Cathedrals? You Want Cathedrals?

Ryan asked me why I took a trip to Europe and all I've been sharing are pictures of cars, mustards, and luggage. It's all about the story, I told him. Those are the stories that came out first.

But if you want a story about cathedrals, I can give you one.

We saw a lot of cathedrals. We saw cathedrals that were buried underground, under the city, under a new modern world.

We saw other cathedrals that were grand and foreboding and bustling with tourists.

There were some that were famous because of people who worshipped there (namely, a young Pope John Paul II).

There were some that looked like castles.

And some that were solitary, quiet and chill.

There was plenty of hauntingly beautiful stained glass.

And plenty of beautifully haunting sculpture and art.

There were cathedrals to lose yourself in.

And there were some to set you straight. (Well, at least your watch.)

Here is the thing about cathedrals---I can't help but think about the building of them. I can barely imagine the blueprints, the finding and preparing of materials, the back-breaking labor to create them. I look at the arches and steeples, practically on their tippy toes as they reach for heaven, and the thought crosses my mind that they might be trying too hard. (Bless their hearts.) I want to say Hey, Cathedral, you're coming on a bit too strong. Take it down a notch. You don't have to kill yourself, throwing up every ornate idea that ever crossed your mind. God is just as into minimalism. (I think.)

Then I realize that I have judged, something God himself advises against, and I feel sort of bad.

The truth is, cathedrals don't do it for me. In all honesty, the most spiritual moment I felt inside any one of these buildings was when I looked at this.

The picture doesn't do it justice, but I promise it was spectacular. Yes, the window itself was jaw-dropping, but it was all the fuzzy reflections on the wall that stopped me, stirred something inside. The colors were brilliant and ethereal, real yet not real in the very same moment. In retrospect, maybe that's what I missed. Maybe that's the whole entire point. Maybe the purpose of a cathedral is not about building something beautiful for God, but about building something that lets us see God's beauty reflected back. I can imagine God sighing and saying, Thanks for the pretty window, but let me show you what I can do.

I don't know. That kind of makes God seem like a one-upper, but maybe you get what I mean.

The Things We Carried

Please tell me you've seen Joe Versus The Volcano. It's a fine piece of cinema and the most adorable example of the Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan chemistry we all used to know and love. If you've seen it, you'll understand why I had to take a photo of this trunk in the window of Louis Vuitton in Vienna. Joe was going to jump in a volcano, and therefore needed good luggage. In fact, (SPOILER ALERT FOR A MOVIE FROM 1990!) the luggage eventually saves Joe's life.

Our luggage, on the other hand, nearly killed us on our trip. You know how people say you should pack light when you travel, especially overseas? It turns out that they were not only serious about that, but completely accurate. Lugging around your stuff, even stuff you love, sucks like a Hoover. When I packed a couple of extra shirts in my bag, they weighed only a fraction of an ounce. By the time I'd transferred them on and off two airplanes, two trains, two taxis and one bus, they weighed 23 pounds. Each.

Before he packed his bags, Ryan downloaded travel guru Rick Steve's recommended packing list. It basically said to bring two shirts, one jacket, a pair of pants and a toothbrush. Oh, and some clean underwear if you're into that sort of thing. Ryan puzzled over the list for a few minutes, then tossed it over his shoulder and said, "That guy's an idiot."

Oh, Rick Steves. We repent and grovel and request thy forgiveness.

Ryan realized pretty quickly of his mistake and tried to warn me, since I was joining him later, but the thing about life is that you really can't avoid some of the big mistakes just because people wiser and more experienced than you tell you in exact, step-by-step detail how to avoid them.

Dear Self of Early October, CURSE YOU AND YOUR AMPLE VARIETY OF WELL COORDINATED OUTFITS! Auf Wiedersehen, Mid-October Self.

To add insult to injury (or backache to arm ache), I picked up some fragile souvenirs that were made out of ceramic and (apparently) lead. That tube of mustard I blogged about? It weighs 108 pounds. The bags just kept getting heavier and heavier. And with every heave and ho, we smacked our foreheads with more and more resentment.

The next time around, we will be so wise. We will print out a new Rick Steves packing list and we will hold it lovingly in our arms. We will study it and honor it and follow it with the exactness. And when we are tempted to put that extra t-shirt into our tiny suitcase, the one that is begging to be worn overseas and immortalized in vacation photos, we will say to that extra t-shirt, "Go jump in a volcano."

Mustard as a Souvenir

Not only do I prefer their cars, but I prefer Europe's cutting edge mustards, too.  I picked up a few varieties as a souvenir. I've been putting mustard on pizza, pretzels, fingertips---and on Sunday, I used some in the most amazing butternut squash sauce for our pasta.

(I like how the one that looks like a tube of toothpaste, don't you?) I know I should be pacing myself, but I've got the fever. Mustard fever. And the only cure for it is more mustard.

P.S. Want the pasta sauce recipe?

Butternut Sauce

1 butternut squash, cut into two-inch cubes (I bought the pre-cut ones at Costco)

1 can chicken broth

3 cloves of minced garlic

olive oil

3 tablespoons of grated parmesan cheese

3 tablespoons of brown or dijon mustard 

4 tablespoons brown sugar

salt

pepper

Directions

Put squash in an oven-safe pot or crock pot and drizzle it with olive oil, then add salt and pepper. Dump all the other ingredients in and stir together, then roast in a 250-degree oven (or the low setting on the crock pot) for at least 4 hours, or until the squash is completely mushy and the house smells good. Use a hand blender (zhuzher) or regular blender to blend it all together, making it creamy in texture. Serve over pasta (or add another can or two of chicken broth and eat it as a soup).

Czech It Out

In our household, it's all about the cars. My boys are in and out of obsession with car makes, models, and other interesting specs like speed, horsepower, and how many houses one could purchase to equal the cost of one. Luxury sports cars are an especially popular subject, and given the option, I'm sure our boys would choose homelessness if given the chance to have a fine set of wheels in exchange.

If I had to guess, this sweet little Maserati is the probably the equivalent of a nice three-bedroom house with a two-car garage, plus a town home or two. We spotted it in Prague and had to take some souvenir photos of it for the boys. They were almost as giddy about it as they were about the giant tube of mentos we brought them.

A Day Alone, Plus the Most Romantic Thing Ever Said to Me

In Warsaw, I spent most of one day by myself while Ryan taught. It was fun and quiet, like solitude can be. I felt so adventurous flying solo with only a couple of poorly pronounced Polish words in my pocket. I wandered in and out of shops, walked up and down the streets, and even took my lone self to lunch at a tiny café where I ordered a mile-high chicken sandwich and a tiny bottle of "Coke Light."

The sandwich was so grand, I took out my camera and documented it because there was no one across the table from me to appreciate its ginormousness. I deconstructed it with a knife and a fork, eating it in awkward pieces and wishing I had ordered the spaghetti instead.

After lunch, I wandered more. I people-watched and listened to my iPod. It was strange to have the soundtrack of my regular, suburban life playing in my ears in this foreign place. I almost turned it off, but then decided to keep it on in hopes that the next time I heard those songs they would remind me of Warsaw.

There was only one real task on my agenda and that was to find the street vendor with the oil paintings. We'd picked out a favorite two days before and tried to give the man a low-ball offer, being the savvy travelers that we are. (Smirk.) He counter-offered, but only for a little less. Our counter-counter-offer was to walk away and tell him we'd think about it. He let us walk away, which led me to believe that we'd reached the lowest price.

I left my art buying until the end of the afternoon. I found the little side street where he set up shop and reminded him of our last negotiated price. He smiled as he put the painting in an old Hugo Boss plastic bag and exchanged it for my money, tipping his hat as I walked away to meet up with Ryan.

The statue in the square was our meeting place, but it was crowded with a bunch of teenagers, so I found a spot nearby where I could wait and watch for Ryan. He spotted me before I found him. He gave a nod and then grinned as I walked toward him.

"What?" I asked, smiling back.
"I would pick you out of a crowd," he said and pulled me close.

Hey, Wanna See a Picture of Me Wielding a Gun?

Well, there it is.

My Weekend in (Mental) Pictures

We spent the weekend in New York with Alyssa, schlepping around the city in search of our next good meal or snack and enjoying the company. The day before we left, I purchased a new handbag---a smaller, strap-across-the-chest, hands-free bag. Whenever I carry my regular bag, I become the family pack mule and my ample bag digs into my shoulder by the end of the day. I celebrated my independence with a bag too small to hold much more than my wallet, phone, and lip gloss.

And, unfortunately, too small for my camera. Oops.

You'll have to imagine all the fabulous sights, okay? And while you're at it, imagine that I lost 23 pounds and grew six inches taller. This is going to work out swell.

Look at us on the speed boat, out in the harbor, the wind in our hair. See the kids getting soaked by the spray? Max's shorts were wet for an hour, and all the adults were jealous.

That's us in Puma City, the World Cup party headquarters sponsored by Puma. The boys have been caught up in the World Cup, so we couldn't resist getting some team t-shirts (Brazil and Ivory Coast) with free customization. Plus, we got free vuvuzelas with our purchase! Even though we can't remember the word vuvuzela and substitute it for Vesuvius and Venezuela and Voldemort the entire trip.

Speaking of the Vesuvius, can you see the look of suprise/delight/annoyance on the faces of passersby as my boys trumpet around the city? We startled one homeboy on his way out of the subway terminal. He shouted, "What the fudgesicle is that?" (We may as well substitute other words, don't you think?) When he realized it was Max and his Vesuvius, he bashfully said, "Oh! It's all right, little man." Thanks, homeboy.

Oh, here's a good photo. We're walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Christian kept looking down through the wooden slats to the water below, even though it freaked him out. He said it was addicting. By the end of the walk, he had Alyssa addicted too.

After standing in line in Brooklyn (doesn't that sound like the title of a good song?), we were seated for pizza at Grimaldi's. We ordered two large pizzas, even though it was going to be way too much food. Or was it? It looks like we ate all but one piece. See how bloated and ecstatic we look?

After a subway ride back and a movie, we settled in for a good night's sleep in Alyssa's new apartment. Isn't it nice? It looks like the new and improved version of her old one, which is awesome and confusing at the same time. It's like her old apartment had a little augmentation done, if you know what I mean.

Sunday was much more low-key. There we are strolling the city, visiting the Intrepid museum, staking out a spot for fireworks on Alyssa's rooftop, and cooking a picnic dinner. I deleted the (imaginary) photos of the mayhem that began on the roof, when too many people wanted in and the security guard was threatening to send everyone to Time Out if they didn't start playing nice. No sense remembering that ugly scene.

We ditched the roof and carried our picnic down 57th street until we found this lovely piece of hot, New York concrete. We laid out our blankets and feasted on one of the most delicious summer picnics I've ever had. Doesn't the food look amazing? Steak salad, corn salad, watermelon salad, and potato salad. I had at least three offers to buy our food--it was that gorgeous. Nice job, Alyssa.

Check out these photos of the fireworks. Aren't they spectacular? I like the new ones that look like Saturn, and three dimensional cubes, and smiley faces. But, my heart will always belong to these glittering, white, willowy beauties.

The streets were packed with literally millions of people. It was fun to see these rough-around-the-edges New Yorkers ooohing and ahhhing over the fireworks. Look at them, a sea of heads and little digital cameras and phones.

It was also fun to see this crazy Chinese woman smacking another lady in the head for standing in her way. She is an interesting character---a statue of pure discontent---magically brought to life to whack somebody in the head and utter threats about Chinese fudgesicles. Who does this?

Only in America.

Hello There, Stranger

Well.

I didn't mean to be gone quite so long, but you know how it goes... First, my parents come into town and then spring break comes along and before I know it,  I've forgotten how to blog. Be careful, it could happen to you too.

But I'm back. With the remains of a sunburn that are fading into a tan, and a long list of items that have been fixed by my dad around my house. I couldn't be happier.

The problem with being gone for so long is that I feel compelled to write about it all, because it was enchanting, but (lucky for you) I don't have that kind of attention span. So, I will just summarize a few of the truths I discovered spending a week with my parents, and then a week on vacation:

• Having my parents stay is like having kindly, live-in servants. Rich people are so lucky.
• If we set our minds to it, we really can eat an entire giant bowl of fruit in one week.
• Take time to wander in small shops; they could be selling magic pants.
• A trip to the beach is not the same without the bacon ice cream store.
• Field of Dreams is actually a very strange story. How did we miss that in 1989?
• Some gas station food is actually good.
• Watching your parents with your kids is one of life's treasures.
• The cherry blossoms in Washington, DC are worthy of every lovely adjective sent their way.
• Speaking of adjectives, the only ones worth using in Mad Libs are: poopy, chunky, smelly, and pimpled.
• The best Mad Lib nouns are: poo, poop, turd, diarrhea, armpit, and pee.
• Taking a tour of the nation's capitol is even more fun when your nephew is leading it.
• The best Smithsonian cafeteria is in the American Indian museum.
• If you're a mom or a grandma, a trip to a cool grocery store can feel like a trip to Disneyland.
• Dropping my parents off at the airport will always make me cry. Always.
• Packing for vacation can keep your sad heart occupied.
• A ten-hour road trip seems exponentially shorter when started at 7 am instead of 2 pm.
• When in doubt, rent the minivan.
• My oldest child is becoming an adolescent, which means that I am becoming an agnostic.
• Some Subway employees are not worthy of the title "Sandwich Artist."
• The sound of the ocean is very good for the soul.
• Mexican food, as it turns out, is also very good for the soul.
• There is no shame in eating Mexican food every day.
• There are no wiggly pigs anywhere in the Piggly Wiggly.
• If you really concentrate, fried okra is almost as delicious as fried Oprah.
• Never miss an opportunity to wander a tiny, used bookstore.
• No matter how long you're gone, the dog will always be happy to see you again.

Insert Vacation Photo Here

We returned home from vacation tonight, having spent the last several days in our coats, hats, gloves, and scarves in Florida. 2010 is starting out with a healthy dose of irony.

I left my camera in my purse the whole vacation and I left my purse in the hotel room the whole vacation. I resigned from my position as the family pack mule, leaving each morning with only what I could fit in my pockets. So, I have no photographic evidence that we ever set foot in Florida last week. And I'm totally okay with that.

When I get home from vacation, I have to start doing the laundry right away. Like, within the first 30 minutes. I don't know why, and please don't get under the impression that I am one of those neat freaks. I'm not. Maybe I like the white noise, the hum and tumble of my washer and dryer working together. Perhaps it brings back ancient memories of my time in the womb. My mom had five kids already when she was pregnant with me, so she was pretty much doing laundry non-stop until 1999 or so.

I remember sitting inside the dryer when I was a toddler (78% of you just cringed). I'd sit in the drum, with the door wide open while my mom folded laundry. My legs were folded like a pretzel and I'd swish left and right like a sideways swing.

Maybe if I'd played inside the old, abandoned refrigerator like my brother Lyle, I'd clean out my fridge more often. Lyle was such a fridge hog!

Sigh. Good times.

Anyway, I really love a vacation, but what I love even more is coming home. I'm tired of being transient and I'm even more tired of those stupid automated sinks in public bathrooms that turn on two seconds of water for every forty-seventh idiotic clap and wave of the hands. Please, sink, please may I have a little more water to wash off the soap? How about if I do Jazz Hands? Will Jazz Hands get me water? The automated sinks are on a power trip if I've ever seen one.

I know this didn't really tie together, but it's late. Insert tied-together ending here.

The Beach Makes Me Philosophical

It's a marvelous thing to sit at the edge of land, look out into an endless ocean, and contemplate your self.  To take a look around at all the dusty corners of your being, all at once accepting them and committing them to improvement.  To look at the crashing waves and remember that life's problems are so similar--regular, temporary, and part of a beautiful pattern.  To be removed from buildings, appliances, and devices we fear we can't live without.  To share fresh air and frivolity with your loved ones.  To dig holes.  To lie open-armed in the sun, receiving its warmth.  To not know what time it is.  To sit still.  To refresh.  To be.

And it's even better if you do all of this with a giant bucket of french fries.

Probably Not the Best Part of Our Weekend in Boston

~Part I~

I was all ready for a good night’s sleep, tucked into the hotel king-sized bed, the bed we’d been upgraded to after checking into our previous room and reluctantly complaining that it smelled of smoke. We were offered the only other room they had—the giant one with the king-sized bed.  We normally prefer to have the smallest room available (preferably with a view of a parking lot or neglected rooftop) but we try to be accommodating.

But there was a problem with the king-sized bed.  

For one thing, I never sleep well in a king bed.  I’m used to a queen-size bed.  I fit comfortably in the space and can intermittently spoon with Ryan and still have one foot overhanging the side outside the covers—a perfect temperature regulator for my body.  On a king bed, I feel as if I’m wandering alone in the wilderness of white sheets and down comforters.  Ryan seems miles away and finding my foot’s way out of the tightly tucked-in covers is more strenuous than a trip down the birth canal.  I could have handled it, though, if that was all that causing a problem, but there were bigger problems in store.

We were not alone in the bed.

Somewhere in the ample sheeting was a hungry spider with a foot and calf fetish. 

I can’t say that I blame him.  All of our recent time at the neighborhood pool has left us finely roasted—medium well, I’d say.  Still pink in the middle. 

The spider began a taste-tour that led him from the big toe of my right foot up one calf, crossing the small canyon of my knees and down the other calf.  For dessert, he feasted on the inside arch of my left foot—soft and fleshy.

He made the long journey across the geographic region of Middle Bed to Ryan’s feet, but only got in a few ankle nibbles before one of three scenarios stopped him:

1. He passed out from overeating.
2. He tired quickly as he navigated through Ryan’s leg hair.
3. He was suddenly thrown out of the bed when Ryan jumped up in the middle of the night, threw the covers off, hopped out of bed and declared that he was being eaten by something.

Now, Ryan did fling the covers off and jump out of the bed at one point in the night.  I remember that vaguely, but I didn’t think a thing of it.  As I’ve mentioned before, this kind of thing happens at fairly regular intervals.  It’s like that story about the little boy who cried wolf, but instead it’s the grown man who cries bee/spider/snake/duck/bunny/family dog/scorpion/psycho so often that I don’t even fully awake anymore to tell him that he’s completely delusional and to please turn out the lights.

In fact, as I think about it, it’s EXACTLY like that story about the little boy who cries wolf!  When the wolf actually came, nobody believed him!  And when the spider in our bed ate two of my limbs, I couldn’t even be bothered with the truth because the truth looked EXACTLY the same as Ryan’s middle-of-the-night, fling-the-covers-off LIES!

~Part II~

By the time Ryan was back in bed, I was already tossing and turning from the burning and itching that had overtaken my legs.  The burning and itching jostled me into a state of semi-consciousness—the place where you realize that while you are sleepy, you aren’t fully asleep. 

It happens to be the same place where you mistake all of your irrational thoughts for rational ones.

The legs were sending a signal to my brain, an urgent request for itching.  My brain denied the request.  Even when I'm half-asleep, I know that scratching something that itches that badly is a dangerous idea.  And then my semi-conscious brain began trying to figure out why my legs and feet were itching in the first place.  

I ran through a series of possibilities before I settled on the one and only likelihood—fleas.  I had fleas.  I was devastated to realize it, of course, but the truth is rarely convenient.  Al Gore taught me that.

I was humiliated.  Embarrassed.  Devastated.  Just when I thought I’d finally been freed from the shackles of toenail fungus, I was going to have to admit to my friends and family that I now had fleas.

How did I get fleas?

Well, it’s simple.  At least if you’re half-conscious, it is.  Clearly, I caught the fleas from Lucy.  And clearly, she caught the fleas during the collective 2.3 minutes she spends outdoors each day going to the bathroom. 

Lucy often naps in the foot region of our bed at home and that’s clearly where her flea-infested body transplanted a new colony of fleas that settled first into my sheets and then into my legs. 

Voila.  That’s how I caught fleas.  Clearly.

The tossing and turning at this point had as much to do with my overwhelming embarrassment as it did with the itching.  My train of thought went something like this:

I wonder who else I’ve passed the fleas to?  Oh no, I’ve given the fleas to Ryan!  I wonder if I should wake Ryan up to tell him that he has fleas?  I should probably let him sleep; he doesn’t have to know yet.  I wonder how having fleas will affect him at his job?  He'll have to notify the faculty!  He'll have to warn his students!  Oh no, I’m sleeping in a hotel.  I’ve infested the hotel with fleas!  How am I going to explain to the hotel that they should fumigate this room after we leave?  My children!  My children are going to have fleas!  It’s all my fault!  I was going to do great things with my life, but now I have fleas!  I was going to write a book, but now I have fleas!  I’m going to have to call a vet when I get home.  I wonder if the vet will give flea medicine for Lucy and the rest of us too?  I don’t want to call my regular doctor and make an appointment to treat my fleas!  I am so humiliated.  I am horrified.  I can’t believe I have fleas.  Fleas!  It’s so much worse than toenail fungus.  I have fleas and I’m spreading fleas.  My legacy is going to be fleas!  I wish I could go to sleep, but I can't because I can't stop thinking about fleas!  Fleas cause insomnia.  The fleas are probably going crazy in my sheets at home.  I bet the entire house will be infested with fleas before we get back!  Oh, the itchiness!  Oh, the humanity!  Aaaaaaaaaaa!

See how exhausting it is to be me?

Anyway, you know it's been a rough night when the good news is that you've been bitten multiple times by a spider.

How close are we on that time-travel thingie?

I'm sorry I forgot to mention that I would be out of order for a spell while I attended to a handful of busy matters, including a few days lounging on the beach.  I was hoping you wouldn't notice.

Anyway, I'm back.  Mildly sunburned, sufficiently relaxed, and daydreaming of a beachfront life (would homelessness be so bad at the beach?), I'm back.  

Well, until I leave next week.

But that's all the way next week.  Let's live in the moment, okay?

Actually, let's live in the past.  Specifically, let's live in Tuesday.  Tuesday was marvelous.  I accomplished so much: gazing, blinking, lying on my back, lying on my front, and listening to my iPod.  At the last minute, I managed to squeeze in licking an ice cream cone.  I'm an over-achiever that way.

In fact, over-achieving runs rampant in this household.  Tuesday, Christian dedicated himself to digging a hole, large enough to sit in.  I supervised from my nap.  

Oh please, oh please, oh please let me go back to Tuesday!

And if I can't go back to Tuesday, at least let me have Wednesday.  Wednesday was sunny and picturesque--everything a Wednesday hopes to be.  It was like living in a dream.  Or, maybe that was just the sunscreen smudge on the lens of my camera, making everything appear milky and dreamy.  Either way, Wednesday was like a postcard from dreamland.

Right up until my children turned their weapons on me.  What is it with boys and weapons?

Look at them, they're ready to take me down.  They're ready to attack me with their rubberband gun and B-grade light saber and rob me of every quarter I have.  But, really, who can blame them when there are oodles of cheapy arcade games to play?  I'd rob me too!  

Oh please, oh please, oh please let me go back to Wednesday!  Please?  I'll let you come along!

Bed & Breakfast

Once again, the neon No Vacancy sign was lit again at our makeshift B&B.  John and Janet (or, Jan and Johnet, as we like to say) arrived at our place for the second half of their tour of eastern states and places.

Unfortunately, our real life interfered with their visit a little more than I would have liked, but we made the most of the time we had together.  When life hands you lemons, make German Pancakes.  That's what I always say.

Thursday's rain made our plan to vegetate poolside impossible, so we made our way to our favorite orchard to see the farm animals instead.

We hung out with the goats,

puzzled over this up-close view of a turkey (it's like something out of Star Wars, no?),

and made up a new dance we call These Gnats Are Driving Me Crazy!

Building upon tradition, we exploited my brother for his home improvement skills.  He hung a big mirror that's been un-hung since we moved and also installed a ceiling fan in our screened porch.  I hope they never make up any laws making it illegal to use your house guests for labor!

After all the home-improving, the parents went out for a nice, relaxing Middle Eastern meal.  It was the bomb.  (And, no, that was not a distasteful Middle Eastern joke; I'm just really hip.)

Friday, they left us to tour Washington, DC.  We couldn't join them because of school and baseball obligations, but we were lucky to have Nate and Matt spend the day with us.

We spent some time at the pool before we attended Christian's Little League championship game.  That's right, after years and years of playing on losing teams, Christian finally got a chance to be on a winning team with a chance at the championship title.

And...

HE WON!  (Lemme hear you say WOOT!  WOOT!)

The team and coaches were very gracious and expressed gratitude to their fans, some of whom traveled across the country to see this amazing game.  (OK, they didn't, but they should have!)

Saturday, we headed out to Hershey Park, with a stop along the way at an Amish bakery stand.  I had a filled donut that changed my life.  Put simply, it was a religious experience.  (And no, that wasn't a lame Amish joke.)  I don't have a picture of the donut, because Amish donuts don't like to be photographed and I'm all about respect.

Hershey Park was a blast.  There were incredible rides and the obligatory shoe-stuffing ceremony for the not-quite-tall-enough patrons of the park.  Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.

In a strange and inexplicable act, I rode on a ride with all the boys that guaranteed getting wet.  No, not wet--soaked.  Drenched.  Waterlogged.  I never ride those kind of rides.  But I did.  I still can't explain it.

Finally, Sunday was a busy blur--church, packing, eating lunch, and sending them off for their drive up to JFK with what we thought was plenty of time.  Turns out, they were racing to reach the plane with only minutes to spare.  Whew!

Thanks to Jan and Johnet for a few wonderful days that we'll remember forever!

Say Goodbye to Hollywood

When it's not being used to prepare bean burritos and cubed watermelon, my kitchen can serve as a recording studio.

Jesse and I recorded a cover of a Billy Joel song one morning during his stay.  Jesse did all the work--instruments, arrangement, and mixing.  He is amazingly talented.  I want his voice.  And if I can't have his voice, I'll take his metabolism.  (Please!)  

It was a no-brainer to pick a Billy Joel song because Mr. Joel's music was the soundtrack of our childhoods, the common denominator in our big family's musical taste.  To this day, a Billy Joel song can evoke vivid memories for me: the blue shag carpet in our living room, my brother Justin playing a towel like a saxophone, the sway and bob of our little houseboat on Lake Powell, the sound of a vacuum and the smell of Comet on a Saturday morning.  And now it will include another vivid memory: my little brother and me in my kitchen on an overcast spring morning.

You can listen to our little gem by clicking here.

A Week in Review

A week goes so fast.  Today the guest room is empty again.  The sheets and towels are in the washer and our full house is now back to its regular roster.

We packed a lot of fun into eight days.  Let's run the highlight reel, shall we?

Tuesday we visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art.  Amazing.  We saw many beautiful pieces of art and a beautiful apple dumpling in the basement cafeteria.  At one point I got asked to leave a gallery whilst speaking on my cell phone.  Oops.

Wednesday we drove around Amish country.  We fell into a stupid tourist trap that offered an expensive underwhelming buffet and a gift shop filled with trashy Amish romance novels.

However, things took a turn for the better when we drove further in and saw many a buggy and horse-drawn plow.  One Amish dude was really flying down the street in his horse-drawn carriage and the sudden sight of him filled us all with a surge of happiness so strong that Jesse exclaimed, "Look at that guy!  He doesn't even give a crap!"

Which, I guess, is the way we can sum up the difference between ourselves and the Amish--giving a crap or not.  Some days I really wish I didn't give a crap.

We stopped by a farm and bought homemade root beer and potato chips from the cutest little Amish boy you've ever seen.  I wanted to take him home with me and make him churn butter while I watch.  And listen to my iPod.

Next, we were thrilled to discover a giant statue of an Amish man to pose with.  Life was officially complete.

That night we attended a Phillies game where I made friends with my seat neighbors, Kristen and Tom.  Kristen and Tom have been dating for two years, four months, and seven (well, now fourteen) days.  Kristen has been separated from her husband George for several years now, but they remain married because George has a good medical plan.  Even though he's a schmuck.  They have four kids together, the girls live with Kristen and the boys live with George on his farm; they are drawn to his John Deere equipment.  The kids don't like Tom, but it's nothing personal--they wouldn't like anybody.  They're still rooting for George.  Even though he's a pathetic schmuck.  Did I mention that already?

I thoroughly enjoyed my visit with them and can give you many more details of the Kristen & Tom story if you would like to contact me by email.

Thursday it was back to Philly to see historic sites, except that all the historic sites had been taken over by field trip kids from New York.  Boo.  So we ate cheesesteaks on South Street and bought baked goods at Reading Terminal Market.

Pardon the interruption here, but what is up with my niece?  It should be illegal to be so adorable and well-mannered.  And, unlike my usual style, I'm not exaggerating even slightly.  The child is golden.

Friday it was off to New York City.  We wandered the galleries of MoMA (with much thanks to Alyssa for getting us passes).  I think it's my favorite art museum.  And I was thrilled with how much my kids enjoyed the art.  

If you don't think that art evokes emotion, just take a look at Max in front of this giant Jackson Pollock.

And who doesn't like an artist with a sense of humor?  Nobody I want to know, that's who.

We also spent some time in Times Square where traffic has been re-routed and replaced with lawn chairs.  That's right, lawn chairs.

How about this money shot?  I call it "Pensive Baby Brother."

At Alyssa's suggestion, we kayaked on the Hudson River Saturday afternoon.  It was a blast, and it was FREE!  

And even though we got a little wet, none of our skin eroded or fell off!  Bonus!

One other moment of import was Jesse's french toast.  It was to die for.  Look at Jesse being killed softly by it.

Seriously, I think we all were yearning for it.  Check out Natalie eyeing it during this shot.  I swear I heard her say to the french toast, "How you doin'?"

We spent time in Central Park, rode the Staten Island Ferry (Ryan's favorite!) and had scrumptious plates of carbohydrates in Little Italy where I was mistaken for a Minnesotan by a short Italian tour guide who told us mob stories.

Alyssa was kind enough to schlep around with us all day--often leading us and coordinating subway routes--and even got into an altercation with a cabby on our behalf.  Thank you, Alyssa!

We returned home in the wee hours of Sunday morning and spent a relaxing day before we drove Jesse, Natalie, and baby Abby to the airport and bid them farewell.  

I miss them already.  And I don't even give a crap.  Wait.  How does it go again?