who challenged society’s expectations, and drinking in pubs that have been around longer than most of the people in them.

    Neither is wrong.

    Although, obviously, my interests are more interesting. 😂

    And I think that’s what sometimes gets lost. Just because I don’t enjoy something doesn’t mean I’m choosing to be miserable. I’m not failing to appreciate the magic. I’m not being difficult. I just don’t like it.

    And that’s okay.

    I don’t need Jim to love thrift stores any more than he needs me to love Disneyland. Pretty sure the gay neighborhood tour was not on the top of his agenda 😂

    We can do things together, we can do things separately, and we can occasionally drag each other along for the ride.

    Which is how I ended up here for four days. 😂

    So I’ll go on the rides I like. I’ll enjoy the Halloween decorations. I’ll eat my soup in a bread bowl. I’ll laugh with my family and make some more memories.

    And when I’ve had enough, I’ll go back to the hotel, crank up the air conditioning, drink some wine, and enjoy a little peace and quiet.

    Meanwhile, Jim and Jaime can stay until the park closes.

    Everybody wins.

    Well, except our bank account.

    And possibly my nervous system. 😂

    Anyway, my margarita is empty, the temperature is still approximately the surface of the sun, and somewhere out there people are voluntarily standing in a 90-minute lineup for a ride.

    I think I’ll go find some shade.

    Maybe another twenty-six dollar margarita.

    I mean, I’m on vacation right? 😂

  • So I got a new Tattoo

    I got a tattoo this week.

    A fairly large one on my forearm: a black-and-grey rose and iris, an antique pocket watch set to 11:11, and a dragonfly.

    I chose every part of it because it meant something to me.

    What I did not realize was that all of those things apparently mean the same damn thing.

    This discovery has been somewhat alarming because I am not generally known as a particularly deep person.

    I mean, I am deep. But I don’t think that’s the first word anyone who knows me would use.

    Nevertheless, apparently underneath the sarcasm, inappropriate jokes and general fuckery, my subconscious has been quietly working on an elaborate symbolic narrative about transformation, identity, time and the nature of existence.

    Aaaand this is where I let my crazy show lol

    Let me introduce you to Rose and Iris.

    They were women I met in dreams.

    Rose

    I dreamed about Rose a while back.

    The dream took place sometime in the early 1900s. When I first encountered Rose, she was a man. I was with the police, on a call to his apartment.  He was not well.  The police weren’t very nice to him.  I took him aside and asked him is name.

    ‘My name is Rose’

    I saw her at what felt like the lowest point of her life — deeply unhappy, unable to live as who she really was, in a time when doing so would have been extraordinarily difficult and dangerous.

    Later in the dream, I saw her again.

    Except this time, she was Rose.

    She was living as a woman. She was beautiful. She was happy. She was completely herself.

    I hugged her.

    And I told her she was brave.  I told her she was ahead of her time.

    Then I woke up and went about my life like a normal person who had not just travelled to 1910 to emotionally support a transgender woman my brain invented 😂

    Rose stuck with me.  Most dreams fade, but Rose did not.

    Later, when I decided I wanted flowers incorporated into my tattoo, I knew one of them had to be her.

    A rose.

    Which seemed straightforward enough.

    Until I started reading about rose symbolism.

    Roses represent beauty alongside pain — soft petals protected by thorns. They can symbolize growth, healing, transformation and new beginnings. Black roses in particular are often associated with loss, rebellion and strength through difficult times.

    Oh.

    Well.

    That’s extremely subtle, Subconscious.

    Thank you.

    Iris

    Then there’s Iris.

    I met her in a completely different dream.

    Which was ALSO set in the early 1900s.

    Apparently my subconscious has a favourite historical period 🤷‍♀️

    In this dream I had travelled back in time.

    I met Iris running a little shop on a farm. She was a wife and mother and she ran the farm and shop with her family.  (side note: I wanted to buy some farm raised, probably organic meat and bring it back with me – it was dirt cheap in the early 1900’s and surely free of all the crap that’s in our food now😂)

    I told her I was from the future.  She felt her life was boring and she wanted to come back with me.  I said ok, but I warned her:

    “You’re going to need to brace yourself.  It’s very loud there.”

    Honestly, Iris, I stand by that assessment.  It’s loud here lol

    So when I chose the second flower for my tattoo, I chose an Iris.

    Again, I didn’t choose it because I’d researched iris symbolism. I chose it because Iris was her.

    Then I looked up what an iris represents.

    Wisdom. Understanding. Experience.

    Okay. Fine.

    But then I learned that the flower takes its name from Iris, the Greek goddess of the rainbow — a messenger who travelled between realms, the rainbow itself representing a bridge between heaven and earth.

    A woman moving between worlds.

    For my dream woman who literally travelled between worlds with me.

    What’s wild to me, these ladies presented their names to me in my dream; I did not name them.

    At this point I would like to formally request that my subconscious calm the fuck down.

    Then We Have the Watch

    The tattoo also has an antique pocket watch.

    That part already made sense to me. On the surface, time is precious, I desire to live on my own time, blah blah blah. 

    And both Rose and Iris belonged to another time.

    Time. Pocket watch. Done.

    Then, while my tattoo artist was drawing the piece directly onto my arm, she asked what time I wanted the watch set to.

    This was a problem because I had given it approximately zero thought.

    Originally I wanted 8:80 (because another dream)

    But alas, 8:80 does not exist on a clock (which was exactly the point but how you gonna put that on a clock face)

    So she asked what I wanted instead.

    “Oh God. I don’t know.”

    And then, without thinking:

    11:11.

    Sure. Perfect. Let’s do that. That’s a thing 🤷‍♀️

    I did not pause to contemplate the spiritual significance of 11:11. I did not Google symbolic numbers. There was no meditative journey.

    She asked me a question and I panicked.

    And now 11:11 is permanently tattooed on my body.

    It wasn’t until later that I really thought about what I’d chosen.

    11:11 is commonly associated with synchronicity — meaningful coincidences, intuition, alignment, those weird little moments when unrelated things seem to click together so perfectly that you briefly wonder whether the universe is fucking with you.

    Which is an interesting choice for a watch surrounded by two flowers named for women my subconscious introduced to me across time, in dreams.

    Cool cool cool.

    Oh Right. The Dragonfly.

    There’s also a dragonfly.

    Guess what dragonflies symbolize.

    Go ahead.

    I’ll wait.

    Transformation.

    Of course they do.

    Change. Adaptability. Growth. Self-realization. Moving from one state of being into another.

    Because apparently Rose, Iris, the time-travelling pocket watch and 11:11 weren’t enough. My subconscious needed to add a visual footnote saying:

    IN CASE YOU MISSED THE THEME, KIRSTY.

    And that’s when this stopped being a collection of things I liked and started feeling like something else entirely.

    Rose: transformation, courage, rebellion and becoming who you really are.

    Iris: wisdom, understanding and movement between worlds.

    The pocket watch: time. Past and present.

    11:11: synchronicity. Intuition. Meaningful coincidence.

    The dragonfly: transformation and change.

    And I planned almost none of that symbolism consciously.

    I didn’t sit down and say, “I’d like to create a deeply personal visual representation of transformation and the passage of time.”

    Jesus Christ. Can you imagine me saying that?

    I chose things that felt right.

    The meaning came afterward.

    And that’s the part I can’t quite shake.

    Maybe My Brain Knew Before I Did

    There is, of course, a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this.

    Brains are weird.

    We absorb information constantly. We remember things we don’t remember learning. We make associations below the level of conscious thought. We are extraordinarily good at finding patterns and creating meaning from them.

    So maybe somewhere along the way I learned what roses and irises and dragonflies symbolize. Maybe those ideas got tucked away somewhere and resurfaced years later without me knowing why.

    Maybe 11:11 was just the first number that popped into my head.

    Maybe these are all coincidences that became meaningful because I noticed them.

    That’s entirely possible.

    But I also don’t think everything meaningful needs to be scientifically inexplicable in order to matter.

    Sometimes something can just feel a little magical.

    And this does.

    Especially because of when I chose to put it on my body.

    I’ve spent a lot of years being a lot of things to a lot of people.

    I’ve survived things. Carried things. Fixed things. Managed things. Raised people. Led people. Worried about people.

    And somewhere in all of that, parts of me got quieter.

    Lately, though, I’ve had this little uprising.

    A very distinct:

    HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN WHO THE FUCK YOU ARE?

    Apparently the answer was: maybe a little.

    So here she is.

    She’s a little older. She’s got grey hair now. She’s tired. Her back hurts more than it used to.

    But she’s still here.

    So maybe this tattoo is about transformation.

    Maybe it’s about time.

    Maybe it’s about all the different versions of ourselves we become and leave behind and somehow carry with us anyway.

    Maybe it’s about crossing from one version of your life into another.

    Maybe it’s about finding your way back to yourself.

    Maybe it’s witchcraft or the sprits of my ancestors 😂

    I don’t know.

    I just know that Rose and Iris are on my arm now.

    The dragonfly is there.

    The clock says 11:11.

    And somehow, without really meaning to, I ended up permanently wearing a story about becoming— or maybe remembering — who I am.

    Which is surprisingly deep for someone who ordinarily does not admit to even having feelings lol

  • I like being alone …

    Tonight I cooked dinner, as I do. Most nights anyway.  It’s Friday.   I had some wine and put on some music and made nothing fancy. Everyone dispersed and I was alone.  Dinner was done, I know my people were waiting for it, but I wasn’t ready yet. I put it in the oven on warm.  Sorry!  Not done! 

    My plan was foiled when Brad phoned from upstairs.

    “When is dinner?”

    “Oh, well, it’s ready now”

    “Cool.  That was lucky”

    “Yessss.  Lucky indeed.” Lol

    I don’t want any hurt feelings here.  I love my family and I love spending time with them. I love my friends, I enjoy being with my people.  But something else is true.  Some people re-fuel by being around others, some people re-fuel being by themselves.  I am the latter.

    Jim, Jaime and I went on a weekend away last weekend.  It was lovely and we had a great time.  We took a float plane to Victoria.  Our flight home landed downtown and Jim (who’s energy is recharged WITH people) said hey! Why don’t we go to Gastown for lunch at the Spaghetti Factory! 

    Jaime, who is 11 and bless her soul, said:

    “You know Dad, this was fun but my family time battery needs to re-charge.  I think we should just go home” lol

    She is a wise and self-aware little lady.

    I like being alone.  I can spend a whole day all by myself and not be lonely. Those of us like that -we aren’t wrong.  We aren’t weird.  We enjoy ourselves and we need peace and space. And, at the same time, we love our people.

    So if you see me sitting in a restaurant by myself, maybe I’m drinking wine (probably), I might be reading a book, I might just be staring into space.  Just know: I am not alone, I’m just here, living my best life.

  • I Rage Left My House and Ended Up at the Casino and Lost My Library Book

    Today I did a thing.

    I left my house in a fit of rage.

    Not “I’m going to take a mindful walk.”

    I mean: I’ve had enough, I can’t do this anymore, I’m leaving.

    Like: keys, shoes, bye — I am no longer the Human Emotional Support Department.

    I texted our family chat:

    “I’m putting my phone on DND. If you need anything, deal with it yourself or call your dad.”

    And I would like to be clear:
    This is not child abandonment. My boys are adults — 19 and 21.
    My daughter is the most responsible 11 year old on the planet.

    Also: there is a fully capable father.
    You can call him.
    He can manage.

    Anyway.

    I ran some errands.

    I went to the library because my master plan was to find a pub or restaurant to tuck into, drink wine, and read. But in my haste to leave, I didn’t grab my Kobo… so I depended on the old-school sanctuary of the library.

    Library silence is like nervous system ASMR.
    10/10. Highly recommend.
    Everyone whispers. Nobody yells. It’s glorious.

    I found two books that looked enticing. I got both because my love of mysteries is only slightly stronger than my impulsive decision-making during emotional distress.

    Then I went thrifting. I didn’t find anything, but being alone looking at old things is therapy.

    Then I went for late lunch and a glass of wine all by myself and read my new book like someone who has her life together and isn’t two seconds away from hopping on a plane and leaving for good…

    Except I left my passport at home.

    Then I went to the casino.

    Did I win?
    No.

    I lost $60, and I’d like everyone to know that I consider it a reasonable fee for being left alone.

    And I lost my library book in the casino.

    I grabbed my wine, grabbed my purse, cashed out my 37 cents, and left the book on a seat.

    When I went to get it back, casino security pretty much fingerprinted me before they would return it.

    Honestly? Respect.

    Also… such a me thing to lose a library book in a casino.

    “Excuse me, Security… did someone turn in a library book?”

    But alas, during my day to myself, I was not left alone.

    My oldest son texted me no less than 15 times. Nothing urgent. I didn’t respond. Eventually I turned my phone off.

    When I turned it back on, my mom and sister were looking for me.
    Because my oldest had called them.

    Even though I said very clearly I was going out and going on DND.

    Anyway. They found my car at the casino and texted me a picture. They were worried I’d been sold to the sex trade…

    I’m pretty sure at this point in life I’m probably safe from the sex trade. 😅

    Eventually I came home, sat on the couch, and something wild happened:

    My family started slowly converging around me like I’m the sun and they’re all emotionally photosynthesizing.

    No one addressed the earlier chaos.
    No one apologized.
    We just sort of… resumed.

    The dog posted up next to me like a bodyguard.
    Everyone hovered.
    A moment of peace emerged.

    And I realized something:

    I’m not a robot.

    I don’t have infinite capacity.

    I’m allowed to leave the room.
    I’m allowed to be unavailable.
    I’m allowed to shut my phone off when I’m at my limit.

    Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is say:

    “I am not absorbing one more emotion today.”

    I asked my son (19) to pour me a wine… and that kid poured me a chalice.
    To the top.
    Probably a whole bottle.
    A goblet, I would say.

    That kid knows how to pour a glass of wine.

    So that’s the day.

    I didn’t fix everything.
    I didn’t have a breakthrough conversation.
    I didn’t become the bigger person.

    But I did:
    ✅ remove myself
    ✅ protect my peace
    ✅ find my library book
    ✅ and end the day on the couch with wine, a dog, and a family — the cast of characters who are certainly not perfect, but are the stars in my story.

    And honestly?

    That counts.