We are married.
And let me tell you, it is amazing.
For starters, the thing about being married is that when you wake up the next day, that person next to you? the one that's your best friend? the one who knows all your silly stories and smart-ass sayings and serious secrets? the one who you want to raise a family with and grow old with? is your husband. Or your wife. Or your partner. Or whatever label you choose to ascribe them with. They are yours.
It's lovely.
Our wedding was a beautiful, amazing weekend of celebrating with friends and family in a truly gorgous place. Naturally there were also some hilarious moments.
In hindsight.
Among other things, we had a fantastic wedding party that included our closest friends and siblings. On Friday night we had an amazing rehearsal dinner night where Cute Husband and I had the pleasure of toasting each of them and sharing silly stories of how we met them all.
On Saturday, despite the threat of inclement weather our Golf with the Groom and Beach with the Bride events were both a hit, though Beach with the Bride did turn into "Poolside with the Bride under Tented Cabanas with Food and Indoor Entertainment" which doesn't roll off the tongue quite the same way but was fun nonetheless.
I'm told our welcome party on Saturday night was a fantastic evening with wonderful food and a fun time to mix and mingle. I, however, was....um....otherwise occupied during the party.
Brides. Heed my advice. If you should start to feel a little, ohhhhh, under the weather at your welcome party? Like you're about to star in your own version of "Bridesmaids," and not so much the scene where they all band together and sing Wilson Philips with coordinated dance moves but more like....the scene where they're trying on dresses?
Cut and run. Don't wait to see what happens. I've seen what happens. It's not pretty.
In a moment of BLINDING CLARITY it becomes apparent that something is really, really not right here, and that it's about to become really, really wrong, and that time is right. now. and let me tell you, when that moment of brillance happens, you lose all pride and sense of polite decency and you worry about one thing and one thing only and that is GET ME TO THE BATHROOM.
I don't think I actually shoved anyone out of my way, but I was definitely on a mission.
Awesomely, at this point, approximately, oh, everyone at the party has seen me heading to the bathroom at one point or another. I didn't so much mind that, or really care who in the public bathroom got to witness the amazingly glorious site that was me hurling my guts in said white minidress.
What I cared about? Was making sure everyone knew I WAS. NOT. PREGNANT.
I'm pretty sure I advised everyone who had the guts (no pun intended) to come near me that night of that fact. Classy. Let me tell you.
Spoiler alert: I lived. My mom actually came in my room at 2 AM after Round 3, when the meds started kicking in and it became apparent I would live through the night, and said "Don't worry. Nobody really even realized you were gone. And at least this will make a funny blog post!" to which I'm pretty sure I groaned and moaned "TOO SOON." Alas, she was right. Well played, Mom.
Sunday dawned gorgeously and thankfully barf-free. Despite high winds that forced us to move off our original beach site, our wedding day was sunny and beautiful.
Our ceremony was beautifully officiated by one of my bridesmaids (and former college roommate) who is now a wondeful minister. The dress fit like a glove thanks to the couple pounds I'd miraculously shed the night before (again, see Bridesmaids reference), Cute Husband looked amazing in his suit, the flowers were gorgeous, and dolphins literally danced in the surf just outside our ceremony site.
OH YES. Top that, wedding gods. Dolphins frolicking during our vows.
The reception was absolutely amazing thanks to the hard work of John, Monica, Elise, Ben and everyone who helped us with the design and decor aspects of the day. The food was fantastic, the lounge area was thoroughly enjoyed, and the live music during our ceremony and cocktail hour were amazing.
For the dancing portion of the evening, we hadn't provided a complete playlist for the DJ. We'd simply requested that he stick to pop, Top 40-ish songs, and work in a couple slow songs that I'd provided and a couple house songs that Justin had provided. No Katy Perry, no Beyonce. Nothing against those ladies but, eh, not my favorites.
We'd also requested he avoid such *amazing* wedding hits as the Macarena, the Electric Slide, the Cha Cha Slide, and, well, basically anything with any type of universally accepted dance movement.
Easy, right? Great.
In retrospect the first Katy Perry song should have tipped us off.
Possibly also the beginning of a trio of 80s songs that no one recognized.
If not either of those things, I probably should have realized it when the strains of OH OH OH, OH OH OHHH OH OH ALL THE SINGLE LADIES! began ringing through the air, but I was in the bathroom at the time, and really, have YOU ever peed in a wedding dress? Let me tell you, that requires enough attention, thankyouverymuch.
Also hard to do in a wedding dress? The Cha Cha Slide. Oh but we did. Slide to the left! Slide to the right! Take it back now y'all! One hop this time! Two hops this time! Criss cross! Criss cross! Cha Cha now y'all!
Which was the first time - but oh, not the last - that Cute Husband caught my eye on the dance floor and mouthed "What the eff?"
However, the point of the evening during which it became blindingly apparent that we had completely lost control of the music? was me leading a conga line through the reception hall to "Jump In the Line."
I'm pretty sure the DJ just assumes that you are so ravingly drunk at this point (oh sad but true: copious upchucking the night prior leads one to spend most of their wedding night stone cold sober) that you don't actually really care what he plays, and besides, who wouldn't want to Shake! Shake! Shake! Senora! at their wedding?!?!?
Work your body line. Work it all the time.
The thing about the wedding music is, it's a party. It doesn't matter. In the end, you plan everything down to the very last detail and you know what? stuff goes wrong anyway. And nobody cares, least of all you, because what went RIGHT? is that you got married.
After a week of sunshine with family and friends, we came home and back to reality. Wife-dom has apparently triggered a new instinct in me and in the couple days we've been back, I've been cleaning up a storm, cooking homemade dinners (whatever. two dinners is a plural. Who cares how many days that's over??), and grinning like a madwoman every time I refer to Cute Husband as, well, Husband!
And THAT, right there, tells you that the best part of the whole thing? Is that now we are MARRIED.
(that, and the new Keurig.)
Showing posts with label traveling fun for everyone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label traveling fun for everyone. Show all posts
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
The Scene In Which I Think That Was The Holidays
So, the holidays happened.
I mean, I'm pretty sure they did. There was mid-November, and now it's January 1st, and I'm 99% convinced that in the six weeks between those two points I logged a couple thousand miles on my car, went to Detroit, went to Chicago, went to Detroit again, went to Toronto, wrapped a bunch of gifts, sent a bunch of cards, cooked a bunch of food, ate a bunch of food, and generally was merry.
The week of Thanksgiving I drove around solo a lot, and I spent a lot of that driving time listening to NPR, except for the one time I crossed a state line and the channel change and I totally thought I was still listening to NPR but in fact I'd tuned into the Christian Family Values network, and let me tell you, NOT the same.
We spent Thanksgiving at my parents house in Chicago with Cute Boy and his family, which was good for a lot of laughs and some very yummy food. It was Princess's first Thanksgiving with us, since we got her just after it last year, and she was amazed by the idea that the whole day was dictated by the process of MAKING, BAKING, and EATING FOOD.
We actually had to lock her out of the basement, where the turkey roaster was, for fear she'd pull a sneaky move a la the dogs in "Christmas Story" and we'd wind up with Chinese for dinner.
This, of course, from our dog with the, shall we say, discriminating palate, whose antics lead me to have to send texts like this:
Me -> Cute Boy: Princess just ate one of your socks and then barfed it back up. It's in one piece but it's really gross so I'm just going to throw it out.
After I thankfully was able to visit her just before Thanksgiving, my grandma passed away the week after the holiday and my family went to Detroit in early December. While I'm sad that she's gone, I am grateful that she was spared long-term suffering, and it was really nice to see some of my dad's immediate and extended family. I can't honestly remember the last time we all got together, even with just his brother and sister, and I was especially glad to get to spend some time with my only cousin on his side and am really looking forward to that relationship developing.
I hosted an end-of-year party for the amazing girls who help me out at lilly lane, for whom I have to thank for an incredible year with a record-setting number of weddings! The party was also a surprise baby shower for one of our gals, who is expecting the first lilly lane baby in January. We decked out the kitchen and living room in pink and Cute Boy demonstrated extreme tolerance for having a whole lot of estrogen in the house.
I watched Christmas Vacation and am completely, entirely convinced that Chevy Chase's character in the scene where he goes off on his boss for enrolling him in the jelly club is based off of one of my Uncle Bob's rants.
I got jelly for Christmas from Uncle Bob's daughter. Even though it was totally not a reference to that movie at all (she just knows how much I freakin' love Traverse City Cherry Jam) it was funny, because, um, see above if you don't know why that was funny.
We went to a holiday concert at Butler, my alma mater. It was on the same night that IU, Cute Boy's alma mater, beat Kentucky. Pretty much every single IU alum was glued to the TV.
He watched the score auto-update on his phone while chatting with other alums during the pre-concert reception.
That's love, folks. I'ma marry that boy.
I surfed the Interwebs and Etsy and found approximately eight million adorable, easy holiday crafts that I wanted to make and I bookmarked them all and then I made exactly ZERO of them, which is fine. And then my aunt, who is awesomely crafty when it comes to knitting, actually made me one of the crafts that I had had the idea for last year except that it never left the idea stage for me whereas she actually DID IT, and I LOVE IT, IT'S SO AWESOME, and I am totally going to try to do more of my ideas this year, and by more I mean AT LEAST ONE.
I earned major awesome-future-wife points by buying Cute Boy skis for Christmas, and let me tell you, I am going to remember this for the future, because this is how THIS went down:
1) I told Cute Boy I would buy him skis and gave him a budget
2) He went out and did all the research
3) He went out and bought the skis
4) I paid for them
5) He put them out on display in his "man-room" and told everyone how awesome I was
6) He wore them around the house and told everyone how awesome I was
7) He booked a ski trip with a pal (code for: girls weekend for me at home!)
8) He put them by the tree and I stuck a bow on them.
Guaranteed love of the gift + no wrapping + no shopping +points for me = CHRISTMAS AMAZINGNESS.
I also got him a calendar. It's a tradition.
We spent Christmas in Indy with my parents (visiting from Chicago) and brother, Cute Boy's folks and sister, my aunt, uncle and cousin, and "Grandpa Ed," the neighbor we got Princess from when he went into a nursing home last year. Which, if you're keeping tally, means that yes, I hosted Christmas Day Dinner for 12 people in our house.
Unfortunately, I was apparently convinced that we had, in fact, already recieved the kitchen and cooking things we registered for recently, like, say pots and pans and baking pans? Which led me to do a whole lot of dishes and scrape together a whole lot of interesting cookware solutions and have to send a couple texts to my future sister in law that looked like this:
Me -> Sister: Can you bring some water glasses? Ours all say Coors Lite.
Me ->Sister: Also, can you bring some spoons?
Sister -> Me: Like, regular spoons? Or serving spoons?
Me -> Sister: Yeah.....both please.
I talked to my Grandpa on Christmas Day, which was sad because he was missing Grandma, but then just sort of odd because I'm pretty sure he thought I was actually my dad the whole time I was talking to him, so either he wasn't listening to me or my voice has hit a new low, no pun intended, in sexy huskiness. Either way, meh, it's cool.
My brother learned to cook and made an amazing roast and a couple side dishes, and my mom brought a ham, and I made the rest of the meal and breakfast and snacks and they actually all turned out OK and it miraculously ALL CAME TOGETHER at the right time and then at the end of the night after everyone left or was outside or was passed out I poured my mom and I shots of rum and made her drink one with me because I never realized how freaking hard it is to host a huge holiday party.
We went to Toronto for New Year's to visit Cute Boy's pals and family who live there (Cute Boy is Canadian, eh? Have I told you that yet?) and, as always, I discovered something new about the city, namely:
While out to dinner at Pangea, an amazing, amazing, amazing restaurant that Cute Boy's best friend (and best man) is chef at:
*rumble rumble rumble rumble rumble*
Me: What the eff is that? Is there some sort of freaking underground train here that I don't know about?
Cute Boy: Ummmm........you mean the subway?
Me: Get out, Toronto has a subway?
Cute Boy: *hysterical laughter*
Whatever dude, I didn't grow up here, the subway is effing UNDER THE GROUND and I just totally hadn't noticed it yet.
And then it was midnight on December 31st and 2011 came to a close and I got to kiss this really adorable blonde dude and I realized that HOLY HELL, we are getting married in less than four months, and if you think the HOLIDAYS went by fast- well, hang on, sister.
Happy New Year to you all!
I mean, I'm pretty sure they did. There was mid-November, and now it's January 1st, and I'm 99% convinced that in the six weeks between those two points I logged a couple thousand miles on my car, went to Detroit, went to Chicago, went to Detroit again, went to Toronto, wrapped a bunch of gifts, sent a bunch of cards, cooked a bunch of food, ate a bunch of food, and generally was merry.
The week of Thanksgiving I drove around solo a lot, and I spent a lot of that driving time listening to NPR, except for the one time I crossed a state line and the channel change and I totally thought I was still listening to NPR but in fact I'd tuned into the Christian Family Values network, and let me tell you, NOT the same.
We spent Thanksgiving at my parents house in Chicago with Cute Boy and his family, which was good for a lot of laughs and some very yummy food. It was Princess's first Thanksgiving with us, since we got her just after it last year, and she was amazed by the idea that the whole day was dictated by the process of MAKING, BAKING, and EATING FOOD.
We actually had to lock her out of the basement, where the turkey roaster was, for fear she'd pull a sneaky move a la the dogs in "Christmas Story" and we'd wind up with Chinese for dinner.
This, of course, from our dog with the, shall we say, discriminating palate, whose antics lead me to have to send texts like this:
Me -> Cute Boy: Princess just ate one of your socks and then barfed it back up. It's in one piece but it's really gross so I'm just going to throw it out.
After I thankfully was able to visit her just before Thanksgiving, my grandma passed away the week after the holiday and my family went to Detroit in early December. While I'm sad that she's gone, I am grateful that she was spared long-term suffering, and it was really nice to see some of my dad's immediate and extended family. I can't honestly remember the last time we all got together, even with just his brother and sister, and I was especially glad to get to spend some time with my only cousin on his side and am really looking forward to that relationship developing.
I hosted an end-of-year party for the amazing girls who help me out at lilly lane, for whom I have to thank for an incredible year with a record-setting number of weddings! The party was also a surprise baby shower for one of our gals, who is expecting the first lilly lane baby in January. We decked out the kitchen and living room in pink and Cute Boy demonstrated extreme tolerance for having a whole lot of estrogen in the house.
I watched Christmas Vacation and am completely, entirely convinced that Chevy Chase's character in the scene where he goes off on his boss for enrolling him in the jelly club is based off of one of my Uncle Bob's rants.
I got jelly for Christmas from Uncle Bob's daughter. Even though it was totally not a reference to that movie at all (she just knows how much I freakin' love Traverse City Cherry Jam) it was funny, because, um, see above if you don't know why that was funny.
We went to a holiday concert at Butler, my alma mater. It was on the same night that IU, Cute Boy's alma mater, beat Kentucky. Pretty much every single IU alum was glued to the TV.
He watched the score auto-update on his phone while chatting with other alums during the pre-concert reception.
That's love, folks. I'ma marry that boy.
I surfed the Interwebs and Etsy and found approximately eight million adorable, easy holiday crafts that I wanted to make and I bookmarked them all and then I made exactly ZERO of them, which is fine. And then my aunt, who is awesomely crafty when it comes to knitting, actually made me one of the crafts that I had had the idea for last year except that it never left the idea stage for me whereas she actually DID IT, and I LOVE IT, IT'S SO AWESOME, and I am totally going to try to do more of my ideas this year, and by more I mean AT LEAST ONE.
I earned major awesome-future-wife points by buying Cute Boy skis for Christmas, and let me tell you, I am going to remember this for the future, because this is how THIS went down:
1) I told Cute Boy I would buy him skis and gave him a budget
2) He went out and did all the research
3) He went out and bought the skis
4) I paid for them
5) He put them out on display in his "man-room" and told everyone how awesome I was
6) He wore them around the house and told everyone how awesome I was
7) He booked a ski trip with a pal (code for: girls weekend for me at home!)
8) He put them by the tree and I stuck a bow on them.
Guaranteed love of the gift + no wrapping + no shopping +points for me = CHRISTMAS AMAZINGNESS.
I also got him a calendar. It's a tradition.
We spent Christmas in Indy with my parents (visiting from Chicago) and brother, Cute Boy's folks and sister, my aunt, uncle and cousin, and "Grandpa Ed," the neighbor we got Princess from when he went into a nursing home last year. Which, if you're keeping tally, means that yes, I hosted Christmas Day Dinner for 12 people in our house.
Unfortunately, I was apparently convinced that we had, in fact, already recieved the kitchen and cooking things we registered for recently, like, say pots and pans and baking pans? Which led me to do a whole lot of dishes and scrape together a whole lot of interesting cookware solutions and have to send a couple texts to my future sister in law that looked like this:
Me -> Sister: Can you bring some water glasses? Ours all say Coors Lite.
Me ->Sister: Also, can you bring some spoons?
Sister -> Me: Like, regular spoons? Or serving spoons?
Me -> Sister: Yeah.....both please.
I talked to my Grandpa on Christmas Day, which was sad because he was missing Grandma, but then just sort of odd because I'm pretty sure he thought I was actually my dad the whole time I was talking to him, so either he wasn't listening to me or my voice has hit a new low, no pun intended, in sexy huskiness. Either way, meh, it's cool.
My brother learned to cook and made an amazing roast and a couple side dishes, and my mom brought a ham, and I made the rest of the meal and breakfast and snacks and they actually all turned out OK and it miraculously ALL CAME TOGETHER at the right time and then at the end of the night after everyone left or was outside or was passed out I poured my mom and I shots of rum and made her drink one with me because I never realized how freaking hard it is to host a huge holiday party.
We went to Toronto for New Year's to visit Cute Boy's pals and family who live there (Cute Boy is Canadian, eh? Have I told you that yet?) and, as always, I discovered something new about the city, namely:
While out to dinner at Pangea, an amazing, amazing, amazing restaurant that Cute Boy's best friend (and best man) is chef at:
*rumble rumble rumble rumble rumble*
Me: What the eff is that? Is there some sort of freaking underground train here that I don't know about?
Cute Boy: Ummmm........you mean the subway?
Me: Get out, Toronto has a subway?
Cute Boy: *hysterical laughter*
Whatever dude, I didn't grow up here, the subway is effing UNDER THE GROUND and I just totally hadn't noticed it yet.
And then it was midnight on December 31st and 2011 came to a close and I got to kiss this really adorable blonde dude and I realized that HOLY HELL, we are getting married in less than four months, and if you think the HOLIDAYS went by fast- well, hang on, sister.
Happy New Year to you all!
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
The Scene In Which I Did Stuff This Summer. When, You Know, I Totally Didn't Blog.
Instead of ignoring the fact that I pretty much just neglected to do anything on this blog for, oh, four months out of the year, I decided I'd take you all on a little sneak peek into what I called "The Summer I Was Totally Busy, Yet Nothing New Happened," and by that I mean, we just sort of spent a few months doing the exact same things we'd been doing the months before.
Don't get me wrong, I'm extremely grateful for the summer I had! Cute Boy and I got to move into our new house, spend some time doing repairs, I was thrilled/ amazed/ humbled by all the weddings we did at the studio, and of course, we've been planning the wedding....and I managed to do most of it without causing bodily harm or hilarious damage to myself. Hence, no blog.
So here's what we did:
Celebrated a fabulous friend on a fabulous fortieth!
Rolled right through the big one- and kept on going! Totally unrelated I'm sure, the car spent at least two days of every month in the shop this summer for assorted issues.
Made some flowers. Put some in bouquets. Put some around cupcakes. Put some on cakes.
Power washed the porch. Thanks Dad! Admired the cool stylized power-wash-sprayed name. Realized that the amount of dirt on our new porch was such that my dad could literally spray my name into it. Kind of shuddered.
Went to see Dispatch in concert. Totally geeked out hearing Elias, Carry You, The General, and pretty much every song they played live. Had a discussion with my fellow concert goers about how the youth of today have absolutey no pot-smoking-concealing skills. Debating blogging about that. Forgot. Took zero photos.
More flowers for tables and bouquets. Tons of amazing flowers this summer.
Took naps on the bed. Took naps on the chair. Took naps on the floor. Went to the groomer's. Went swimming. (I want this life.)
Got paint. Put it on walls. Put it on clay pots. Stopped painting, had guests in town, and went to an Indians game. Caught the game winning ball- great shot I got of that, huh?!? Yeah.
..........that's all folks! Thanks for checking out the summer! :)
Don't get me wrong, I'm extremely grateful for the summer I had! Cute Boy and I got to move into our new house, spend some time doing repairs, I was thrilled/ amazed/ humbled by all the weddings we did at the studio, and of course, we've been planning the wedding....and I managed to do most of it without causing bodily harm or hilarious damage to myself. Hence, no blog.
So here's what we did:
Went to the 500. Bought a house. Took a picture of it before we ripped it up. Ripped up yarn. (Princess.)
Celebrated a fabulous friend on a fabulous fortieth!
Made a ton of flowers.
Rolled right through the big one- and kept on going! Totally unrelated I'm sure, the car spent at least two days of every month in the shop this summer for assorted issues.
Went to see Peter Gabriel and the New Blood Orchestra in concert. Totally geeked out hearing Solsbury Hill live (with a transition to an orchestral Simple Gifts at the end. Gah. OMG). Nearly cried. Took zero pictures.
Tore out the weird pass-through, tube-TV, 1980s wannabe entertainment center. Ripped up the vaguely off-white-long-ago carpeting. Searched for new flooring. Bought new floors and had *help* transporting them home (Finnigan).
Made some flowers. Put some in bouquets. Put some around cupcakes. Put some on cakes.
Power washed the porch. Thanks Dad! Admired the cool stylized power-wash-sprayed name. Realized that the amount of dirt on our new porch was such that my dad could literally spray my name into it. Kind of shuddered.Went to see Dispatch in concert. Totally geeked out hearing Elias, Carry You, The General, and pretty much every song they played live. Had a discussion with my fellow concert goers about how the youth of today have absolutey no pot-smoking-concealing skills. Debating blogging about that. Forgot. Took zero photos.
Made some more flowers. Some went in a tent. That was a long day.
Organized all my books into alphabetical order (Whatever, OCD.). Counted the number of each book (by author last name) to see which I had the most of. Debated writing a blog post about said counting. Forgot. Hung with some pals for 4th of July and checked out the new Tiger Forest at the Zoo on a quick break from a Zoo wedding setup.
More flowers.
Got new floors! Got a rug from Old Time Pottery. Got towed from Old Time Pottery. Got to experience Mom's first tow truck ride with her. Got the bill. That was fun. Debated writing a blog post about it. Forgot.
Made some brides happy! These four plus (in June, July, and August only) 31 more. Love happy brides!
Though I guess you'd be happy too if you got to eat cake. More flowers on cakes. Yum........
Got a fireplace! Got framing around a fireplace. Got walls around a fireplace. Took a nap.
Went to go see Indigo Girls in concert. Totally geeked out hearing Devotion live. Took zero photos.
Went to an EDM festival. Finally remembered to take some photos. Went backstage. Thanks future seeeeester!
Went to Atlanta with Brother for the second (hopefully annual) Cousins Trip. Got stalked by Earl Grey. Saw whale sharks at the Atlanta Aquarium. Crawled through the kid tubes. Went to a Twin Peaks themed bar that did not have pie. Heated discussion ensued.
More flowers for tables and bouquets. Tons of amazing flowers this summer. 
Took naps on the bed. Took naps on the chair. Took naps on the floor. Went to the groomer's. Went swimming. (I want this life.)
Got paint. Put it on walls. Put it on clay pots. Stopped painting, had guests in town, and went to an Indians game. Caught the game winning ball- great shot I got of that, huh?!? Yeah...........that's all folks! Thanks for checking out the summer! :)
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The Scene In Which I Do Not Want To Fly
I have to get on a plane, and it's freaking me out.
Before you ask, no, it's not for Thanksgiving (tomorrow). It's not even for Christmas (a month away).
It's in MARCH.
More specifically, at the END OF MARCH.
But in my family there's something to being prepared, and kids, let me tell you, I am prepared to be completely f-ing freaked out, especially since I am already f-ing freaked out.
I haven't always been this way.
There was a time, and not all that long ago, when the idea of flying didn't freak me out. Airline travel was something interesting, even fun.
Then I moved to Indiana and my allergies got bad, which made my ears react sort of the way a five-year-olds might and develop weird vertigo-ish tendencies during take offs and landings.
Sort of making me feel like the plane was crashing at any given second during both events.
Super.
Then I was in a couple flights in a row where there was really bad turbulence. Also not helpful.
I'm pretty sure that my solo flight home from San Diego following an AFP conference two years ago was the actual first panic attack. Descending into Denver during a thunderstorm? Not cool. Still owe huge gratitude to the grandfatherly gent who talked me down (literally: he talked to me during the entire 20-minute descent into Denver).
Followed closely by my horrendous, weather-delayed, turbulent voyage to Omaha during which the on-leave, 19-year-old cute little Marine had to distract me (read: poor freaked out old chick) during the entire turbulent flight with stories about how he was injured by an IED. Seriously.
And then this happened.
(From a Scene in 2009 describing our flight home from Paris): "during which we encountered the type of turbulence that makes the pilots yell for the flight attendants to sit, the aforementioned attendants to squinch their eyes closed, and for half of the passengers to actually scream as we nose-dive several hundred feet in, oh, about two seconds."
Oh yes, that's right. I was ON A PLANE THAT FELL OUT OF THE SKY.
So it shouldn't come as a total surprise that I'm not that excited about getting into a TIN CAN and being LAUNCHED THOUSANDS OF FEET INTO THE AIR in the hands of WHOEVER THE DUMBASS AT THE HELM IS and being at the total mercy of the elements.
NO THANKS.
Since the lovely flight to Paris I've only gotten on a plane once, to head to Florida. I seriously didn't know how I was going to go through with it. Thankfully, Cute Boy and xanax came to the rescue.
But I'd like to avoid this in the future, particularly as "taking xanax" for the purpose of air travel might aaaaaaaactually mean "taking one xanax the day before, taking one xanax the day of, having a couple glasses of wine before the flight takes off, staggering out of the airport three hours later, and puking out the side of the car on the way home."
Theoretically.
I need a solution, kids. And I need one now. So I don't have to spend the next four months freaking out.
Before you ask, no, it's not for Thanksgiving (tomorrow). It's not even for Christmas (a month away).
It's in MARCH.
More specifically, at the END OF MARCH.
But in my family there's something to being prepared, and kids, let me tell you, I am prepared to be completely f-ing freaked out, especially since I am already f-ing freaked out.
I haven't always been this way.
There was a time, and not all that long ago, when the idea of flying didn't freak me out. Airline travel was something interesting, even fun.
Then I moved to Indiana and my allergies got bad, which made my ears react sort of the way a five-year-olds might and develop weird vertigo-ish tendencies during take offs and landings.
Sort of making me feel like the plane was crashing at any given second during both events.
Super.
Then I was in a couple flights in a row where there was really bad turbulence. Also not helpful.
I'm pretty sure that my solo flight home from San Diego following an AFP conference two years ago was the actual first panic attack. Descending into Denver during a thunderstorm? Not cool. Still owe huge gratitude to the grandfatherly gent who talked me down (literally: he talked to me during the entire 20-minute descent into Denver).
Followed closely by my horrendous, weather-delayed, turbulent voyage to Omaha during which the on-leave, 19-year-old cute little Marine had to distract me (read: poor freaked out old chick) during the entire turbulent flight with stories about how he was injured by an IED. Seriously.
And then this happened.
(From a Scene in 2009 describing our flight home from Paris): "during which we encountered the type of turbulence that makes the pilots yell for the flight attendants to sit, the aforementioned attendants to squinch their eyes closed, and for half of the passengers to actually scream as we nose-dive several hundred feet in, oh, about two seconds."
Oh yes, that's right. I was ON A PLANE THAT FELL OUT OF THE SKY.
So it shouldn't come as a total surprise that I'm not that excited about getting into a TIN CAN and being LAUNCHED THOUSANDS OF FEET INTO THE AIR in the hands of WHOEVER THE DUMBASS AT THE HELM IS and being at the total mercy of the elements.
NO THANKS.
Since the lovely flight to Paris I've only gotten on a plane once, to head to Florida. I seriously didn't know how I was going to go through with it. Thankfully, Cute Boy and xanax came to the rescue.
But I'd like to avoid this in the future, particularly as "taking xanax" for the purpose of air travel might aaaaaaaactually mean "taking one xanax the day before, taking one xanax the day of, having a couple glasses of wine before the flight takes off, staggering out of the airport three hours later, and puking out the side of the car on the way home."
Theoretically.
I need a solution, kids. And I need one now. So I don't have to spend the next four months freaking out.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Scene In Which We Hit Beale Street
After a more-than-adequate dose of Elvis, we checked out some other areas of Memphis and started our nightly entertainment of sampling the nightlife....aka, drinking!
The boys had chores at their hostel, so K and I hung out at the "Cafe Ole" having a drink and waiting for them. It was right at the Cooper/Young neighborhood- so cute!
Staying at the Peabody, we naturally had to see the famous "March of the Ducks," so headed there next to observe the 5 PM show. For those unfamiliar with the tale, twice a day the trained ducks who reside at the Peabody march down and into, or out of and up, to the lobby fountain from the hotel roof where they spend their evenings.
The music plays a march, the "duck wrangler" puts down a set of stairs, and the ducks hop out of the fountain, march down the stairs, march across a red carpet, and hop on the elevator to go to the roof.
It's as freakin' cute as it sounds, if not cuter.
Following our dose of cuteness (and yummy martinis!) we ventured back to Beale Street to sample a little more local cultural- in the form of bar hopping from 7 PM- 2 AM, eventually landing at five or so places.
Including one where we saw this guy.
Dr. Feelgood Potts.
If you ever get down to Memphis and have the opportunity to hear him, DO IT.
Then, go have more drinks, eat some fried green tomatos, go to the karaoke bar, and watch your cousin sing "Suspicious Minds" in a town that reveres Elvis (thankfully, doing it much justice), watch your other cousin sing "Son of a Preacher Man" and bring the house down, watch The Tall Brit sing Oasis, and watch an amazingly drunk biker babe wife join her buddy onstage for a theatrical rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody," complete with hand gestures and dancing, then head back to the Peabody at 2 AM and have this conversation with the bellman on the way to your room in an otherwise still hotel:
Cousin K: "Howdy!"
(Howdy?!)
Bellman: Hi.
K: Quiet in here, huh? So where's the staff party?
Bellman: Um, hah (nervous laughter) ah, have a good night....ah, hah.
Me: Seriously? What's your next line, 'I carried a watermelon?' "
And then you've done Memphis.
The boys had chores at their hostel, so K and I hung out at the "Cafe Ole" having a drink and waiting for them. It was right at the Cooper/Young neighborhood- so cute!
Staying at the Peabody, we naturally had to see the famous "March of the Ducks," so headed there next to observe the 5 PM show. For those unfamiliar with the tale, twice a day the trained ducks who reside at the Peabody march down and into, or out of and up, to the lobby fountain from the hotel roof where they spend their evenings.
The music plays a march, the "duck wrangler" puts down a set of stairs, and the ducks hop out of the fountain, march down the stairs, march across a red carpet, and hop on the elevator to go to the roof.
It's as freakin' cute as it sounds, if not cuter.
Following our dose of cuteness (and yummy martinis!) we ventured back to Beale Street to sample a little more local cultural- in the form of bar hopping from 7 PM- 2 AM, eventually landing at five or so places.
Including one where we saw this guy.
Dr. Feelgood Potts.
If you ever get down to Memphis and have the opportunity to hear him, DO IT.
Then, go have more drinks, eat some fried green tomatos, go to the karaoke bar, and watch your cousin sing "Suspicious Minds" in a town that reveres Elvis (thankfully, doing it much justice), watch your other cousin sing "Son of a Preacher Man" and bring the house down, watch The Tall Brit sing Oasis, and watch an amazingly drunk biker babe wife join her buddy onstage for a theatrical rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody," complete with hand gestures and dancing, then head back to the Peabody at 2 AM and have this conversation with the bellman on the way to your room in an otherwise still hotel:
Cousin K: "Howdy!"
(Howdy?!)
Bellman: Hi.
K: Quiet in here, huh? So where's the staff party?
Bellman: Um, hah (nervous laughter) ah, have a good night....ah, hah.
Me: Seriously? What's your next line, 'I carried a watermelon?' "
And then you've done Memphis.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Scene In Which I Go To GRACELAND!!
I've never considered myself a huge fan of "The King," but when I said yes to a quick trip to Memphis, I knew Graceland would have to be on the agenda.
(Because really? It's AMERICANA at its absolute best. When am I ever going to see this again??)
And Graceland? Is awesome.
We arrived fairly early in the morning in an effort to beat the crowds, though Mondays appear to be the best time to go to Graceland to do so regardless.
Especially if you're over 70.
Just sayin'.
Graceland is amazing in that it's an entire museum and gift shop extraordinnare cobbled together on what once was a normal street. Despite the fact it stands a mere 100 yards or so away, you must board a short bus (having donned your self-touring headphone set) to be escorted across the street and up the driveway, where you are greeted by a Graceland employee who assures you that you'll be able to tour the house "at your leisure," while lining you up to enter and directing you to take your photos when you're done with the tour, NOT before, because they are UNLOADING THE BUSES HERE.
The house itself takes a relatively short time to go through, as you're not allowed to go upstairs, and definitely introduces you to the sense of reverence people in Memphis get when they talk about The King. This is NOT the Elvis of Vegas- this is their BOY.
Their boy with a 15-ft white leather couch in his peacock-themed front room.
With a fully carpeted kitchen, ohyesthankyou, all the rage in the 1970s.
With a pool room completely covered in pleated fabric on the walls and ceilings, otherwise known as "quite possibly the best place on the planet to do LSD."
And of course, the Jungle Room.
I have to confess, not what I expected. Along the way I'd sort of forgotten that Elvis' house was basically just abandoned and then preserved in the 1970s, and that what would have made something cool back then does not neccessarily mean cool....now.
Like green shag carpeting.
Carved fake wooden tree trunks as furniture.
It was awesome.
Elvis is actually buried outside the house, along with his parents and grandmother, and a marker (though not the remains) of his twin. Here's the part that amazed me: all the FLOWERS! Apparently, flowers still arrive daily from various fans and friends around the world. The week we were there, flowers arrived from his Italian fan club as well as several South American clubs.
Graceland goes on to showcase the grounds, the racquetball court-turned-trophy room, the museum in which all his gold records and other accolades hang (seeing the actual gold record for some of his songs?!? awesome), the car museum where the PINK CADILLAC is, along with about 10 other amazing cars, a showcase of his various costumes, and of course, his two private planes.
One of which features a sink with inlaid gold.
You know, just like mine.
We stayed at Graceland for a fairly serious amount of hours before deciding that we were Elvis-ed out, not in the least because Elvis tunes were being piped through our self-guiding-earbuds as well as the speakers around the place the entire time we were there. Little did we know that later that night, we'd see a performance channeling the King.....
(Because really? It's AMERICANA at its absolute best. When am I ever going to see this again??)
And Graceland? Is awesome.
We arrived fairly early in the morning in an effort to beat the crowds, though Mondays appear to be the best time to go to Graceland to do so regardless.
Especially if you're over 70.
Just sayin'.
Graceland is amazing in that it's an entire museum and gift shop extraordinnare cobbled together on what once was a normal street. Despite the fact it stands a mere 100 yards or so away, you must board a short bus (having donned your self-touring headphone set) to be escorted across the street and up the driveway, where you are greeted by a Graceland employee who assures you that you'll be able to tour the house "at your leisure," while lining you up to enter and directing you to take your photos when you're done with the tour, NOT before, because they are UNLOADING THE BUSES HERE.
The house itself takes a relatively short time to go through, as you're not allowed to go upstairs, and definitely introduces you to the sense of reverence people in Memphis get when they talk about The King. This is NOT the Elvis of Vegas- this is their BOY.
Their boy with a 15-ft white leather couch in his peacock-themed front room.
With a fully carpeted kitchen, ohyesthankyou, all the rage in the 1970s.
With a pool room completely covered in pleated fabric on the walls and ceilings, otherwise known as "quite possibly the best place on the planet to do LSD."
And of course, the Jungle Room.
I have to confess, not what I expected. Along the way I'd sort of forgotten that Elvis' house was basically just abandoned and then preserved in the 1970s, and that what would have made something cool back then does not neccessarily mean cool....now.
Like green shag carpeting.
Carved fake wooden tree trunks as furniture.
It was awesome.
Elvis is actually buried outside the house, along with his parents and grandmother, and a marker (though not the remains) of his twin. Here's the part that amazed me: all the FLOWERS! Apparently, flowers still arrive daily from various fans and friends around the world. The week we were there, flowers arrived from his Italian fan club as well as several South American clubs.
Graceland goes on to showcase the grounds, the racquetball court-turned-trophy room, the museum in which all his gold records and other accolades hang (seeing the actual gold record for some of his songs?!? awesome), the car museum where the PINK CADILLAC is, along with about 10 other amazing cars, a showcase of his various costumes, and of course, his two private planes.
One of which features a sink with inlaid gold.
You know, just like mine.
We stayed at Graceland for a fairly serious amount of hours before deciding that we were Elvis-ed out, not in the least because Elvis tunes were being piped through our self-guiding-earbuds as well as the speakers around the place the entire time we were there. Little did we know that later that night, we'd see a performance channeling the King.....
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Scene In Which I Go To Memphis
A few weeks ago (and yes, just getting to blog about it now) I found myself driving to Memphis, as the direct result of one of those "seize the moment" conversations between myself and my cousin K a few weeks prior.
K: Hey, I'm going to be driving back to N Michigan from Texas in a few weeks. Can I stay with you in Indy on Tuesday night?
Me: Sure.
K: I'm gonna stay in Memphis Sunday and Monday and check it out.
Me: Cool!
K: Hey, you want to come?
Me: YES.
So I wrapped up a wedding on Saturday, packed my bags, picked up my rental car, and drove 7 hours to Memphis via southern Indiana, southern Illinois, Missouri, and Arkansas.
Yes, Arkansas.
Because the most efficient route to get to a state located directly south of me is, in fact, to drive through five different states in one day.
(It actually is. Check it out.)
I arrived and got picked up by my cousin J, K's brother. He had also decided to seize the moment and drive up from Atlanta, so yes, you're correct, three cousins from three different states had all decided to converge together in Memphis, of all places, for two days. He'd also brought L, who for the sake of no-more-initials we're going to refer to as The Tall Brit.
Because he is, and is.
We got settled in at our respective hotels (K& I at the Peabody!!) and the boys came over to pick us up for dinner. Hilariously, both K and J chose to announce themselves at the Peabody by not merely knocking on the door, but announcing "Housekeeping!" in a loud falsetto. Siblings.
We hit Beale Street for an amazing big-band performance and tried to go to BB Kings for dessert, only to realize it was closed because BB King was PLAYING A CONCERT RIGHT THERE. We stood on the street and listened for awhile- awesome.
After long drives for all of us (or long nights in Nashville the previous day for the boys), we headed to bed early.....all the better to be up and at 'em for GRACELAND the next day! More to follow!
K: Hey, I'm going to be driving back to N Michigan from Texas in a few weeks. Can I stay with you in Indy on Tuesday night?
Me: Sure.
K: I'm gonna stay in Memphis Sunday and Monday and check it out.
Me: Cool!
K: Hey, you want to come?
Me: YES.
So I wrapped up a wedding on Saturday, packed my bags, picked up my rental car, and drove 7 hours to Memphis via southern Indiana, southern Illinois, Missouri, and Arkansas.
Yes, Arkansas.
Because the most efficient route to get to a state located directly south of me is, in fact, to drive through five different states in one day.
(It actually is. Check it out.)
I arrived and got picked up by my cousin J, K's brother. He had also decided to seize the moment and drive up from Atlanta, so yes, you're correct, three cousins from three different states had all decided to converge together in Memphis, of all places, for two days. He'd also brought L, who for the sake of no-more-initials we're going to refer to as The Tall Brit.
Because he is, and is.
We got settled in at our respective hotels (K& I at the Peabody!!) and the boys came over to pick us up for dinner. Hilariously, both K and J chose to announce themselves at the Peabody by not merely knocking on the door, but announcing "Housekeeping!" in a loud falsetto. Siblings.
We hit Beale Street for an amazing big-band performance and tried to go to BB Kings for dessert, only to realize it was closed because BB King was PLAYING A CONCERT RIGHT THERE. We stood on the street and listened for awhile- awesome.
After long drives for all of us (or long nights in Nashville the previous day for the boys), we headed to bed early.....all the better to be up and at 'em for GRACELAND the next day! More to follow!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Scene In Which I -Heart- Canada.
We're back! (And by back I mean REALLY back....because I forgot to post this last week after saving it!)
Thanks to the falling of 4th of July over a weekend this year (read: no weddings for Becky, extra vacation days for Cute Boy) we were able to take off for a vacation to Canada, where Cute Boy hails from.
And I -heart- Canada.
We stopped in Detroit for an evening to see my cousin, her husband, and her two cuties B & E. Speaking of things I heart? Those kids.
In preparation for our trip, I'd gone to Nuture to pick out baby gifts for her two kiddos, as well as two little girls we'd be visiting in Canada.
Because I don't have kids, I kind of forgot that clothes aren't the most exciting gifts to recieve when you're 3....especially when you're a boy.
After recovering from the nearly-tearful letdown, we managed to scarf some yummy pancakes together before Cute Boy and I headed out to drive the rest of the way to Toronto.
Apparently in Canada they celebrate this wacky thing called Canada Day. It's three days before our Independence Day and basically celebrates the same thing with the lighting of lots of fireworks.
Which, since you asked, we got to watch from the 23rd floor patio of Cute Boy's good friends who dwell in downtown Toronto. Heart their condo. Heart their friendship.
Speaking of things I heart, small-towns-that-you-can-nearly-miss rank right up there in fondness for vacation places, so I was pretty happy the next day when we hit the St. Lawrence Market for some excellent provisions, loaded up the car, and headed up to Apsley, a blink-and-ya-missed-it town northeast of Toronto.
Anyplace with driving directions that include "when you get off the highway, keep going until you turn at the Coffee Time" is pretty much awesome with me.
We spent a yummy weekend basking in the sun and lake at Cute Boy's aunt's cottage, hanging out with several of his uncles and five of his teen-ish aged boy cousins. Heart. Heart them tons. Had a blast getting to be surrounded by all that energy all weekend. (Seriously? These kids have endless energy.Possibly fueled by their ability to ingest entire refridgerators worth of food in single gulps.)
Beyond boating, breaking tubes (ahem...ask Cute Boy about that), and grilling lots of yummy things to eat, we also achieved such milestones as 1)learning how to turn on water 2)learning how to start a boat 3)learning how to lock and unlock doors.
It was a big weekend.
Heading back on Monday, we chilled in Toronto another night before heading out to the 'burbs to "Nine & Dine" (golf & eat) with friends there and stay with Cute Boy's uncle and aunt for the night. Because we're awesome like that, it was the hottest day of the year in Toronto. Great day to golf :)
All in all, an awesome vacation!! Thanks everyone who hosted us!!
Thanks to the falling of 4th of July over a weekend this year (read: no weddings for Becky, extra vacation days for Cute Boy) we were able to take off for a vacation to Canada, where Cute Boy hails from.
And I -heart- Canada.
We stopped in Detroit for an evening to see my cousin, her husband, and her two cuties B & E. Speaking of things I heart? Those kids.
In preparation for our trip, I'd gone to Nuture to pick out baby gifts for her two kiddos, as well as two little girls we'd be visiting in Canada.
Because I don't have kids, I kind of forgot that clothes aren't the most exciting gifts to recieve when you're 3....especially when you're a boy.
After recovering from the nearly-tearful letdown, we managed to scarf some yummy pancakes together before Cute Boy and I headed out to drive the rest of the way to Toronto.
Apparently in Canada they celebrate this wacky thing called Canada Day. It's three days before our Independence Day and basically celebrates the same thing with the lighting of lots of fireworks.
Which, since you asked, we got to watch from the 23rd floor patio of Cute Boy's good friends who dwell in downtown Toronto. Heart their condo. Heart their friendship.
Speaking of things I heart, small-towns-that-you-can-nearly-miss rank right up there in fondness for vacation places, so I was pretty happy the next day when we hit the St. Lawrence Market for some excellent provisions, loaded up the car, and headed up to Apsley, a blink-and-ya-missed-it town northeast of Toronto.
Anyplace with driving directions that include "when you get off the highway, keep going until you turn at the Coffee Time" is pretty much awesome with me.
We spent a yummy weekend basking in the sun and lake at Cute Boy's aunt's cottage, hanging out with several of his uncles and five of his teen-ish aged boy cousins. Heart. Heart them tons. Had a blast getting to be surrounded by all that energy all weekend. (Seriously? These kids have endless energy.Possibly fueled by their ability to ingest entire refridgerators worth of food in single gulps.)
Beyond boating, breaking tubes (ahem...ask Cute Boy about that), and grilling lots of yummy things to eat, we also achieved such milestones as 1)learning how to turn on water 2)learning how to start a boat 3)learning how to lock and unlock doors.
It was a big weekend.
Heading back on Monday, we chilled in Toronto another night before heading out to the 'burbs to "Nine & Dine" (golf & eat) with friends there and stay with Cute Boy's uncle and aunt for the night. Because we're awesome like that, it was the hottest day of the year in Toronto. Great day to golf :)
All in all, an awesome vacation!! Thanks everyone who hosted us!!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The Scene In Which My Mom Does Not Like Pina Coladas
I've been vacationing in Florida for the past, oh, week or so (I know, rough life) and this Friday, my parents arrived from Chicago for their vacation week. We overlap for a few days, so we're staying in the same apartment room at the lovely small island resort we love so much.
To welcome them to their first day in the sun on Saturday, I whipped up a batch of my now-famous strawberry pina coladas, and, as you'd naturally expect, treated them to a loud, somewhat off-key rendition of "IF you LIKE Pina Coladas....."
To which my mother announced, in a fit of years-held-back disdain, that she "HATES that song."
"Seriously?" I asked (since I'd been singing it all week.)
"Oh my GOD, yes," she replied. "That guy is such a douchenozzle!"
Let's pause momentarily in appreciation of the fact that my mom not only knows, but uses, phrases like "douchenozzle." Because it pertains to later usage, here are Mom's definitions of the phases of "douchiness."
A douche is just kind of like your average idiot.
A douchebag is somebody that actually causes me some problems, like somebody in traffic who cuts me off.
And a douchenozzle is just a breath away from being a dickhead, or possibly an immediate elevation to major dickhead.
You heard it here first.
Back to the story.
I couldn't get the song out of my head, so I kept on singing and that's when we started coming up with all the douchiest lyrics in the song and rating them on levels of doucheness. My helpful dad looked up, and then began to read aloud, the lyrics. My mom inserted helpful appropriate remarks.
I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long. (DICK, she muttered under her breath.)
Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song.
So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed.(OH, yeah, NICE, she's laying right next to you, you jerk.)
And in the personals columns, there was this letter I read:
"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain. (I mean, come on! She's looking for someone with half a brain and then later, he doesn't realize that it means SHE THINKS HE DOESN'T HAVE ONE?!)
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the love that you've looked for, write to me, and escape."
I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kind of mean.(Yeah. Douche. )
But me and my old lady, had fallen into the same old dull routine. (Asshole. Anyone who calls their girlfriend their "old lady" is automatically a douchenozzle.)
So I wrote to the paper, took out a personal ad.
And though I'm nobody's poet, I thought it wasn't half-bad. (Right.)
"Yes, I like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
I'm not much into health food, I am into champagne.
I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape.
At a bar called O'Malley's where we'll plan our escape." (See? SEE?? Already planning to ditch her. What an douche.
So I waited with high hopes, then she walked in the place.
I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face.
It was my own lovely lady, and she said, "Oh, it's you."
And we laughed for a moment, and I said, "I never knew". (See, this relationship is already doomed. How do you NOT know these things? BAD COMMUNICATION.And they're both willing to be adulterers.)
"That you liked Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes on the cape.
Then you're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."
"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the love that you've looked for, come with me, and escape."
At this point my dad offered up a philosophical question. The narrating man may have been willing to cheat on his "old lady," but was she the bigger douchnozzle for having been the first one to place a personal ad??
My mom pondered this for a moment.
"No, I guess just deserve each other."
To welcome them to their first day in the sun on Saturday, I whipped up a batch of my now-famous strawberry pina coladas, and, as you'd naturally expect, treated them to a loud, somewhat off-key rendition of "IF you LIKE Pina Coladas....."
To which my mother announced, in a fit of years-held-back disdain, that she "HATES that song."
"Seriously?" I asked (since I'd been singing it all week.)
"Oh my GOD, yes," she replied. "That guy is such a douchenozzle!"
Let's pause momentarily in appreciation of the fact that my mom not only knows, but uses, phrases like "douchenozzle." Because it pertains to later usage, here are Mom's definitions of the phases of "douchiness."
A douche is just kind of like your average idiot.
A douchebag is somebody that actually causes me some problems, like somebody in traffic who cuts me off.
And a douchenozzle is just a breath away from being a dickhead, or possibly an immediate elevation to major dickhead.
You heard it here first.
Back to the story.
I couldn't get the song out of my head, so I kept on singing and that's when we started coming up with all the douchiest lyrics in the song and rating them on levels of doucheness. My helpful dad looked up, and then began to read aloud, the lyrics. My mom inserted helpful appropriate remarks.
I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long. (DICK, she muttered under her breath.)
Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song.
So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed.(OH, yeah, NICE, she's laying right next to you, you jerk.)
And in the personals columns, there was this letter I read:
"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain. (I mean, come on! She's looking for someone with half a brain and then later, he doesn't realize that it means SHE THINKS HE DOESN'T HAVE ONE?!)
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the love that you've looked for, write to me, and escape."
I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kind of mean.(Yeah. Douche. )
But me and my old lady, had fallen into the same old dull routine. (Asshole. Anyone who calls their girlfriend their "old lady" is automatically a douchenozzle.)
So I wrote to the paper, took out a personal ad.
And though I'm nobody's poet, I thought it wasn't half-bad. (Right.)
"Yes, I like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
I'm not much into health food, I am into champagne.
I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape.
At a bar called O'Malley's where we'll plan our escape." (See? SEE?? Already planning to ditch her. What an douche.
So I waited with high hopes, then she walked in the place.
I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face.
It was my own lovely lady, and she said, "Oh, it's you."
And we laughed for a moment, and I said, "I never knew". (See, this relationship is already doomed. How do you NOT know these things? BAD COMMUNICATION.And they're both willing to be adulterers.)
"That you liked Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes on the cape.
Then you're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."
"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the love that you've looked for, come with me, and escape."
At this point my dad offered up a philosophical question. The narrating man may have been willing to cheat on his "old lady," but was she the bigger douchnozzle for having been the first one to place a personal ad??
My mom pondered this for a moment.
"No, I guess just deserve each other."
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Scene In Which I Am Not A Fizz-icist
This scene maaaaaay have started because I maaaaaay have had a small issue translating military time when reviewing our itinerary, and as a result, Traveling Companion and I maaaaay have arrived at the Madrid train station to catch our overnight train to Paris about, oh, two hours earlier than we actually needed to.
Maybe.
Regardless, we were hungry and we needed some down time anyway, so during the small, ummmmm, interlude between the time we needed to arrive and the time we actually did arrive, we went bowling in the Madrid train station (yep, I said bowling) and bought snacks for the trip, including a bottle of Coke to go with our sandwiches.
Now, maybe a year or so ago, a friend of mine was over at my house after a party helping me clean up, and we had several half-finished bottles of soda. Before putting them away, my friend shook the bottles so the bubbles bubbled up. Seeing my look of curiosity, they explained that it helps retain the carbonation longer if you do that before you put them in the refrigerator.
Because I am not all that scientifically inclined (the only two C's I have ever received have both been in science, and in fact I was so horrible at chemistry in high school that I opted out of physics and took botany instead. As I'm now a florist because of this experience I'd say it turned out rather well, but that's another story), I didn't question the validity of this statement, and because the two-liters did in fact stay fresh for several additional days, I went with it.
I'd like to think that this slight ineptitude towards all things math or science is sort of endearingly, adorably cute, but in fact it's just sort of embarrassing (though, I will admit, funny) when scenes like the following happen.
Back to the train.
We had opened the bottle of Coke and drank about half of it. I happened to be the last one to take a drink, so after I screwed the cap back on, I absentmindedly shook the bottle gently and placed it back in the bag.
And looked up to see a puzzled look on Traveling Companion's face.
TC: "Why on earth did you just do that?"
Me: "Because it keeps it carbonated longer if you shake it a little bit."
Moment of silence.
TC: "Are you joking?"
Me: "Nooooooo......?"
TC: "Ahhh hahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah...."
Me: "What?!?!"
TC: "Hahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!"
Me: "Stop laughing!!"
Traveling Companion eventually composed himself enough to assure me that I was, indeed, misguided on this point, and (still-chuckling) several days later, he explained the actual scientific principles to me.
After that he also informed me that this was "like something a 12-year old tells an 8-year old as a joke and then when the 8-year old turns 12 and realizes that it's not true, they tell another 8-year old because it's funny," to which the only good response was to scrunch up my face and offer some variation of "your mom."
I'll tell you what, though- that damn Coke stayed fizzy for two days after that train ride.
That's all I'm saying.
Maybe.
Regardless, we were hungry and we needed some down time anyway, so during the small, ummmmm, interlude between the time we needed to arrive and the time we actually did arrive, we went bowling in the Madrid train station (yep, I said bowling) and bought snacks for the trip, including a bottle of Coke to go with our sandwiches.
Now, maybe a year or so ago, a friend of mine was over at my house after a party helping me clean up, and we had several half-finished bottles of soda. Before putting them away, my friend shook the bottles so the bubbles bubbled up. Seeing my look of curiosity, they explained that it helps retain the carbonation longer if you do that before you put them in the refrigerator.
Because I am not all that scientifically inclined (the only two C's I have ever received have both been in science, and in fact I was so horrible at chemistry in high school that I opted out of physics and took botany instead. As I'm now a florist because of this experience I'd say it turned out rather well, but that's another story), I didn't question the validity of this statement, and because the two-liters did in fact stay fresh for several additional days, I went with it.
I'd like to think that this slight ineptitude towards all things math or science is sort of endearingly, adorably cute, but in fact it's just sort of embarrassing (though, I will admit, funny) when scenes like the following happen.
Back to the train.
We had opened the bottle of Coke and drank about half of it. I happened to be the last one to take a drink, so after I screwed the cap back on, I absentmindedly shook the bottle gently and placed it back in the bag.
And looked up to see a puzzled look on Traveling Companion's face.
TC: "Why on earth did you just do that?"
Me: "Because it keeps it carbonated longer if you shake it a little bit."
Moment of silence.
TC: "Are you joking?"
Me: "Nooooooo......?"
TC: "Ahhh hahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah...."
Me: "What?!?!"
TC: "Hahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!"
Me: "Stop laughing!!"
Traveling Companion eventually composed himself enough to assure me that I was, indeed, misguided on this point, and (still-chuckling) several days later, he explained the actual scientific principles to me.
After that he also informed me that this was "like something a 12-year old tells an 8-year old as a joke and then when the 8-year old turns 12 and realizes that it's not true, they tell another 8-year old because it's funny," to which the only good response was to scrunch up my face and offer some variation of "your mom."
I'll tell you what, though- that damn Coke stayed fizzy for two days after that train ride.
That's all I'm saying.
The Scene In Which I Go To Barcelona, Madrid, and Paris
I am going to apologize in advance because I'm totally not going to do any of these cities justice.
I got back from my trip nearly a month ago and I still haven't written these posts. Hellooooo, I work from home now. If I can't get them done by now, let's face it, it's never going to happen.
And they were going to be really funny and insightful, too- full of witty anecdotes and accolades for the lovely B&B we stayed at in Barcelona (Ally's Guest House- STAY THERE!), lush descriptive passages about strolling around Barcelona's Montjuic hills where the Olympics were held and down the bustling Las Ramblas, viewing lovely art at the Joan Miro museum, and my take on Sagrada Familia (From an artistic standpoint, incredibly important. From a personal standpoint, I totally hated it.)
Then I would have told you about Madrid and the lovely time we had strolling around the Reina Sofia, the Prado, and through the Plaza del Sol. I would have described in vivid detail how we encountered the Madrid Pride parade almost by accident, and how Traveling Companion and I had a fantastic time mingling with people from all over in a huge crowd of thousands and thousands dancing in the streets until the wee hours of the morning, and how hilarious it was when we weren't sure who was getting hit on because of the language barriers.
And our overnight trip to Paris on the train, when we arrived at the station nearly two hours early because I, well, have a small problem telling military time. For more, read The Scene In Which I Am Not A Fizz-icist.
Paris, as you can imagine, would have been full of the descriptive prose you might find in a Victor Hugo novel, inspired by the trip we took through his house/museum. A lavish review of the Eiffel Tower views at sunset. A hilarious reporting of our trip to Versailles with our two spontaneous Canadian friends, Ashley and Kristin, who spent four hours of our trip with us and at least three of those hours being shocked that we a) had only brought one backpack each on the trip with us, b) had been wearing the same clothes multiple times, and c) had not, and were not, planning to do any shopping on our trip beyond the two sundresses I bought in Madrid.
Shocking.
I had even planned a funny (as in, laugh AT me) post describing our flight home from Paris, during which we encountered the type of turbulence that makes the pilots yell for the flight attendants to sit, the aforementioned attendants to squinch their eyes closed, and for half the passengers to actually scream as we nose-dive several hundred feet in about, oh, two seconds.
But that story was too anti-climactic, because after the seat-belt sign was turned off again, I cajoled one of the flight attendants to sell me a small bottle of wine, which I downed my second Xanax with and spent the rest of the flight in a drooly haze.
So instead, I'll leave you with a story that happened in Madrid, which I will carry with me the rest of my life, as I will all the memories from this fantastic trip - those which I have been able to write about, and those which I haven't. It's better live, so if you know me, ask me to tell you this story sometime.
It was Sunday in Madrid, and Younger Brother had merrily made his way to campus to check-in with his summer program while Traveling Companion and I made our way to the Prado museum. After several lovely hours there, we left and went in search of a quick bit to eat before taking the metro up to visit Younger Brother's new dorm for the month.
As fate, coincidence, karma or whatever you'd call it would have it, the bar we chose was closing for the day- but we stayed and had a glass of wine before walking up the street. With each step taking us closer to the metro station, we were growing hungrier and slightly tipsier (ok, that was just me.)
And then, like a beacon of shiny light, the answer.
Doner Kabab.
Two tables, four stools, three husky waiters, and some yummy-smelling, unidentifiable meat spinning slowly on a spit spewing out 400 degrees of heat at the customers just inside the door.
We sat on two of the stools next to the only customer in the place- a girl, probably about my age, TINY, sporting a blue flannel shirt, a humongous shoulder bag, and a head full of red hair that she kept shaking wildly the entire time we were there.
She recommended the falafel enthusiastically (around a mouthful of it) and then proceeded to quiz us on our lives at the same time she filled us in on hers.
She was there for an artists retreat- had taken a class elsewhere in Spain for a week and then come to Madrid for vacation. She didn't know anyone and didn't speak Spanish well.
She was from Philly but had gone to school in Pittsburgh and wanted to be back there, although she wasn't sure if she should make the move, since she taught art and didn't have a job lined up and thought that was maybe too risky and what did we think??
Because this was karma, or fate, or whatever you want to call it, both Traveling Companion and I had actually just recently quit our own, steady, responsible jobs- him to move cross-country for grad school, me to start my own business. So we told her this.
She was as enthusiastic about this as she had been about the falafel, perhaps more so, and by the end of the lunch she had decided to go for it. To make the move.
Like so many people we met abroad, we never learned her name. We didn't exchange info or promise to keep her posted. Instead, we shared a 20-minute conversation over falafel gyros and the sense that there are people in this world who you are destined to meet, for whatever reason.
And then, in a whirl of blue flannel and red hair, she was up off her barstool, tossing her bag over her shoulder, and out the door, leaving us only with a "Okay guys- I don't know- good luck with your lives!"
Good luck with your lives, indeed.
I got back from my trip nearly a month ago and I still haven't written these posts. Hellooooo, I work from home now. If I can't get them done by now, let's face it, it's never going to happen.
And they were going to be really funny and insightful, too- full of witty anecdotes and accolades for the lovely B&B we stayed at in Barcelona (Ally's Guest House- STAY THERE!), lush descriptive passages about strolling around Barcelona's Montjuic hills where the Olympics were held and down the bustling Las Ramblas, viewing lovely art at the Joan Miro museum, and my take on Sagrada Familia (From an artistic standpoint, incredibly important. From a personal standpoint, I totally hated it.)
Then I would have told you about Madrid and the lovely time we had strolling around the Reina Sofia, the Prado, and through the Plaza del Sol. I would have described in vivid detail how we encountered the Madrid Pride parade almost by accident, and how Traveling Companion and I had a fantastic time mingling with people from all over in a huge crowd of thousands and thousands dancing in the streets until the wee hours of the morning, and how hilarious it was when we weren't sure who was getting hit on because of the language barriers.
And our overnight trip to Paris on the train, when we arrived at the station nearly two hours early because I, well, have a small problem telling military time. For more, read The Scene In Which I Am Not A Fizz-icist.
Paris, as you can imagine, would have been full of the descriptive prose you might find in a Victor Hugo novel, inspired by the trip we took through his house/museum. A lavish review of the Eiffel Tower views at sunset. A hilarious reporting of our trip to Versailles with our two spontaneous Canadian friends, Ashley and Kristin, who spent four hours of our trip with us and at least three of those hours being shocked that we a) had only brought one backpack each on the trip with us, b) had been wearing the same clothes multiple times, and c) had not, and were not, planning to do any shopping on our trip beyond the two sundresses I bought in Madrid.
Shocking.
I had even planned a funny (as in, laugh AT me) post describing our flight home from Paris, during which we encountered the type of turbulence that makes the pilots yell for the flight attendants to sit, the aforementioned attendants to squinch their eyes closed, and for half the passengers to actually scream as we nose-dive several hundred feet in about, oh, two seconds.
But that story was too anti-climactic, because after the seat-belt sign was turned off again, I cajoled one of the flight attendants to sell me a small bottle of wine, which I downed my second Xanax with and spent the rest of the flight in a drooly haze.
So instead, I'll leave you with a story that happened in Madrid, which I will carry with me the rest of my life, as I will all the memories from this fantastic trip - those which I have been able to write about, and those which I haven't. It's better live, so if you know me, ask me to tell you this story sometime.
It was Sunday in Madrid, and Younger Brother had merrily made his way to campus to check-in with his summer program while Traveling Companion and I made our way to the Prado museum. After several lovely hours there, we left and went in search of a quick bit to eat before taking the metro up to visit Younger Brother's new dorm for the month.
As fate, coincidence, karma or whatever you'd call it would have it, the bar we chose was closing for the day- but we stayed and had a glass of wine before walking up the street. With each step taking us closer to the metro station, we were growing hungrier and slightly tipsier (ok, that was just me.)
And then, like a beacon of shiny light, the answer.
Doner Kabab.
Two tables, four stools, three husky waiters, and some yummy-smelling, unidentifiable meat spinning slowly on a spit spewing out 400 degrees of heat at the customers just inside the door.
We sat on two of the stools next to the only customer in the place- a girl, probably about my age, TINY, sporting a blue flannel shirt, a humongous shoulder bag, and a head full of red hair that she kept shaking wildly the entire time we were there.
She recommended the falafel enthusiastically (around a mouthful of it) and then proceeded to quiz us on our lives at the same time she filled us in on hers.
She was there for an artists retreat- had taken a class elsewhere in Spain for a week and then come to Madrid for vacation. She didn't know anyone and didn't speak Spanish well.
She was from Philly but had gone to school in Pittsburgh and wanted to be back there, although she wasn't sure if she should make the move, since she taught art and didn't have a job lined up and thought that was maybe too risky and what did we think??
Because this was karma, or fate, or whatever you want to call it, both Traveling Companion and I had actually just recently quit our own, steady, responsible jobs- him to move cross-country for grad school, me to start my own business. So we told her this.
She was as enthusiastic about this as she had been about the falafel, perhaps more so, and by the end of the lunch she had decided to go for it. To make the move.
Like so many people we met abroad, we never learned her name. We didn't exchange info or promise to keep her posted. Instead, we shared a 20-minute conversation over falafel gyros and the sense that there are people in this world who you are destined to meet, for whatever reason.
And then, in a whirl of blue flannel and red hair, she was up off her barstool, tossing her bag over her shoulder, and out the door, leaving us only with a "Okay guys- I don't know- good luck with your lives!"
Good luck with your lives, indeed.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Scene In Which I Go To Milan
Halfway through the trip we spent a ridiculously brief time in Milan, with the sole purpose of our presence in that city being that we needed to catch the overnight train to Barcelona from either there or Rome, and Milan was closer to Florence, where we had come from.
But I felt like it would be rude not to mention Milan, especially since in the three hours we were there I think I basically managed to ensure we'd never be invited back, at least not to that huge open-air shopping center that's right across the street from the Duomo.
You see, on one end of the shopping center, there's the Duomo, and on the other side, there's a fountain with some nice benches for, say, resting in the middle of a 6-city, 13-day whirlwind tour of Europe. Hypothetically.
We'd been told that the Duomo was the one thing to see if we only had three hours in Milan, so when we arrived, we hopped on the metro and came up in the plaza immediately adjacent, took some photos, and then.....sort of shuffled back and forth staring at each other waiting for inspiration to strike.
So we wandered through the shopping center, which in case you are wondering, is THE place to be if you have a ridiculous amount of money to spend on things you don't really need that have labels with ridiculous names on them. In short, it was shopping high-society style, and needless to say the three backpackers from Indiana weren't going to be doing much spending there.
And on the other side we found the aforementioned fountain with the nice benches. Younger Brother and Traveling Companion settled down with books, and I relaxed in the sun for a few minutes, then decided to leave them (and my backpack) there and take in the Duomo.
Which was lovely. Go, if you go to Milan.
I spent about 30 minutes inside the niiiiice, daaaaark, cooooool cathedral and exited reluctantly back into the humid, sunny afternoon.
And that's when I saw the gelato cart.
If you know me, you'll already know that there was no question at this point, it was just a matter of digging out some cash.
If you don't know me, there was no question at this point, it was just a matter of digging out some cash.
I figured the boys would enjoy gelato as well, and as it was REALLY REALLY frozen solid, I felt that I could carry the three cones safely across the small street, through the 100 yards or so of the open-air-shopping mall, and to the fountain.
Wrong.
WRONG.
WAY WRONG.
Within the first three steps, the cones began to sweat. And then they began to trickle. And then they began to melt.
RAPIDLY.
Seriously, the townsfolk of Pompeii had more reaction time when the volcanoes started erupting than I did when those three cones started doing the same.
So I did the only thing there was to do, really.
I tucked my head down, mushed the three cones together in the hopes that they would support each other like little Leaning Towers O' Melting Gelato, took a deep breath, and lit out for that fountain like my life depended on it.
I should mention at this point that I've been using the term open-air shopping center rather loosely in this post, thus far.
Because it was far nicer than what you're picturing.
Tiled floors.
Marble walls.
Golden chandeliers.
Flagship stores.
I'm pretty sure that they frown upon women in blue cotton dresses from Old Navy blitzing down the main corridor, melting gelato running in rivulets down their hands and arms, wearing the kind of panicked expression that one wears when you realize that 100 yards may seem like not much but is actually a REALLY REALLY LONG WAY AWAYand that you are in real, immediate danger of losing all 7 euros worth of rapidly disintegrating sugary goodness right down the front of your dress.
In the end, I made it out to the boys with all three cones relatively intact, though I will say that most two-year olds eating gelato don't fare as badly as I did, wearing-ice-cream-wise. My hands were a mess, my arms had streaks of gelato all the way to my elbows, my feet had drops dotting them, and even my dress bore the brunt of a couple errant dabs, not to mention the couple strands of hair that had dragged through one of the cones during my panicked flight.
And if/when I ever go back to Italy, the first word I'm learning is "Bowl."
But I felt like it would be rude not to mention Milan, especially since in the three hours we were there I think I basically managed to ensure we'd never be invited back, at least not to that huge open-air shopping center that's right across the street from the Duomo.
You see, on one end of the shopping center, there's the Duomo, and on the other side, there's a fountain with some nice benches for, say, resting in the middle of a 6-city, 13-day whirlwind tour of Europe. Hypothetically.
We'd been told that the Duomo was the one thing to see if we only had three hours in Milan, so when we arrived, we hopped on the metro and came up in the plaza immediately adjacent, took some photos, and then.....sort of shuffled back and forth staring at each other waiting for inspiration to strike.
So we wandered through the shopping center, which in case you are wondering, is THE place to be if you have a ridiculous amount of money to spend on things you don't really need that have labels with ridiculous names on them. In short, it was shopping high-society style, and needless to say the three backpackers from Indiana weren't going to be doing much spending there.
And on the other side we found the aforementioned fountain with the nice benches. Younger Brother and Traveling Companion settled down with books, and I relaxed in the sun for a few minutes, then decided to leave them (and my backpack) there and take in the Duomo.
Which was lovely. Go, if you go to Milan.
I spent about 30 minutes inside the niiiiice, daaaaark, cooooool cathedral and exited reluctantly back into the humid, sunny afternoon.
And that's when I saw the gelato cart.
If you know me, you'll already know that there was no question at this point, it was just a matter of digging out some cash.
If you don't know me, there was no question at this point, it was just a matter of digging out some cash.
I figured the boys would enjoy gelato as well, and as it was REALLY REALLY frozen solid, I felt that I could carry the three cones safely across the small street, through the 100 yards or so of the open-air-shopping mall, and to the fountain.
Wrong.
WRONG.
WAY WRONG.
Within the first three steps, the cones began to sweat. And then they began to trickle. And then they began to melt.
RAPIDLY.
Seriously, the townsfolk of Pompeii had more reaction time when the volcanoes started erupting than I did when those three cones started doing the same.
So I did the only thing there was to do, really.
I tucked my head down, mushed the three cones together in the hopes that they would support each other like little Leaning Towers O' Melting Gelato, took a deep breath, and lit out for that fountain like my life depended on it.
I should mention at this point that I've been using the term open-air shopping center rather loosely in this post, thus far.
Because it was far nicer than what you're picturing.
Tiled floors.
Marble walls.
Golden chandeliers.
Flagship stores.
I'm pretty sure that they frown upon women in blue cotton dresses from Old Navy blitzing down the main corridor, melting gelato running in rivulets down their hands and arms, wearing the kind of panicked expression that one wears when you realize that 100 yards may seem like not much but is actually a REALLY REALLY LONG WAY AWAYand that you are in real, immediate danger of losing all 7 euros worth of rapidly disintegrating sugary goodness right down the front of your dress.
In the end, I made it out to the boys with all three cones relatively intact, though I will say that most two-year olds eating gelato don't fare as badly as I did, wearing-ice-cream-wise. My hands were a mess, my arms had streaks of gelato all the way to my elbows, my feet had drops dotting them, and even my dress bore the brunt of a couple errant dabs, not to mention the couple strands of hair that had dragged through one of the cones during my panicked flight.
And if/when I ever go back to Italy, the first word I'm learning is "Bowl."
The Scene In Which Younger Brother Doesn't Actually Like U2
As was the case with several interesting things on our trip (Baby Jesus, Brown Cow, etc.) Florence was the place where this scene originated.
Younger Brother, Traveling Companion and I were sitting at breakfast one morning commenting on the amount of album covers that had been framed as artwork and hung in the communal area of the hotel. Quite an eclectic mix, actually, and rather as an afterthought I pointed out a U2 album.
Younger Brother took a bit of cereal, chewed, and swallowed.
"I don't like U2," said Younger Brother. "Well, actually, I don't like anything they did after 1992. I guess before that was OK. But now everyone's all 'Oooooh, U2, la la la,' and Bono's is all 'AIDS in Africa' and I'm over pop stars trying to pretend like they're going to change the world. And in that one song, when they count One, Two, Three, Fourteen, I don't care what it means, it's dumb."*
Bite. Chew. Swallow.
....
....
"What?" I said.
"What?" said Traveling Companion.
Younger Brother looked at us like we had perhaps lost our minds, then proceeded to go on one of his 5-minute long rants about the completely strange reasons as to why he likes or doesn't like something, in this case, U2 and "Bow-Noe".
If you've never seen this happen, it's hilarious.
(Massive apologies to Younger Brother- I HAD to relate this story!)
I'm totally not judging him for his dislike of U2 or of Bono in particular. He has his reasons, and while I personally like the band, I respect that. Cool. Right on.
And if it was Traveling Companion, instead of Younger Brother, who had uttered this pronouncement, we would have conversed, finished our cereal, and moved on with our lives in general.
But it's Younger Brother, and hilarious irony tends to follow him, even in Italy.
So suddenly, U2 was everywhere.
EVERYWHERE.
It was akin to, say, someone pronouncing they don't like the color green.......right before taking a big trip to Ireland in the springtime.
The news was covering Bono's latest press conference right as we walked by. Restaurants were playing U2 songs. Fans of U2 (because of course, they were touring in Europe at the same time) were wearing shirts, Bono's face flashing at us as we walked down the Italian streets. Even the street musicians were in on the act, covering U2 songs on the corners and in the train stations. And in Barcelona, U2 was actually playing a concert the first night we arrived, and you can imagine the amount of U2-mania that generated- all this only serving to add to our hilarity, and unfortunately irritate Younger Brother even more. Literally, RANDOM STRANGERS were talking to us about U2. Even after we left him in Madrid and went on to Paris to fly home, U2 followed us.
"Uno, Dos, Tres, Catorce...."
*Younger Brother's quote created from a series of paraphrased one-liners from the rant, nearly three weeks after it actually happened.
Younger Brother, Traveling Companion and I were sitting at breakfast one morning commenting on the amount of album covers that had been framed as artwork and hung in the communal area of the hotel. Quite an eclectic mix, actually, and rather as an afterthought I pointed out a U2 album.
Younger Brother took a bit of cereal, chewed, and swallowed.
"I don't like U2," said Younger Brother. "Well, actually, I don't like anything they did after 1992. I guess before that was OK. But now everyone's all 'Oooooh, U2, la la la,' and Bono's is all 'AIDS in Africa' and I'm over pop stars trying to pretend like they're going to change the world. And in that one song, when they count One, Two, Three, Fourteen, I don't care what it means, it's dumb."*
Bite. Chew. Swallow.
....
....
"What?" I said.
"What?" said Traveling Companion.
Younger Brother looked at us like we had perhaps lost our minds, then proceeded to go on one of his 5-minute long rants about the completely strange reasons as to why he likes or doesn't like something, in this case, U2 and "Bow-Noe".
If you've never seen this happen, it's hilarious.
(Massive apologies to Younger Brother- I HAD to relate this story!)
I'm totally not judging him for his dislike of U2 or of Bono in particular. He has his reasons, and while I personally like the band, I respect that. Cool. Right on.
And if it was Traveling Companion, instead of Younger Brother, who had uttered this pronouncement, we would have conversed, finished our cereal, and moved on with our lives in general.
But it's Younger Brother, and hilarious irony tends to follow him, even in Italy.
So suddenly, U2 was everywhere.
EVERYWHERE.
It was akin to, say, someone pronouncing they don't like the color green.......right before taking a big trip to Ireland in the springtime.
The news was covering Bono's latest press conference right as we walked by. Restaurants were playing U2 songs. Fans of U2 (because of course, they were touring in Europe at the same time) were wearing shirts, Bono's face flashing at us as we walked down the Italian streets. Even the street musicians were in on the act, covering U2 songs on the corners and in the train stations. And in Barcelona, U2 was actually playing a concert the first night we arrived, and you can imagine the amount of U2-mania that generated- all this only serving to add to our hilarity, and unfortunately irritate Younger Brother even more. Literally, RANDOM STRANGERS were talking to us about U2. Even after we left him in Madrid and went on to Paris to fly home, U2 followed us.
"Uno, Dos, Tres, Catorce...."
*Younger Brother's quote created from a series of paraphrased one-liners from the rant, nearly three weeks after it actually happened.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Scene In Which The Baby Jesus Is Everywhere
In Spain and Italy, particularly in Italy, there is quite a bit of religious art.
More specifically, there is quite a bit of art centered around Jesus.
Even more specifically, there is quite a bit of art centered around the Baby Jesus.
The Baby Jesus is, in fact, everywhere.
And occasionally, he is a ginger.
That's right, all you "Jesus is white, brunette and a chubby cherub" folks- Jesus was, in at least three paintings, a flaming redhead looking for all intents and purposes like he's about to pull the tail of the kitty sitting near him, just outside the frame. There's also several remarkable paintings of him holding a bird, which wouldn't be creepy in the least until you realize the bird looks kind of dead.
He's tall. He's short. He's chubby. He's skinny. He's sitting. He's standing. He's smiling. He's frowning. He's sleeping. He's yawning. He's cute. He's creepy.
Beyond the paintings of Jesus with the obvious choice of Mary, it was also apparently quite fashionable to have your own portrait painted with the Baby Jesus, or to have someone else painted into a group scene as a gift.
He's with Mary. He's with Joseph. He's with the Holy Family. He's with the Brown Cow and the Gray Donkey. He's with Saint Anne. He's with the Angels. He's with the Saints. He's with the Martyrs. He's with Saint George. He's with Saint Peter. He's with Saint Paul. He's with Mark the Abbot of Some Unknown Church in Florence. He's with Paul the Descendant of Mark the Abbot of Some Unknown Church in Florence. He's with The Neighbor Who Invited You to that Ball Last Summer. He's with the Holy Mother of the Abbess of the Order of the Flowers of the Forest. He's with the King. He's with the Queen. He's with the Royal Children. He's with the Guy Who Should Have Been King but got Killed Instead. He's with the Deacon of the Priory. He's with the Prior. He's with Larry, the guy who comes to the stables to feed the Brown Cow and the Gray Donkey.
Those more religious than I will argue that these paintings represent the intangible "He is EVERYWHERE" argument, and I have to say that I agree with them on this point, because the Baby Jesus is quite possibly the most-painted subject ever.
In fact, if the Baby Jesus were living among us today, I daresay he'd be more sought after than Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's kids - that is, if they didn't just adopt him themselves.
I just don't buy that he was a ginger.
More specifically, there is quite a bit of art centered around Jesus.
Even more specifically, there is quite a bit of art centered around the Baby Jesus.
The Baby Jesus is, in fact, everywhere.
And occasionally, he is a ginger.
That's right, all you "Jesus is white, brunette and a chubby cherub" folks- Jesus was, in at least three paintings, a flaming redhead looking for all intents and purposes like he's about to pull the tail of the kitty sitting near him, just outside the frame. There's also several remarkable paintings of him holding a bird, which wouldn't be creepy in the least until you realize the bird looks kind of dead.
He's tall. He's short. He's chubby. He's skinny. He's sitting. He's standing. He's smiling. He's frowning. He's sleeping. He's yawning. He's cute. He's creepy.
Beyond the paintings of Jesus with the obvious choice of Mary, it was also apparently quite fashionable to have your own portrait painted with the Baby Jesus, or to have someone else painted into a group scene as a gift.
He's with Mary. He's with Joseph. He's with the Holy Family. He's with the Brown Cow and the Gray Donkey. He's with Saint Anne. He's with the Angels. He's with the Saints. He's with the Martyrs. He's with Saint George. He's with Saint Peter. He's with Saint Paul. He's with Mark the Abbot of Some Unknown Church in Florence. He's with Paul the Descendant of Mark the Abbot of Some Unknown Church in Florence. He's with The Neighbor Who Invited You to that Ball Last Summer. He's with the Holy Mother of the Abbess of the Order of the Flowers of the Forest. He's with the King. He's with the Queen. He's with the Royal Children. He's with the Guy Who Should Have Been King but got Killed Instead. He's with the Deacon of the Priory. He's with the Prior. He's with Larry, the guy who comes to the stables to feed the Brown Cow and the Gray Donkey.
Those more religious than I will argue that these paintings represent the intangible "He is EVERYWHERE" argument, and I have to say that I agree with them on this point, because the Baby Jesus is quite possibly the most-painted subject ever.
In fact, if the Baby Jesus were living among us today, I daresay he'd be more sought after than Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's kids - that is, if they didn't just adopt him themselves.
I just don't buy that he was a ginger.
The Scene In Which The Brown Cow and Gray Donkey Make Their Debut
It happened at Galleria Accademia.
Strolling through the first of many Italian painting galleries that we would stroll through that day, I was distracted by a flurry of activity, a hushed giggle, a minor interaction in front of a small painting in the corner. An American couple, probably not more than a couple years older than I, were examining the painting closely.
Husband: "See? See?? I told you! It's hilarious!"
Wife (wearing a classic "Really? Seriously? This is what we came to Italy for?" expression on her face): "Mmmmmmmhmm."
They moved on.
Naturally, I had to go see what had so amused Husband, and thus encountered the Brown Cow and the Gray Donkey for the first time.
The painting was one of perhaps a couple hundred we would see over the coming weeks depicting the Birth of the Baby Jesus in the Manger in Bethlehem. The Baby Jesus is kind of a popular subject in Italian and Spanish art, as you'll learn more about as we move through the trip.
This particular painting also featured a Brown Cow and a Gray Donkey in the background of the scene, sharing a stable stall.
And from the looks of things, Gray Donkey was a bit - er - surprised by Brown Cow.
Hence Husband's, and quickly followed by Younger Brother and Traveling Companion's, hilarity.
As we moved past the painting into the next gallery, we began to observe an interesting phenomenon. Previously unnoticed, Gray Donkey and Brown Cow were suddenly EVERYWHERE.
Apparently, we missed the memo that all the Spanish and Italian painters from the 14th to the 17th century received about the only animals that were allowed at the Birth of Baby Jesus, because these two found their way into probably no less than 200 paintings we saw.
They grazed on hay outside the stable. They lay in the mangers next to Baby Jesus. They stood affectionately behind Mary. And they, ummmmm, had relations.
A lot.
Throughout the trip, we continued to see Brown Cow and Gray Donkey in works of art spanning hundreds of years and multiple countries. We Googled them several times, but came up empty. Brown Cow and Gray Donkey are apparently a mystery that has been lost to this time, and while we can guess as to their origins, we can't ever really know the truth.
Now, the inevitable morals of this short story:
First, no matter how much you think you know, don't ever assume you know the whole story. I personally have never read a Bible that specifically mentions the Brown Cow and Gray Donkey....yet for hundreds of years, painters from different countries speaking different languages painted them as a matter of fact into this very important Biblical scene. Coincidence?
Second, look beyond the obvious. Beyond Gray Donkey and Brown Cow, many pieces of art (and many things in life, for that matter) contain tiny little details that, when caught, can cause you to look at something in an entirely new way.
And, most importantly, third: When a 14th-century religious painting captures the attention of a 30-something American male tourist, it's probably something you're going to want to see.
Strolling through the first of many Italian painting galleries that we would stroll through that day, I was distracted by a flurry of activity, a hushed giggle, a minor interaction in front of a small painting in the corner. An American couple, probably not more than a couple years older than I, were examining the painting closely.
Husband: "See? See?? I told you! It's hilarious!"
Wife (wearing a classic "Really? Seriously? This is what we came to Italy for?" expression on her face): "Mmmmmmmhmm."
They moved on.
Naturally, I had to go see what had so amused Husband, and thus encountered the Brown Cow and the Gray Donkey for the first time.
The painting was one of perhaps a couple hundred we would see over the coming weeks depicting the Birth of the Baby Jesus in the Manger in Bethlehem. The Baby Jesus is kind of a popular subject in Italian and Spanish art, as you'll learn more about as we move through the trip.
This particular painting also featured a Brown Cow and a Gray Donkey in the background of the scene, sharing a stable stall.
And from the looks of things, Gray Donkey was a bit - er - surprised by Brown Cow.
Hence Husband's, and quickly followed by Younger Brother and Traveling Companion's, hilarity.
As we moved past the painting into the next gallery, we began to observe an interesting phenomenon. Previously unnoticed, Gray Donkey and Brown Cow were suddenly EVERYWHERE.
Apparently, we missed the memo that all the Spanish and Italian painters from the 14th to the 17th century received about the only animals that were allowed at the Birth of Baby Jesus, because these two found their way into probably no less than 200 paintings we saw.
They grazed on hay outside the stable. They lay in the mangers next to Baby Jesus. They stood affectionately behind Mary. And they, ummmmm, had relations.
A lot.
Throughout the trip, we continued to see Brown Cow and Gray Donkey in works of art spanning hundreds of years and multiple countries. We Googled them several times, but came up empty. Brown Cow and Gray Donkey are apparently a mystery that has been lost to this time, and while we can guess as to their origins, we can't ever really know the truth.
Now, the inevitable morals of this short story:
First, no matter how much you think you know, don't ever assume you know the whole story. I personally have never read a Bible that specifically mentions the Brown Cow and Gray Donkey....yet for hundreds of years, painters from different countries speaking different languages painted them as a matter of fact into this very important Biblical scene. Coincidence?
Second, look beyond the obvious. Beyond Gray Donkey and Brown Cow, many pieces of art (and many things in life, for that matter) contain tiny little details that, when caught, can cause you to look at something in an entirely new way.
And, most importantly, third: When a 14th-century religious painting captures the attention of a 30-something American male tourist, it's probably something you're going to want to see.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Scene In Which I Go To Florence
Part 2 of our journey found us in Florence, after an early-morning train ride from Venice during which Traveling Companion taught me to play gin rummy. He then proceeded to kick my ass at it for the next four train rides (final scores will be revealed in the Paris blog entry!).
I would say that Florence was amazing, but I already used that for Venice. Florence, rather, was unexpected.
After two relatively tranquil and absolutely gorgeous days in Venice, where there are no cars and enjoying life seems to be the priority of everyone you meet, I was expecting Florence to be more of the same. To sweep me off my feet with its romantic grandeur. To escort me up cobblestoned lined streets. To show me beautiful old churches with bells pealing above. In short, I've seen "Under The Tuscan Sun" way too many times, and since Florence is in the heart of Tuscany, I wanted to be Diane-freaking-Lane, and while I was at it, I wanted my hair to look as good as hers did in that movie despite the heat, humidity, and low water pressure.
The jackhammers drilling down into the street in the construction zone outside the train station weren't part of my grand vision.
As we made our way down the grit-encrusted asphalt under the chain link construction barriers to our hotel, the taste of dust on our tongues, hungry and tired after getting up at 4 AM to catch our train, I really wanted to go back to Venice.....and possibly never leave again.
Luckily, the boys
, recognizing my despair and dropping blood sugar, graciously escorted me to the nearest cafe where we enjoyed a most delicious lunch and I made a full recovery as we planned our next two days.
Well, that's kind of the way it happened, anyway. I certainly didn't do anything like announce that if I didn't get fed I was going to kill someone in the middle of the square outside the Duomo.
Regardless, we ate. And it helped me like Florence more.
In our two days in Venice, we visited Santa Maria Novella, the Duomo (photo, above left), Palazzo Medici and the Medici Museum, San Lorenzo, Palazzo Strozzi, Palazzo Davonzati, Palazzo Vecchio, where the mayor of Florence lives, and watched an extremely bizarre movie about voodoo that featured Billy Zane and was inexplicably show in German dubbed over English (and tha
t was all Day 1).
On Day 2, we went to Piazza de Pitti and visited the Boboli Gardens (right), where we saw tons of amazing statues. Despite there being some serious inclines, Boboli Gardens was one of my favorite places in Florence and I'd recommend that you visit, when you make the trip. We also went to the Galleria d'Accadamia where we saw the David, and where we first made the acquaintance of Brown Cow and Gray Donkey (for more on this infamous twosome, check out their posting later). We finished Da
y 2 with Piazza della Liberta and Palazzo della Mostre, where we discovered a lovely little fountain that didn't actively forbid wading (pictured left), and later, a small park where it is actually legal (as it is most places in Europe) to drink in public. Later we ventured back to Palazzo Vecchio with a picnic dinner to watch the street musicians that perform nightly there.
In a seemingly unrelated aside that proceeded to take on a life of its own, we also discovered that Younger Brother is not a fan of U2. Specifically, he is not a fan of anything that U2 did after 1991 and, more specifically.....well, I'll leave that for it's own post.
On Day 3, before we had to head to Milan to catch our overnight train to Barcelona, we visited the Uffizi Gallery, where (in addition to Brown Cow and Gray Donkey), we saw a guy wearing a shirt that said "Advertising Helps Me Decide." If that's not a bigger plug for half my friends' professions, I don't know what is.
Florence is different from Venice in just about every regard, but it wound up being a wonderful place to spend two days, and I'd definitely return. Next up- Milan!
I would say that Florence was amazing, but I already used that for Venice. Florence, rather, was unexpected.
After two relatively tranquil and absolutely gorgeous days in Venice, where there are no cars and enjoying life seems to be the priority of everyone you meet, I was expecting Florence to be more of the same. To sweep me off my feet with its romantic grandeur. To escort me up cobblestoned lined streets. To show me beautiful old churches with bells pealing above. In short, I've seen "Under The Tuscan Sun" way too many times, and since Florence is in the heart of Tuscany, I wanted to be Diane-freaking-Lane, and while I was at it, I wanted my hair to look as good as hers did in that movie despite the heat, humidity, and low water pressure.
The jackhammers drilling down into the street in the construction zone outside the train station weren't part of my grand vision.
As we made our way down the grit-encrusted asphalt under the chain link construction barriers to our hotel, the taste of dust on our tongues, hungry and tired after getting up at 4 AM to catch our train, I really wanted to go back to Venice.....and possibly never leave again.
Luckily, the boys
, recognizing my despair and dropping blood sugar, graciously escorted me to the nearest cafe where we enjoyed a most delicious lunch and I made a full recovery as we planned our next two days.Well, that's kind of the way it happened, anyway. I certainly didn't do anything like announce that if I didn't get fed I was going to kill someone in the middle of the square outside the Duomo.
Regardless, we ate. And it helped me like Florence more.
In our two days in Venice, we visited Santa Maria Novella, the Duomo (photo, above left), Palazzo Medici and the Medici Museum, San Lorenzo, Palazzo Strozzi, Palazzo Davonzati, Palazzo Vecchio, where the mayor of Florence lives, and watched an extremely bizarre movie about voodoo that featured Billy Zane and was inexplicably show in German dubbed over English (and tha
t was all Day 1).On Day 2, we went to Piazza de Pitti and visited the Boboli Gardens (right), where we saw tons of amazing statues. Despite there being some serious inclines, Boboli Gardens was one of my favorite places in Florence and I'd recommend that you visit, when you make the trip. We also went to the Galleria d'Accadamia where we saw the David, and where we first made the acquaintance of Brown Cow and Gray Donkey (for more on this infamous twosome, check out their posting later). We finished Da
y 2 with Piazza della Liberta and Palazzo della Mostre, where we discovered a lovely little fountain that didn't actively forbid wading (pictured left), and later, a small park where it is actually legal (as it is most places in Europe) to drink in public. Later we ventured back to Palazzo Vecchio with a picnic dinner to watch the street musicians that perform nightly there.In a seemingly unrelated aside that proceeded to take on a life of its own, we also discovered that Younger Brother is not a fan of U2. Specifically, he is not a fan of anything that U2 did after 1991 and, more specifically.....well, I'll leave that for it's own post.
On Day 3, before we had to head to Milan to catch our overnight train to Barcelona, we visited the Uffizi Gallery, where (in addition to Brown Cow and Gray Donkey), we saw a guy wearing a shirt that said "Advertising Helps Me Decide." If that's not a bigger plug for half my friends' professions, I don't know what is.
Florence is different from Venice in just about every regard, but it wound up being a wonderful place to spend two days, and I'd definitely return. Next up- Milan!
Friday, July 10, 2009
The Scene In Which I Go To Venice
The trip started in Venice.
Side note-if, in reading my rambling thoughts and stories on this blog, you've ever found yourself really relating to me, then you need to go to Venice, because you will love it. GO. Go right now. Seriously, stop reading this blog and go book your ticket, and leave it open-ended, because you will not want to come back.
In a word, Venice is amazing.
Every corner is a beautiful scene, with two-, three- and four-story crumbling homes built straight up out of the canals and ancient wrought-iron balconies anchored to the sides. Windowsills and doorways are cluttered with terra cotta planters crammed full of every kind of ivy, greenery, hot pink geraniums, trailing peonies, and daisies. If you go, definitely go up in the tower in San Marco Plaza, because the views are stunning. Actual conversation from Day 2 of our travels:
Me: "Wow. Look at that."
Younger Brother: "What?"
Me: "That. That's just so beautiful."
Younger Brother: "Yeah...I feel like in Venice,
that's just kind of redundant."
And it's true. You literally can't point out every beautiful scene, or photograph it, because you'd just have your camera pressed up to your face the entire time. So while I did take a ridiculous number of photos, we also took in the sights, including (deep breath): San Polo, San Salvador, the Rialto Bridge which was literally just seconds from where we were staying (photo of the Grand Canal, left), Manin district, Point Accademia, the Collection Peggy Guggenheim where the three of us took a short nap in the sculpture garden (probably frowned upon, but eh, whatever), Santa Monica della Salute, San Fosca, Ca' d'Oro, Chiesa di Santa Caterina, Chiesa di SS Giannni e Paolo, Monuma Colleoni, Palazzo Ducale and the Doge's Palace in San Marco Plaza, which is where I got attacked by the seagull.
Mmmhmmm. That's what I said. Attacked by a vicious.....seagull.
The three of us were eating lunch sitting at the bottom of a bridge where one of the lesser canals dumps out into the bay by San Marco. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and the gondolas were floating by to let the tourists take in the scene- children playing, old ladies feeding pigeons in the square, seagulls circling and calling to each other high above our heads as I took a bite of yummy mozzarella panini and (quite luckily) turned my head towards the boys to comment on something or another.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of movement, and then a dark shadow fell over me. The next thing I knew a massive beast had landed on my upturned hand and was ripping the sandwich away and flapping its wings furiously against my shoulders and the sides of my neck as I (between the mouthful of mozzarella) managed to get out an "EEEEEEEEEEEK!!"
As soon as it began it was over, the offending gull flapping away victoriously with a hunk of panini clenched between its beak, though not before it managed to take a chunk out of my finger, which instantly swelled and began to bleed.
Classy.
The looks on the boys faces were priceless - jaw dropped, eyes wide, and I'll give them credit that for about three seconds they managed to look concerned for my well being, until I came out with "WHAT THE F just happened!?!!? I can't BELIEVE I just got f-ing bitten by a SEAGULL!" and they (and, oh, about three hundred onlookers) burst into laughter.
Ironically, it turns out that the bridge we were sitting under is a well-documented bridge and the subject of several paintings that we saw throughout our trip. Should you ever stumble across a work depicting San Marco, look to the right-hand side of the painting at the bridge connecting the Doge's Palace to the square....and there you will find the infamous site of the Great Seagull Attack (pictured here, post-attack).
And that was Venice.
Side note-if, in reading my rambling thoughts and stories on this blog, you've ever found yourself really relating to me, then you need to go to Venice, because you will love it. GO. Go right now. Seriously, stop reading this blog and go book your ticket, and leave it open-ended, because you will not want to come back.
In a word, Venice is amazing.
Every corner is a beautiful scene, with two-, three- and four-story crumbling homes built straight up out of the canals and ancient wrought-iron balconies anchored to the sides. Windowsills and doorways are cluttered with terra cotta planters crammed full of every kind of ivy, greenery, hot pink geraniums, trailing peonies, and daisies. If you go, definitely go up in the tower in San Marco Plaza, because the views are stunning. Actual conversation from Day 2 of our travels:
Me: "Wow. Look at that."
Younger Brother: "What?"
Me: "That. That's just so beautiful."
Younger Brother: "Yeah...I feel like in Venice,
that's just kind of redundant."And it's true. You literally can't point out every beautiful scene, or photograph it, because you'd just have your camera pressed up to your face the entire time. So while I did take a ridiculous number of photos, we also took in the sights, including (deep breath): San Polo, San Salvador, the Rialto Bridge which was literally just seconds from where we were staying (photo of the Grand Canal, left), Manin district, Point Accademia, the Collection Peggy Guggenheim where the three of us took a short nap in the sculpture garden (probably frowned upon, but eh, whatever), Santa Monica della Salute, San Fosca, Ca' d'Oro, Chiesa di Santa Caterina, Chiesa di SS Giannni e Paolo, Monuma Colleoni, Palazzo Ducale and the Doge's Palace in San Marco Plaza, which is where I got attacked by the seagull.
Mmmhmmm. That's what I said. Attacked by a vicious.....seagull.
The three of us were eating lunch sitting at the bottom of a bridge where one of the lesser canals dumps out into the bay by San Marco. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and the gondolas were floating by to let the tourists take in the scene- children playing, old ladies feeding pigeons in the square, seagulls circling and calling to each other high above our heads as I took a bite of yummy mozzarella panini and (quite luckily) turned my head towards the boys to comment on something or another.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of movement, and then a dark shadow fell over me. The next thing I knew a massive beast had landed on my upturned hand and was ripping the sandwich away and flapping its wings furiously against my shoulders and the sides of my neck as I (between the mouthful of mozzarella) managed to get out an "EEEEEEEEEEEK!!"
As soon as it began it was over, the offending gull flapping away victoriously with a hunk of panini clenched between its beak, though not before it managed to take a chunk out of my finger, which instantly swelled and began to bleed.
Classy.
The looks on the boys faces were priceless - jaw dropped, eyes wide, and I'll give them credit that for about three seconds they managed to look concerned for my well being, until I came out with "WHAT THE F just happened!?!!? I can't BELIEVE I just got f-ing bitten by a SEAGULL!" and they (and, oh, about three hundred onlookers) burst into laughter.
Ironically, it turns out that the bridge we were sitting under is a well-documented bridge and the subject of several paintings that we saw throughout our trip. Should you ever stumble across a work depicting San Marco, look to the right-hand side of the painting at the bridge connecting the Doge's Palace to the square....and there you will find the infamous site of the Great Seagull Attack (pictured here, post-attack).
And that was Venice.
The Scene In Which I Go To Europe
As many of you know, I had the incredible opportunity to spend the last two weeks in Italy, Spain and France.
If you're wondering why you didn't already know that, ummmmm, it's because I had the incredible opportunity to spend the last two weeks in Italy, Spain and France, and instead of spending time blogging about being there, I just kind of enjoyed it instead :)
But now that I'm back, I have some pretty amazing (and funny) scenes to share with you all, including:
The Scene In Which I Go To Venice/Florence/Milan/Barcelona/Madrid/Paris, in their respective order, where I'll be sharing fun sites that we saw, what I would (and wouldn't) do again, hotel reviews, and generally amusing stories that Younger Brother, Traveling Companion, and I found ourselves in.
Other, longer stories to look forward to include:
The Scene In Which The Baby Jesus is Everywhere
The Scene In Which the Brown Cow and Gray Donkey Make Their Debut
The Scene In Which I Am Not a Fizz-icist
and one that I'm sure is going to be tons of fun to relive, The Scene In Which We Feel Like We Are Going To, But Don't Actually, Die On The Plane Coming Home.
But before I get too far ahead of myself, here's a quick rundown of how I wound up on this fantastic adventure, and an introduction to those who came with me:
The trip was originally conceived when Younger Brother announced that he wanted to take a monthlong law class in Madrid this summer. At the time, I was gainfully employed and had both a surplus of PTO time and a steady paycheck (hah!!) so, naturally, I wanted to go visit while he was there. Younger Brother's Good Friend, who is also a friend of mine and will be known as Traveling Companion henceforth, wanted to go as well, so the three of us decided to leave about a week before Younger Brother had to be at his program in Madrid and do some traveling in Spain.
Quickly realizing that flights to Spain from the States are outrageous, we researched the most economical places to fly into and chose Italy as our arrival point and Paris (since Traveling Companion has studied French extensively and speaks it fluently) as the leaving point for Traveling Companion and I, after we left Younger Brother in Madrid.
For the numbers people, our trip included 1 boat trip, 2 overnight train rides, 3 flights, 5 total trains taken, 6 cities visited, 10 nights in hotels, and over 100 miles walked.
So while I can't wait to tell you more about our adventure, for now, I'm off to take a quick nap!
If you're wondering why you didn't already know that, ummmmm, it's because I had the incredible opportunity to spend the last two weeks in Italy, Spain and France, and instead of spending time blogging about being there, I just kind of enjoyed it instead :)
But now that I'm back, I have some pretty amazing (and funny) scenes to share with you all, including:
The Scene In Which I Go To Venice/Florence/Milan/Barcelona/Madrid/Paris, in their respective order, where I'll be sharing fun sites that we saw, what I would (and wouldn't) do again, hotel reviews, and generally amusing stories that Younger Brother, Traveling Companion, and I found ourselves in.
Other, longer stories to look forward to include:
The Scene In Which The Baby Jesus is Everywhere
The Scene In Which the Brown Cow and Gray Donkey Make Their Debut
The Scene In Which I Am Not a Fizz-icist
and one that I'm sure is going to be tons of fun to relive, The Scene In Which We Feel Like We Are Going To, But Don't Actually, Die On The Plane Coming Home.
But before I get too far ahead of myself, here's a quick rundown of how I wound up on this fantastic adventure, and an introduction to those who came with me:
The trip was originally conceived when Younger Brother announced that he wanted to take a monthlong law class in Madrid this summer. At the time, I was gainfully employed and had both a surplus of PTO time and a steady paycheck (hah!!) so, naturally, I wanted to go visit while he was there. Younger Brother's Good Friend, who is also a friend of mine and will be known as Traveling Companion henceforth, wanted to go as well, so the three of us decided to leave about a week before Younger Brother had to be at his program in Madrid and do some traveling in Spain.
Quickly realizing that flights to Spain from the States are outrageous, we researched the most economical places to fly into and chose Italy as our arrival point and Paris (since Traveling Companion has studied French extensively and speaks it fluently) as the leaving point for Traveling Companion and I, after we left Younger Brother in Madrid.
For the numbers people, our trip included 1 boat trip, 2 overnight train rides, 3 flights, 5 total trains taken, 6 cities visited, 10 nights in hotels, and over 100 miles walked.
So while I can't wait to tell you more about our adventure, for now, I'm off to take a quick nap!
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