Bless my soul, I can't believe I forgot this story! I don't know what has happened this week to distract me: was it the hair raising disgustingness of Newt Gingrich's personal life? The tragicomic behavior of a cowardly ship captain? The ludicrousness of Mitt Romney's tax rate? The influx of Valentine's Day-themed merchandise every where I go? The expensive revelation that the largely decorative balcony on the front of the house has been held up by luck, termite poo and mystery? What, oh what has kept me busy this week?
I confess that I MAY not be raising my kids in the most spiritual of households. But the kids regularly attend Sunday School and a monthly service designed for families. Our rabbi rocks. He is the most thoughtful, open minded spiritual leader I have ever met. EVER. He embraces thought and question, and encourages people to examine their beliefs and reconcile them to their ideas. A lovely combination of mind and heart, really.
In an effort to include the children at the last monthly service, he posed a question to the kids:
"How can we better get to know God?"
Interesting question. For sure. The stuff theologians have been working on since..., well, God. A question surely answered in completely different ways across the spectrum of faiths. And, indeed a question answered differently among the children at the services:
"We can pray."
"We can study the Bible."
"We can worship."
"We can honor the sabbath."
All of these are good answers. Cute kids trying very hard to get an unknowable answer correct.
Then there's S:
"We can die."
Yup. There it is. My son, the 6 year old nihilist. We are going to have to invest in serious psychotherapy money for that kid. He's out there, in first grade, learning about addition and reading and playing tag and all the while thinking that perhaps his god is unknowable except in death.
He's gonna be fine. Normal. Totally normal.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Addendum to Cheers!!
Did you guys see that on "Are You There, Chelsea?" she called out bourbon? We're soulmates. She just doesn't see it because I'm not a midget. Sigh.
Cheers to the Common Cold!
I can feel the first cold of the season coming. I know I'm ridiculously melodramatic, but part of getting a cold is getting to complain about it.
I have the aching in the shoulders and neck. The soreness of the eyeballs. The congestion and tickle in the back of my throat. The dark circles under my eyes. It's coming. There's nothing I can do about it.
Well, I can take the pseudo remedies. I can try to ward it off with garlic and vitamin C and zinc and eye of newt and wart of toad.
I can snivel and whine and moan and groan.
But I can't stop it.
Ew.
I feel like such a baby. I wanna curl up in bed and stay there for three days. I want hot tea and cool pillows. I want pungent eucalyptus oil in a shower. I wanna I wanna I wanna.
To cap it all off, I'm out of bourbon to soothe my throat.
Fine, I admit it. Bourbon is the solution to everything. Remember "My Big Fat Greek Wedding?" How the dad used Windex on EVERYTHING? That's me and bourbon. Your kids cutting teeth? Bourbon. (For you AND for them!) Not sleeping? Bourbon. Sour stomach? Bourbon. Sore throat? Bourbon. Bad day? Bourbon. Bourbon is like the aspirin of alcohol. It's good for all that ails you. No plop plop, fizz fizz. More like plink plink, splash, gulp.
They could put bourbon in the Robitussin packaging, and no one would ever know the difference, except that its taste had improved. Nyquil has nothing on Bourbon. Bourbon is the ORIGINAL coughing, sneezing, runny nose, so you can get some rest medicine. God bless Kentucky.
Does beer fix anything? No. It doesn't. Unless your dog has fleas. It will help with that, but beware--your dog will have to pee like never before.
Does vodka fix anything? No. But it doesn't make anything worse...in fact, I find vodka to be the kindest of the liquors. Its clarity promotes easy drinking and fewer adverse next day effects.
How about gin? Gin makes mean. But aside from that, mixed with tonic, and voila! No malaria. As proof of this remarkable combination, I can solemnly swear that I have never had malaria.
What about wine? Wine is a lovely potable. However, I find that it requires a fine palate, and a great deal of time to drink. I hate opening a bottle and leaving its sad visage overnight to be finished the next night. It's like it's telling me that we both know it's not going to be quite as good the next night, and I should just finish it that night so as to really appreciate it. Which leads to an evening of me and a full bottle of wine, and that, despite any antioxidant qualities it may have, leaves me feeling that wine the next morning.
Plus, red wine gives me these hivey things and blue teeth. Uncomfortable.
Rum? Rum has a lovely tropical element that the European liquors lack. However, I was once spoiled at the Bacardi distillery in San Juan, and I have yet to enjoy a rum and Coke that could compare. Plus, I don't think rum has any medicinal qualities.
Then there is tequila. We all know tequila does nothing at all except turn mild mannered sorority girls into semi-nude sluts with lime smiles, and salty boobs. Tequila is everyone's nemesis. Nobody says, "Dude, let's do tequila shots" before they've had way too much of some other spirit. Everybody has an embarrassing story that starts with, "so we were drinking tequila.." Tequila has never mended a marriage, reconciled buddies or eased a headache. Tequila is mean and ugly, and kicks everyone's ass and takes all names. Tequila takes no prisoners, leaves no man unscathed. While I love a margarita more than the next girl, I have to watch those bad boys. Too many of those makes for a miserable, miserable recovery. Tequila is actually Spanish for beg for your own death. Betcha didn't know that. Betcha could've guessed.
So, after examining my liquor cabinet, I come back to bourbon, my old friend.
So, I'm off to make myself a bourbon on ice. I'll have a nice hot tea after, and then I'll be all set for beddy bye. I'll be on my way to wellness right away. I just know it. Anyone wanna come visit for some cold remedy?
I have the aching in the shoulders and neck. The soreness of the eyeballs. The congestion and tickle in the back of my throat. The dark circles under my eyes. It's coming. There's nothing I can do about it.
Well, I can take the pseudo remedies. I can try to ward it off with garlic and vitamin C and zinc and eye of newt and wart of toad.
I can snivel and whine and moan and groan.
But I can't stop it.
Ew.
I feel like such a baby. I wanna curl up in bed and stay there for three days. I want hot tea and cool pillows. I want pungent eucalyptus oil in a shower. I wanna I wanna I wanna.
To cap it all off, I'm out of bourbon to soothe my throat.
Fine, I admit it. Bourbon is the solution to everything. Remember "My Big Fat Greek Wedding?" How the dad used Windex on EVERYTHING? That's me and bourbon. Your kids cutting teeth? Bourbon. (For you AND for them!) Not sleeping? Bourbon. Sour stomach? Bourbon. Sore throat? Bourbon. Bad day? Bourbon. Bourbon is like the aspirin of alcohol. It's good for all that ails you. No plop plop, fizz fizz. More like plink plink, splash, gulp.
They could put bourbon in the Robitussin packaging, and no one would ever know the difference, except that its taste had improved. Nyquil has nothing on Bourbon. Bourbon is the ORIGINAL coughing, sneezing, runny nose, so you can get some rest medicine. God bless Kentucky.
Does beer fix anything? No. It doesn't. Unless your dog has fleas. It will help with that, but beware--your dog will have to pee like never before.
Does vodka fix anything? No. But it doesn't make anything worse...in fact, I find vodka to be the kindest of the liquors. Its clarity promotes easy drinking and fewer adverse next day effects.
How about gin? Gin makes mean. But aside from that, mixed with tonic, and voila! No malaria. As proof of this remarkable combination, I can solemnly swear that I have never had malaria.
What about wine? Wine is a lovely potable. However, I find that it requires a fine palate, and a great deal of time to drink. I hate opening a bottle and leaving its sad visage overnight to be finished the next night. It's like it's telling me that we both know it's not going to be quite as good the next night, and I should just finish it that night so as to really appreciate it. Which leads to an evening of me and a full bottle of wine, and that, despite any antioxidant qualities it may have, leaves me feeling that wine the next morning.
Plus, red wine gives me these hivey things and blue teeth. Uncomfortable.
Rum? Rum has a lovely tropical element that the European liquors lack. However, I was once spoiled at the Bacardi distillery in San Juan, and I have yet to enjoy a rum and Coke that could compare. Plus, I don't think rum has any medicinal qualities.
Then there is tequila. We all know tequila does nothing at all except turn mild mannered sorority girls into semi-nude sluts with lime smiles, and salty boobs. Tequila is everyone's nemesis. Nobody says, "Dude, let's do tequila shots" before they've had way too much of some other spirit. Everybody has an embarrassing story that starts with, "so we were drinking tequila.." Tequila has never mended a marriage, reconciled buddies or eased a headache. Tequila is mean and ugly, and kicks everyone's ass and takes all names. Tequila takes no prisoners, leaves no man unscathed. While I love a margarita more than the next girl, I have to watch those bad boys. Too many of those makes for a miserable, miserable recovery. Tequila is actually Spanish for beg for your own death. Betcha didn't know that. Betcha could've guessed.
So, after examining my liquor cabinet, I come back to bourbon, my old friend.
So, I'm off to make myself a bourbon on ice. I'll have a nice hot tea after, and then I'll be all set for beddy bye. I'll be on my way to wellness right away. I just know it. Anyone wanna come visit for some cold remedy?
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
I am not what you'd call a naturalist. I believe that only creatures with 4 legs should crap in the woods. Those of us endowed with the larger brain cavities should crap in civilized places with civilized smells. (Not the ARCO station on the way out of Pensacola, by the by). I feel that toilet paper is not a luxury, and that electricity (while it should be conserved and used wisely) is absolutely mandatory. A staggering view of the night's stars is, of course, breathtaking, but is best viewed through a lovely skylight. While in bed. Under the covers. With no bugs. Or hungry bears. Or work to set up.
Camping is the opposite of my dream vacation. I want the beds turned down for me, not rolled up by me. I want the cooking to be delicious and easy, not self-skinned fish and pans cleaned with phosphate-free detergent in an ice cold stream.
And camping, no matter what anybody says, is NOT pulling up in a giant RV next to another giant RV and living shoulder to shoulder in a parking lot. I don't do that, either.
That being said, it's time to plan the annual summer vacation. Judging by the nearly-filled capacity of everywhere, it's actually past the time to plan the annual summer vacation.
M and I come at this from 2 different view points. I should preface the descriptions of these points of view by saying I'm biased against his, have no idea who thinks his way, and am probably not doing it justice.
M's idea of "family" vacation: 8 weeks in Europe. In his fantasy vacation, our kids are great connoisseurs of international cuisine, aficionados of fine art museums and restored homes of dead famous people, and fantastic troupers through stunning, narrow cobblestone streets dating back to the Middle Ages. He is willing to compromise on his fantasy vacation of trekking through Ireland and Northern Europe, to spend 10 days revisiting locations more interesting to the kids, including Rome, Pisa, and Athens.
REALITY: 8 weeks of moaning and groaning, "ANOTHER church?" "ANOTHER museum?" "I can't walk anymore." "This is boring," "Can we stop for food?" "This food is gross." Actually, that's just me. The kids are WAY more annoying.
My idea of "family" vacation: 2 weeks on a beach. In my fantasy, the kids play together happily in the sand and surf. They stay out of my hair during the day. They are happy to eat pb&j for lunch and pizza for dinner. I read and nap all day.
REALITY: 2 weeks of moaning and groaning: "They won't leave me alone," "This is boring." "This sandwich is boring." "Kids eat this food." "The ocean is not something you can stare at endlessly." "I got sand up my pants." And that's just M. The kids are worse.
So there we are, at a standoff over how to spend our time. So, we research. If you are interested in flying to Europe right now, I hope you are of the 1%. Or single. Because not only is it $1300 plus hellacious taxes to fly over the Atlantic, it's like 16 hours of your life. And at this juncture, not even I can imagine a world where 16 hours with a kid on a plane is pleasant. For one thing, there are no batteries for hand held DVD players that last that long. I'd probably get thrombosis in my leg and die. But not before enduring 16 hours on a plane with my kids. So, we're looking at 5 hours of travel to Atlanta, followed by 16 hours to get to Rome. Followed by potentially sinking cruise ships in the Mediterranean. To see places I've already seen. Not to be snotty about it, but I already have pictures of myself with gladiators in front of the Colosseum. Spending all that money to drag around reluctant kids to old stuff I've already seen is depressing.
I begin thinking about my childhood vacations. We always took the beach vacation. Because I come from a line of readers and nappers. And we did leave our parents alone while we played in the surf. But, we also took ROAD TRIPS! We drove all over the American West. Like in Indiana Jones, when the big red line would show you where they've been? Our map looked like that. We drove 16 hours just to ski. (I would not drive my kids 1 hour to listen to the complain of the cold). We took an epic road trip from Southern California, through Utah to Utah's Zion and Bryce parks, up to Wyoming through Yellowstone, Idaho, and ultimately to Grand Tetons park and then HOME. When St. George, Utah seems close to home, you know you've gone a long freakin' way.
But, I'm thinking, my kids are all into geology and chemistry and what not. Maybe they'd like Yellowstone. It's unAmerican not to have been to Yellowstone, right? It's a rite of passage to take an interminable road trip with your parents, no? Everyone needs to make Tetons jokes with their siblings, right? So, I suggest this plan to M.
Trees? We're going to pay to look at trees?
And geysers. Old Faithful!
Sticks? Trees?
And mud pots. I loved the mud pots.
Dirt? Sticks? Trees?
We took a great side trip, white water rafting, and spent a night in a pre-made campsite, and slept in Teepees.
Look, if you want me to get excited about this trip instead of a day walking through ancient castles in Ireland, that's fine. Give me a few minutes to get my head around the disappointment. And don't EVER, and I mean EVER, try to sell me on a trip by telling me there will be teepees.
So, there will be trees.
I am not helped that the website's first reminder about visiting the park is to bring your bug spray. M really hates mosquitoes. Like way more than the average human. Or the promise of vast forests. (Trees) Or the astounding geological history of the region. (Dirt.) It was a hard sell.
Especially once we started looking at hotels, or "cabins" in the park. M is not a fan of the "cabin." Or, might I point out, the "cafeteria." I find the best hotel I can. Grand Tetons offers way more in the way of luxury hotels. I found one there for us, no problem. And by "us," I mean they have a spa.
I find ways to hot air balloon over the lakes, take horseback rides along back country trails (oh, goodie. Looking up a horse's ass for 2 hours at an incredibly slow, hemorrhoid inducing pace.), raft and float (bone chilling water through mosquito country) and of course, hike (long walks punctuated by the whines of children). I found a junior ranger program where the kids can answer questions at ranger stations throughout the park to earn a badge or souvenir. I found guided walks to explain the ever changing geology of the region. I found a hotel that has a waterfall-fed hot tub. COME ON--can you beat that?
True, that compared to my childhood, we are cheating (we are flying to Salt Lake City and driving from there,) but we are taking the all-American vacation. We will take the all-American vacation. We will pay for it with all-American money, and we WILL have an all-American good time. So help me, God.
Camping is the opposite of my dream vacation. I want the beds turned down for me, not rolled up by me. I want the cooking to be delicious and easy, not self-skinned fish and pans cleaned with phosphate-free detergent in an ice cold stream.
And camping, no matter what anybody says, is NOT pulling up in a giant RV next to another giant RV and living shoulder to shoulder in a parking lot. I don't do that, either.
That being said, it's time to plan the annual summer vacation. Judging by the nearly-filled capacity of everywhere, it's actually past the time to plan the annual summer vacation.
M and I come at this from 2 different view points. I should preface the descriptions of these points of view by saying I'm biased against his, have no idea who thinks his way, and am probably not doing it justice.
M's idea of "family" vacation: 8 weeks in Europe. In his fantasy vacation, our kids are great connoisseurs of international cuisine, aficionados of fine art museums and restored homes of dead famous people, and fantastic troupers through stunning, narrow cobblestone streets dating back to the Middle Ages. He is willing to compromise on his fantasy vacation of trekking through Ireland and Northern Europe, to spend 10 days revisiting locations more interesting to the kids, including Rome, Pisa, and Athens.
REALITY: 8 weeks of moaning and groaning, "ANOTHER church?" "ANOTHER museum?" "I can't walk anymore." "This is boring," "Can we stop for food?" "This food is gross." Actually, that's just me. The kids are WAY more annoying.
My idea of "family" vacation: 2 weeks on a beach. In my fantasy, the kids play together happily in the sand and surf. They stay out of my hair during the day. They are happy to eat pb&j for lunch and pizza for dinner. I read and nap all day.
REALITY: 2 weeks of moaning and groaning: "They won't leave me alone," "This is boring." "This sandwich is boring." "Kids eat this food." "The ocean is not something you can stare at endlessly." "I got sand up my pants." And that's just M. The kids are worse.
So there we are, at a standoff over how to spend our time. So, we research. If you are interested in flying to Europe right now, I hope you are of the 1%. Or single. Because not only is it $1300 plus hellacious taxes to fly over the Atlantic, it's like 16 hours of your life. And at this juncture, not even I can imagine a world where 16 hours with a kid on a plane is pleasant. For one thing, there are no batteries for hand held DVD players that last that long. I'd probably get thrombosis in my leg and die. But not before enduring 16 hours on a plane with my kids. So, we're looking at 5 hours of travel to Atlanta, followed by 16 hours to get to Rome. Followed by potentially sinking cruise ships in the Mediterranean. To see places I've already seen. Not to be snotty about it, but I already have pictures of myself with gladiators in front of the Colosseum. Spending all that money to drag around reluctant kids to old stuff I've already seen is depressing.
I begin thinking about my childhood vacations. We always took the beach vacation. Because I come from a line of readers and nappers. And we did leave our parents alone while we played in the surf. But, we also took ROAD TRIPS! We drove all over the American West. Like in Indiana Jones, when the big red line would show you where they've been? Our map looked like that. We drove 16 hours just to ski. (I would not drive my kids 1 hour to listen to the complain of the cold). We took an epic road trip from Southern California, through Utah to Utah's Zion and Bryce parks, up to Wyoming through Yellowstone, Idaho, and ultimately to Grand Tetons park and then HOME. When St. George, Utah seems close to home, you know you've gone a long freakin' way.
But, I'm thinking, my kids are all into geology and chemistry and what not. Maybe they'd like Yellowstone. It's unAmerican not to have been to Yellowstone, right? It's a rite of passage to take an interminable road trip with your parents, no? Everyone needs to make Tetons jokes with their siblings, right? So, I suggest this plan to M.
Trees? We're going to pay to look at trees?
And geysers. Old Faithful!
Sticks? Trees?
And mud pots. I loved the mud pots.
Dirt? Sticks? Trees?
We took a great side trip, white water rafting, and spent a night in a pre-made campsite, and slept in Teepees.
Look, if you want me to get excited about this trip instead of a day walking through ancient castles in Ireland, that's fine. Give me a few minutes to get my head around the disappointment. And don't EVER, and I mean EVER, try to sell me on a trip by telling me there will be teepees.
So, there will be trees.
I am not helped that the website's first reminder about visiting the park is to bring your bug spray. M really hates mosquitoes. Like way more than the average human. Or the promise of vast forests. (Trees) Or the astounding geological history of the region. (Dirt.) It was a hard sell.
Especially once we started looking at hotels, or "cabins" in the park. M is not a fan of the "cabin." Or, might I point out, the "cafeteria." I find the best hotel I can. Grand Tetons offers way more in the way of luxury hotels. I found one there for us, no problem. And by "us," I mean they have a spa.
I find ways to hot air balloon over the lakes, take horseback rides along back country trails (oh, goodie. Looking up a horse's ass for 2 hours at an incredibly slow, hemorrhoid inducing pace.), raft and float (bone chilling water through mosquito country) and of course, hike (long walks punctuated by the whines of children). I found a junior ranger program where the kids can answer questions at ranger stations throughout the park to earn a badge or souvenir. I found guided walks to explain the ever changing geology of the region. I found a hotel that has a waterfall-fed hot tub. COME ON--can you beat that?
True, that compared to my childhood, we are cheating (we are flying to Salt Lake City and driving from there,) but we are taking the all-American vacation. We will take the all-American vacation. We will pay for it with all-American money, and we WILL have an all-American good time. So help me, God.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Boys Have Cooties
Parenting baffles me. At nearly every turn. Sometimes, I think this can't possibly be real, it's like a simulation. And after the simulation runs out, your kid turns 18 (and is either a serial killer or a dotcom millionaire) then you wake up and BAM! you're in the delivery room and you get to do it for real. Like it's the best side effect of an epidural ever.
In the current simulation rundown, my kids are difficult to discipline. It's not exactly punishment, it's more like motivation problems that we're having. For example, I "require" that E make his bed in the mornings. It's an age appropriate task, I role model by making my own bed, I have provided plenty of instruction on how do complete the task, and I afford him plenty of time in the morning to complete the task. These are the ABCs of successful scaffolding and modeling. Upon finding the bed unmade, I confront him. "I don't want to." Then, he heads out the door, and off to school. WHAT DO I DO WITH THAT?!?!
Here are some of the problems:
In a brain storm in the midst of last night's insomnia, I thought I should let the natural consequences of their behavior be the punishment: so, wear dirty clothes or go out of uniform to school, buy lunch if there's no lunchbox for me to pack, clean up dog poo if the dog's not taken out.
Are these reasonable? Excessive? Heartless? If so, ideas? If not, help me think of more.
The second issue I have right now is hygiene:
There are no consequences to these behaviors that will modify the behavior itself. The only consequences are multijillion dollar dental bills and a firm noogie/swirlie. How do I motivate a kid to be LESS disgusting? Why doesn't he CARE about how disgusting he is? Where did he learn this? I am not disgusting and neither is his dad! HELP!
I'm taking all suggestions and advice.
In the current simulation rundown, my kids are difficult to discipline. It's not exactly punishment, it's more like motivation problems that we're having. For example, I "require" that E make his bed in the mornings. It's an age appropriate task, I role model by making my own bed, I have provided plenty of instruction on how do complete the task, and I afford him plenty of time in the morning to complete the task. These are the ABCs of successful scaffolding and modeling. Upon finding the bed unmade, I confront him. "I don't want to." Then, he heads out the door, and off to school. WHAT DO I DO WITH THAT?!?!
Here are some of the problems:
- I have offered "allowance" in the past. But a) I don't like paying kids for contributing to the household that we all contribute to. b) E told me he doesn't care about the money. He'd rather not have it than earn it.
- Our house already has a policy of no electronics M-Th. That means no Wii, TV, computer (other than school assignments). With only 2 and a half days of electronic time, I a) run out of days to take away faster than weekends come and b) take away their only day of recreation which generates c) problems for me because they are fighting and up in my face every second.
- S needs dessert. Taking away calories is counterproductive. E doesn't really care about dessert anymore.
In a brain storm in the midst of last night's insomnia, I thought I should let the natural consequences of their behavior be the punishment: so, wear dirty clothes or go out of uniform to school, buy lunch if there's no lunchbox for me to pack, clean up dog poo if the dog's not taken out.
Are these reasonable? Excessive? Heartless? If so, ideas? If not, help me think of more.
The second issue I have right now is hygiene:
- 9 year old does not have good breath. Does not take good care of his teeth. Again, despite role modeling and the ready availability of easy flossers, ACT rinse, and electric toothbrush.
- 9 year old doesn't care if he's clean after a bath.
- 9 year old doesn't care if hair is stinky.
- 9 year old doesn't care if his pants are zipped up or if he looks like Erkel.
There are no consequences to these behaviors that will modify the behavior itself. The only consequences are multijillion dollar dental bills and a firm noogie/swirlie. How do I motivate a kid to be LESS disgusting? Why doesn't he CARE about how disgusting he is? Where did he learn this? I am not disgusting and neither is his dad! HELP!
I'm taking all suggestions and advice.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Not Your Average Bimbo
As you know, I don't really believe in fate or in things that were "meant to Be." I occasionally believe in karma, but usually that's when it's biting me in the ass. And most of the time, I refuse to think that "things happen for a Reason."
The world is a series of events that are occasionally coincidences. Some happy, some tragic. We do our best to navigate these events and hopefully, emerge at the end of a long, mostly happy life. It often doesn't happen this way, and that is why we have great art and artists and other things borne of unhappiness.
MT is one of the happy coincidences of my life. I met her and her group of friends when I insisted they share our picnic table at a park one day. We'd lived in Mobile for 2 weeks. She was friendly, and warm, and invited me and the boys to be a part of the playgroup. I could have met one of the stuck up Springhill moms that day, or some indifferent person who would have shared my table and left, but instead I met her, and I am better off for that event.
I haven't seen her in ages, mind you. She works. She lives waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay out in the 'burbs. Her kids are adorable and bright and fun, and her younger son and S have a shared Lego gene. Recently, she stopped working and has arrived at a crossroads.
Many moms confront the decision of returning to work when their babies are infants. Some moms go back to work when the kids are school aged. These are more or less normal transitions in modern life.
MT is at a different circumstance. She stayed home with her babies, worked when they started school, and now finds herself stay-at-home with kids (like mine) who are gone for most of the day.
I thought our lunch today was going to be a depressing one. I thought she would tell me that staying home is mind numbingly boring. That she hates it. That nobody with 3 cooperating brain cells could do it. That she was ready to venture into retail.
I was prepared to feel bad about being home. I was prepared to have to 'defend' my life choices. I was prepared to feel like a loser. Not that she would do it intentionally, but that she'd be so stunned by her life change that all those feelings would just rush out.
Instead, I left feeling recharged in a way. She reminded me today why I like my friends. How my friends are smart. Well educated. Interesting. Curious. Creative. How we have a sense of humor, and how that's the most important tool to get through the day. How my friends know the difference between a joke I make about myself to be funny, and a joke I make to let them know I'm having a hard time about something. I left lunch thinking that I don't have to work for some one else to be doing something productive and fulfilling.
We talked about how she should design gluten free cookbooks with all the recipes she's been working on for the past year. We talked about how she could consult with families facing a Celiac Disease diagnosis. We talked about all the things she could do besides being bored.
And somewhere in my brain, a spark went off to say I could do something too.
And that was a satisfying lunch.
So, I think I'm going to start meeting with my friends who stay home. We're going to talk about what makes us happy. And find ways to make that happiness into something. We're lucky that we have these luxuries. This luxury to stay home. To not be required to earn money. We need to take that karma and turn it into something better.
So it doesn't kick us in the ass.
Thank you, MT for reminding me of this. And for your very fun lunch companionship. And, (begrudgingly, for the Girl Scout Cookies.
I hereby announce to any friend interested in NOT being another Lady Who Lunches. Any friend not wanting to be a put upon chauffeur for her children and maid to her house. Any friend who wants to remain interesting and curious and creative: We need to get together. To share ideas. To see who shares our ideas and our interests. To see if there's something out there we can do better. To love our luxury instead of being burdened by it.
Let us meet to discuss. At a spa? For a pedicure?
There's no reason we can't be well-put-together Interesting People. Right?
The world is a series of events that are occasionally coincidences. Some happy, some tragic. We do our best to navigate these events and hopefully, emerge at the end of a long, mostly happy life. It often doesn't happen this way, and that is why we have great art and artists and other things borne of unhappiness.
MT is one of the happy coincidences of my life. I met her and her group of friends when I insisted they share our picnic table at a park one day. We'd lived in Mobile for 2 weeks. She was friendly, and warm, and invited me and the boys to be a part of the playgroup. I could have met one of the stuck up Springhill moms that day, or some indifferent person who would have shared my table and left, but instead I met her, and I am better off for that event.
I haven't seen her in ages, mind you. She works. She lives waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay out in the 'burbs. Her kids are adorable and bright and fun, and her younger son and S have a shared Lego gene. Recently, she stopped working and has arrived at a crossroads.
Many moms confront the decision of returning to work when their babies are infants. Some moms go back to work when the kids are school aged. These are more or less normal transitions in modern life.
MT is at a different circumstance. She stayed home with her babies, worked when they started school, and now finds herself stay-at-home with kids (like mine) who are gone for most of the day.
I thought our lunch today was going to be a depressing one. I thought she would tell me that staying home is mind numbingly boring. That she hates it. That nobody with 3 cooperating brain cells could do it. That she was ready to venture into retail.
I was prepared to feel bad about being home. I was prepared to have to 'defend' my life choices. I was prepared to feel like a loser. Not that she would do it intentionally, but that she'd be so stunned by her life change that all those feelings would just rush out.
Instead, I left feeling recharged in a way. She reminded me today why I like my friends. How my friends are smart. Well educated. Interesting. Curious. Creative. How we have a sense of humor, and how that's the most important tool to get through the day. How my friends know the difference between a joke I make about myself to be funny, and a joke I make to let them know I'm having a hard time about something. I left lunch thinking that I don't have to work for some one else to be doing something productive and fulfilling.
We talked about how she should design gluten free cookbooks with all the recipes she's been working on for the past year. We talked about how she could consult with families facing a Celiac Disease diagnosis. We talked about all the things she could do besides being bored.
And somewhere in my brain, a spark went off to say I could do something too.
And that was a satisfying lunch.
So, I think I'm going to start meeting with my friends who stay home. We're going to talk about what makes us happy. And find ways to make that happiness into something. We're lucky that we have these luxuries. This luxury to stay home. To not be required to earn money. We need to take that karma and turn it into something better.
So it doesn't kick us in the ass.
Thank you, MT for reminding me of this. And for your very fun lunch companionship. And, (begrudgingly, for the Girl Scout Cookies.
I hereby announce to any friend interested in NOT being another Lady Who Lunches. Any friend not wanting to be a put upon chauffeur for her children and maid to her house. Any friend who wants to remain interesting and curious and creative: We need to get together. To share ideas. To see who shares our ideas and our interests. To see if there's something out there we can do better. To love our luxury instead of being burdened by it.
Let us meet to discuss. At a spa? For a pedicure?
There's no reason we can't be well-put-together Interesting People. Right?
Monday, January 9, 2012
Back From Vacation, Part III
Of course, one of the downsides of the cruise was the size of the cabin. And the fact that there were four of us in it.
In case you're wondering what 100 square feet looks like, this is it. And if you're wondering how there's enough storage for four peoples' stuff in a 100 square feet, you can now stop. There clearly isn't. One of the best parts of sharing a cabin is keeping kids' hours. So, on our vacation, we woke up with the dawn and went to sleep at 8. It's true.
Our cabin steward often hadn't had time to turn down our beds, fold our towelagami animals or place little mints on our pillows. But there we were, trudging back to the room, ready for beddy bye in the vomit closet.
Twice, we woke up before the Lido Deck trough even opened. And you KNOW that Lido deck is nearly 24 hours per day.
One night, of the ten, I thought it would be mighty fun to go hear the pianist do his Neil Diamond night. I was already all tucked in. Make-up was off. Spanx released. Jammies on. The show started at 9. That's practically the middle of the night.
My family prods me to go. Alone. M stayed with the kids in bed. I threw on some jeans (but it's formal night!) and trotted on out to get me some Sweet Caroline.
The keyboardist on board was pretty good, by cruise ship standards. By any standards, really--I mean what are our expectations of a lounge singer? He was a very good lounge singer. He looked hilarious, though. Like a Hawaiian Wayne Newton. He sounded like Wayne Newton, a little, too. That soft, gentle voice.
At the piano bar at 9 pm, it was happy hour. Naturally. It's always happy hour somewhere on the ship. 2 for 1 martinis. It's like the gods conspired to figure out what I love. Had there been free chocolate chip cookies in there, it would be a trifecta of happiness. I got myself 2 martinis and secured a chair.
Which was, shockingly, not easy. The place was jammed (at 9 pm!) and eventually I surrendered my prized seat to a woman with one of those walker thingies. My dad once quoted something, (that I would cite if I could, but am clearly not laying claim to saying it) that a cruise is like taking a vacation with the elderly and their parents. The Piano Bar certainly lent credibility to that.
Which was, shockingly, not easy. The place was jammed (at 9 pm!) and eventually I surrendered my prized seat to a woman with one of those walker thingies. My dad once quoted something, (that I would cite if I could, but am clearly not laying claim to saying it) that a cruise is like taking a vacation with the elderly and their parents. The Piano Bar certainly lent credibility to that.
After a few rousing post-war tunes to celebrate geriatric anniversaries, our pianist started with some good, quality Neil Diamond. I know nearly every word to nearly every classic Neil Diamond song up until the early 90s. And I have a terrible voice. But after 2 quick martinis, I care not about the voice and care very much about belting out a little "I Am, I Said."
The thing was, nobody in the bar was having any fun. Or maybe they were and their arthritis prohibited them from showing it. A few were toe tapping--is that old people enthusiasm? Nobody clapped along to the beat, some people chatted through the music, and nobody, but NOBODY (except me) echoed AMERICA! with a little irony.
Eventually, a woman companion to an antique approached me with a conspiratorial smile, "I think we bring down the average age in here by 30 years." I nodded. One does not talk during Diamond.
"I love this music." I nodded again. Apparently not that much or she'd not talk over it.
"You might be the only person my age on this ship," she said. I looked at her. To paraphrase "Due Date," (which I promise not to do too often) she was the most shot out 36 year old I'd ever seen.
"How old are YOU?" I asked.
"Fifty two."
Yeah. That's why we don't talk during Diamond. Eventually, the pianist noticed that I was the ONLY one singing along (I'm sure he heard me) and the only one who was really excited about the whole theme night in general, and he asked me what I wanted to hear for the finale.
"Love on the Rocks."
I had my love on the rocks, my drinks neat, and my ego severely damaged. Staying up past 9 is highly overrated.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Back From Vacation, Part II
One of the perks of a cruise is that there is a kids' club with organized activities and camp-ish counselors to enjoy your kids for you during the day. We still have to eat with them, but they are played with, taken for walks, and given games and crafts. It's not a perfect system, but it is one I enjoy.
The camp counselor chief, Whitney, was a quick, wry young woman who hails from Virginia Tech. If I had Whitney's job, I would totally approach it from her perspective. She made me laugh the minute I met her, and I just know she's the type who would enjoy the irony and witticisms of a certain 6 year old son of mine. (Which she totally did.)
While I was sipping mango daiquiris by the pool and M was attending lectures on Ernest Hemingway (we have different definitions of enrichment), the boys were playing hoops, watching movies, attending build your own pizza seminars, and hanging out with their peers. (The grandchildren of the other passengers.)
At the end of the cruise, to punish us for foisting our children onto them, the counselors organized a "talent" show. I put "talent" in quotations because it is arguable that no child aged 3 to 12 has a talent, and if the children on board had talents, they certainly weren't the variety that translated to the stage.
The talent show led off with a video. It was a question-answer style video in the tradition of "Kids Say the Darndest Things," featuring my S as the host. First question: "What was your favorite part of the cruise?" Most of the kids answered ClubHal, seeing as how most kids will answer a question with the first thing they see and they were filming the video in ClubHal. A couple of older kids said things like, "scuba diving in the reefs," and "hanging out in the private lounge on Deck 7." (Bitch). Of course, E answered ClubHal.
Second question: "What was your parents' favorite part of the cruise?" There's S with his answer: "Mom's favorite part is the martinis, lemon drops and margaritas." Fair enough. E's answer: "ClubHal." Ah, yes. I can hear the buzz about my parent of the year nomination now.
Third questions: "How do you spell Curacao?" E answers first with "C-U-R-E-C-E-L-L" which wasn't funny at all, except what WAS funny was a kid in the background of the video "That's not fair. Some one told him. He's probably from there." Honestly, not even the 12 year old could spell it. Apparently, they weren't working on geography up in ClubHal.
Fourth question: "Can you do an impression of what your parents are always saying to you?" And here, people, is where we can fondly recall the exact moment I earned my parent of the year award. E (in hideous scratching voice) "Brush your teeth. Use your manners. Make your bed. Your breath is horrible. Brush your teeth. Behave. Don't do that." And the icing on the cake: S (in Muppety Miss Piggy voice with flailing arms) "You're such an idiot!"
Thank you. No autographs, please.
After the heartwarming video, which was available for purchase for $60, we moved to the talent portion of the show. They led with a preteen singing a Christmas carol in a very high voice. That wasn't awful. They followed up with a future goth kid, who was overweight, wearing a skin tight tank top, sweatpants, and who sang an original song about the New Year. I hope to god that she hits her head hard, gets amnesia and is never reminded of those 2 minutes of agony onstage. There were a few other middling numbers, and then E and a friend decided to sing "Forget You," by Cee Lo Green. Fortunately, they stuck with the edited version. Unfortunately, it was still agony.
The younger kids performed, also. A 3 year old did half of "Rudolph" before running off the stage. Another kid did some sort of twirling thing called Poi(?) with 2 socks stuffed with tennis balls. A third kid rehashed her last jazz recital performance to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." And my kid, S, donned a backward cap, sunglasses, and he and a buddy "danced" to "California Gurlz." That was something. Really some thing.
I thought that the real part of the talent show came later, when we talked to the kids. We told them we were proud of them. They did a good job. That we admired the "songwriter" for going up on the stage and performing her own words. That it was a fun show. That we would consider buying the DVD of it.
What? Acting is a talent.
The camp counselor chief, Whitney, was a quick, wry young woman who hails from Virginia Tech. If I had Whitney's job, I would totally approach it from her perspective. She made me laugh the minute I met her, and I just know she's the type who would enjoy the irony and witticisms of a certain 6 year old son of mine. (Which she totally did.)
While I was sipping mango daiquiris by the pool and M was attending lectures on Ernest Hemingway (we have different definitions of enrichment), the boys were playing hoops, watching movies, attending build your own pizza seminars, and hanging out with their peers. (The grandchildren of the other passengers.)
At the end of the cruise, to punish us for foisting our children onto them, the counselors organized a "talent" show. I put "talent" in quotations because it is arguable that no child aged 3 to 12 has a talent, and if the children on board had talents, they certainly weren't the variety that translated to the stage.
The talent show led off with a video. It was a question-answer style video in the tradition of "Kids Say the Darndest Things," featuring my S as the host. First question: "What was your favorite part of the cruise?" Most of the kids answered ClubHal, seeing as how most kids will answer a question with the first thing they see and they were filming the video in ClubHal. A couple of older kids said things like, "scuba diving in the reefs," and "hanging out in the private lounge on Deck 7." (Bitch). Of course, E answered ClubHal.
Second question: "What was your parents' favorite part of the cruise?" There's S with his answer: "Mom's favorite part is the martinis, lemon drops and margaritas." Fair enough. E's answer: "ClubHal." Ah, yes. I can hear the buzz about my parent of the year nomination now.
Third questions: "How do you spell Curacao?" E answers first with "C-U-R-E-C-E-L-L" which wasn't funny at all, except what WAS funny was a kid in the background of the video "That's not fair. Some one told him. He's probably from there." Honestly, not even the 12 year old could spell it. Apparently, they weren't working on geography up in ClubHal.
Fourth question: "Can you do an impression of what your parents are always saying to you?" And here, people, is where we can fondly recall the exact moment I earned my parent of the year award. E (in hideous scratching voice) "Brush your teeth. Use your manners. Make your bed. Your breath is horrible. Brush your teeth. Behave. Don't do that." And the icing on the cake: S (in Muppety Miss Piggy voice with flailing arms) "You're such an idiot!"
Thank you. No autographs, please.
After the heartwarming video, which was available for purchase for $60, we moved to the talent portion of the show. They led with a preteen singing a Christmas carol in a very high voice. That wasn't awful. They followed up with a future goth kid, who was overweight, wearing a skin tight tank top, sweatpants, and who sang an original song about the New Year. I hope to god that she hits her head hard, gets amnesia and is never reminded of those 2 minutes of agony onstage. There were a few other middling numbers, and then E and a friend decided to sing "Forget You," by Cee Lo Green. Fortunately, they stuck with the edited version. Unfortunately, it was still agony.
The younger kids performed, also. A 3 year old did half of "Rudolph" before running off the stage. Another kid did some sort of twirling thing called Poi(?) with 2 socks stuffed with tennis balls. A third kid rehashed her last jazz recital performance to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." And my kid, S, donned a backward cap, sunglasses, and he and a buddy "danced" to "California Gurlz." That was something. Really some thing.
I thought that the real part of the talent show came later, when we talked to the kids. We told them we were proud of them. They did a good job. That we admired the "songwriter" for going up on the stage and performing her own words. That it was a fun show. That we would consider buying the DVD of it.
What? Acting is a talent.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Back from Vacation, Part I
Happy New Year!
Well, it turns out, that despite all instincts to the contrary, I didn't off myself during the holidays. The blur from Thanksgiving to New Year is in the rear view mirror, and I couldn't be happier about that. There's something relentless and unkind about the holiday season, and I can't put my finger on it. *Shiver*
On the tremendous upside, we did take a great vacation over winter break. We cruised (why not? We've got the sour acrimony of 80 year-olds) all over the Caribbean. Far, in fact. I know you want to hear about it.
First, we had to drive to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. That is approximately 725 miles from where I sit right now. In metric, that converts to effing far. So, on the first day of break, my true love gave to me: an appointment with Sam's endocrinologist, subsequent X-rays and blood work, lunch on the causeway, and that was the first four hours of the day. We made it to Tallahassee and then slept.
On the second day of break, we made it to Fort Lauderdale. The kids were more or less good, and the driving more or less easy. For the record, though, Florida is WAY bigger than it looks on the map. It's never ending. We ate at a fantastically fun kitschy German restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale, and rested up for boarding.
The next day was easy. Geriatrics are always concerned about their hips, so they generally move away from aggressive pushing. We engaged in a long chit chat with the agent who wanted to be sure to tell me to enjoy my boys before they were all grown up like hers. Though her intentions were probably good, you never want to tell a woman who's spent 12 hours in a car with her kids to enjoy them. It's just not prudent.
M bought a prepaid $100 beverage card for me to facilitate my hard earned alcoholic binging. I don't know if he was optimistic or if he was naive, or if I really misunderstood, but I blew through that sucker in a day. It's vacation. And drinks with fruit and umbrella garnish aren't free.
The first port of call was Holland America's privately owned island, Half Moon Cay. M and I have been there 3 times, at least, over the past 10 years. Once we went with our friends, EM and WB and had one of the best days EVER. In fact, for whatever reasons, the absence of EM and WB on this trip really struck me.
The kids thought the tropical water was too cold, and I didn't care. Because Holland America has recently built a rather cute pirate ship sponsored by none other than Captain Morgan. They served up all kinds of fun stuff in there, and the kids enjoyed playing in the sand while I "supervised."
A day at the beach turned out to be too much for sweet little E, though. After being in the heat, and playing in the water and sand, he probably had a touch of sun stroke. At least that's what we called it when we were kids. It may not be an actual "diagnosis," but he's had it before. He skipped dinner, and went to bed.
At 11 o'clock that night, I was awakened to the most horrible sound known to human kind. It sounds like whatever the opposite of sucking is. Blowing? Spitting? As I jammed on the light, the odor hit me. Hard. Like a wall of stink. E puked ALL over. His bed. The floor. The table.
It's a 100 square foot cabin. He pretty much hit all of it.
I scrubbed the kid, and M summoned the cabin steward, who opened the door into the wall of stink, looked at the mess, and visibly wished he was back in Indonesia, surfing a tsunami.
M and our steward cleaned and scrubbed as best the could in the middle of the night. But the stink was there. Embedded in my nose. On me. All around. I didn't sleep.
For the next 4 days, our steward shampooed the carpeting, disinfected, ionized the air (as if that's gonna help) and febreezed. But long after he gave up hope, there was still the distinct cutting edge of puke in cabin 1122.
After the puke, resting in the cabin was no longer an option. I spent more time on deck, working on the $250 beverage card M bought after I drained the first one. The air was warm, the sun was bright, and the margaritas sparkled in it all.
The absolute highlight of the trip was a few days later in Curacao. By absolute coincidence enjoyed only by the 1%, my sister and her husband were vacationing there. We trundled up to their hotel and waited for their arrival. While it was only a short visit, it was a much needed visit, and I'm glad for it.
We snorkeled and sailed in the Dominican. Free Rum Punch. We toured endangered mangrove forests in Bonaire. (No free drinks.)We took a 4x4 trip off-roading through Aruba. Free beer. We snorkled in Curacao. We visited the oldest synagogue in the Western Hemisphere in Curacao. Nothing draws crowds like a 400 year old shul. You think I'm joking. Let me remind you: the ship was full of 80 year old Jewish folks who like nothing more than finding Jewish stuff, even if it's on a tiny Dutch Island in the middle of nowhere. They sat in the pews, and fanned themselves, complaining of the heat. I swear, I wish I were kidding about that.
My favorite non-family moment came when I was chatting with the guide in Aruba. He asked where we were from, and I grudgingly confessed the truth: Alabama. And my favorite response EVER. "If you are from Alabama, you might have heard about that unfortunate business about that Holloway girl."
I wanted to say that if I lived in a box under a trestle in New York City, and did nothing but meth and crank all day, and thought a pair of shoes I found in the gutter was god, and were deaf and blind, and completely incommunicado, I STILL would have heard about Natalee Holloway. And how her dumb, drunken friends left her 18 year old drunk self alone in a bar in the arms of a mass murderer, who just happened to be the son of the most powerful dude on the island.
"Yes. I think I recall something about that."
And, thank you. I will enjoy another free beer.
Well, it turns out, that despite all instincts to the contrary, I didn't off myself during the holidays. The blur from Thanksgiving to New Year is in the rear view mirror, and I couldn't be happier about that. There's something relentless and unkind about the holiday season, and I can't put my finger on it. *Shiver*
On the tremendous upside, we did take a great vacation over winter break. We cruised (why not? We've got the sour acrimony of 80 year-olds) all over the Caribbean. Far, in fact. I know you want to hear about it.
First, we had to drive to Fort Lauderdale, Florida. That is approximately 725 miles from where I sit right now. In metric, that converts to effing far. So, on the first day of break, my true love gave to me: an appointment with Sam's endocrinologist, subsequent X-rays and blood work, lunch on the causeway, and that was the first four hours of the day. We made it to Tallahassee and then slept.
On the second day of break, we made it to Fort Lauderdale. The kids were more or less good, and the driving more or less easy. For the record, though, Florida is WAY bigger than it looks on the map. It's never ending. We ate at a fantastically fun kitschy German restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale, and rested up for boarding.
The next day was easy. Geriatrics are always concerned about their hips, so they generally move away from aggressive pushing. We engaged in a long chit chat with the agent who wanted to be sure to tell me to enjoy my boys before they were all grown up like hers. Though her intentions were probably good, you never want to tell a woman who's spent 12 hours in a car with her kids to enjoy them. It's just not prudent.
M bought a prepaid $100 beverage card for me to facilitate my hard earned alcoholic binging. I don't know if he was optimistic or if he was naive, or if I really misunderstood, but I blew through that sucker in a day. It's vacation. And drinks with fruit and umbrella garnish aren't free.
The first port of call was Holland America's privately owned island, Half Moon Cay. M and I have been there 3 times, at least, over the past 10 years. Once we went with our friends, EM and WB and had one of the best days EVER. In fact, for whatever reasons, the absence of EM and WB on this trip really struck me.
The kids thought the tropical water was too cold, and I didn't care. Because Holland America has recently built a rather cute pirate ship sponsored by none other than Captain Morgan. They served up all kinds of fun stuff in there, and the kids enjoyed playing in the sand while I "supervised."
A day at the beach turned out to be too much for sweet little E, though. After being in the heat, and playing in the water and sand, he probably had a touch of sun stroke. At least that's what we called it when we were kids. It may not be an actual "diagnosis," but he's had it before. He skipped dinner, and went to bed.
At 11 o'clock that night, I was awakened to the most horrible sound known to human kind. It sounds like whatever the opposite of sucking is. Blowing? Spitting? As I jammed on the light, the odor hit me. Hard. Like a wall of stink. E puked ALL over. His bed. The floor. The table.
It's a 100 square foot cabin. He pretty much hit all of it.
I scrubbed the kid, and M summoned the cabin steward, who opened the door into the wall of stink, looked at the mess, and visibly wished he was back in Indonesia, surfing a tsunami.
M and our steward cleaned and scrubbed as best the could in the middle of the night. But the stink was there. Embedded in my nose. On me. All around. I didn't sleep.
For the next 4 days, our steward shampooed the carpeting, disinfected, ionized the air (as if that's gonna help) and febreezed. But long after he gave up hope, there was still the distinct cutting edge of puke in cabin 1122.
After the puke, resting in the cabin was no longer an option. I spent more time on deck, working on the $250 beverage card M bought after I drained the first one. The air was warm, the sun was bright, and the margaritas sparkled in it all.
The absolute highlight of the trip was a few days later in Curacao. By absolute coincidence enjoyed only by the 1%, my sister and her husband were vacationing there. We trundled up to their hotel and waited for their arrival. While it was only a short visit, it was a much needed visit, and I'm glad for it.
We snorkeled and sailed in the Dominican. Free Rum Punch. We toured endangered mangrove forests in Bonaire. (No free drinks.)We took a 4x4 trip off-roading through Aruba. Free beer. We snorkled in Curacao. We visited the oldest synagogue in the Western Hemisphere in Curacao. Nothing draws crowds like a 400 year old shul. You think I'm joking. Let me remind you: the ship was full of 80 year old Jewish folks who like nothing more than finding Jewish stuff, even if it's on a tiny Dutch Island in the middle of nowhere. They sat in the pews, and fanned themselves, complaining of the heat. I swear, I wish I were kidding about that.
My favorite non-family moment came when I was chatting with the guide in Aruba. He asked where we were from, and I grudgingly confessed the truth: Alabama. And my favorite response EVER. "If you are from Alabama, you might have heard about that unfortunate business about that Holloway girl."
I wanted to say that if I lived in a box under a trestle in New York City, and did nothing but meth and crank all day, and thought a pair of shoes I found in the gutter was god, and were deaf and blind, and completely incommunicado, I STILL would have heard about Natalee Holloway. And how her dumb, drunken friends left her 18 year old drunk self alone in a bar in the arms of a mass murderer, who just happened to be the son of the most powerful dude on the island.
"Yes. I think I recall something about that."
And, thank you. I will enjoy another free beer.
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