Welcome aboard; hurry up...

My mom and I spend the night New York City last night see South Pacific, a late birthday present from my mom to me… She had physical possession of the show tickets, which is a good thing, because the last time we had tickets to a show in New York, we were in a car on the New Jersey turnpike, having traveled approximately one and half hours north of my home, when my Mom asked, just to be sure, “you have the tickets, right?”

Long, uncomfortable pause.

Uh oh.

“You know what? I really don’t.. holy cow.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You know what? I’m really not.”

That sucked.

It was decided thenceforth that she would be the Holder of the Tickets.

Tickets she can do, my mother.

Luggage in subways, not so much. Flashback to the last time I traveled with my mother to Paris, I with my petite suitcase and she with her prodigious valise. Being necessarily chivalrous, her having pushed me out 38 years ago and being 28 years my senior, I ended up having to trade with her the entire trip so that she could schlep around the smaller one…

Luckily for the one night we were going to be in Manhattan, she brought the tickets AND a small suitcase. All went well until we negotiated our way through the turnstyles in the subway station on the way to the hotel. My mom confidently swiped her card as if she did it every day, walked halfway into the turnstyle dragging her rolling suitcase behind her, and stopped. The turnstyle locked into place.

“Oops,”she giggled. She looked at the friendly subway authority man in the security booth behind her.

“I’m stuck,” she mouthed to him.... "stuck."

She prepared to move forward, assuming she had been cleared.

Nothing happened.

She turned around again. “um… excuse me? Hee hee. I’m, uh…. I’m er… stuck,” she explained.

Without a nod or a meeting of eyes, the friendly subway authority human must’ve pushed a button.

My mom turned around and successfully pushed her body the rest of the way through the turnstyle, but the suitcase still didn’t make it.

I rolled my eyes. Here, mom. Shove it under the turnstyle to me.

“How do you do that with yours?” she wondered.

I wished I had taken a picture; alas, I did not.

The rest of the day went fairly smoothly. We decided, as neither of us had been to see the Statue of Liberty “in statue,” that we would give it a go. Notwithstanding what anyone says about New Yorkers, the people who sold us the tickets were quite friendly, as is everyone around the city if you’re looking lost or clueless.

As we boarded the ferry to the Liberty Island, the thick new york-accented ferry workers loaded everyone onto the ferry new-york-style:

As everyone shuffled onto the ferry, they prodded: “step quickly, folks! Hurry up. Let’s go, folks.”

No “watch your step” or “welcome aboard,” just “get a move on, folks.” I thought perhaps it was just the workers on that particular crew; however, it was the same on the next ferry to Ellis Island: “move along QUICKLY, people…”

At Penn Station we boarded the MegaBus for the trip home and secured very exciting seats on the top of the double-decker bus in the very front seat, with perfect seats to ascertain the sheer terror of what must have been a brand new bus driver as he exited traffic-filled downtown Manhattan. As we came to an underpass, the driver stopped the bus completely in the middle of the road, likely sure that we weren’t going to clear; I could hear his heart beating from the upper level. As we exited Manhattan Island from the tunnel, he could barely stay within the lines and drove with extreme caution, the target of honks and horns from all around us. He must have been TERRIFIED, his hands glued to the 10 and 2 positions, his heart pumping more blood than was customary. Shortly after we successfully navigated our way to the New Jersey turnpike, the bus pulled into the first rest stop, where the tormented, exhausted driver stepped off to allow a new driver to take the wheel. I heard one of the workers say: “Fred’s not feeling so well.”

Now it’s back to the real world, where there are no ferries, nor shows, nor statues of liberty – just mounds and mounds of laundry waiting for me.

Translations

What a mom says…. And what she really means….


“we’ll see” = no

“mmmm hmmmm…” = I’m not really paying attention to you because what you’re saying is not very interesting

“did you brush your teeth?” = did you brush your teeth within the past ½ hour with toothpaste?

“you’re wearing that?” = plaid and stripes don’t match; go up and change

“okay; hop in the car” = make sure you have your shoes on, then get into the car

“Let the dog out!” = Allow the dog outside to go potty sometime within the next 5 minutes, preferably asap

“Did you take a shower?” = Did you use soap and wash all of the hair on your head?

“Get together for a picture” = Smile as if you’re normal, pretend you like each other, and face the camera nicely

“no” = no

“Hang up your coat” = on the hook in the laundry room or in the closet, but not on the bedpost, banister, or any doorknob in the house

“Hey!” = put your hands in the air and back away slowly, most often used when a physical fight between siblings is brewing… or when they’re about to eat chocolate that belongs to me

And how about in your households?

And again!

Right now, at this very moment, I would like all of you non-runners to bow your heads and be thankful for the automobile which transports you effortlessly up hills. Even the smallest incline, ascents which don’t even register while you’re driving, is big for a fatigued runner (or biker); indeed, many marathoners understandably shy away from marathon courses which harbor daunting hills. (The svelt woman pictured is not I).

Alas, any fairly serious runner is painfully mindful that hills are good for you. SO good for you, in fact, that they comprise part of the training regimen. Running up hills makes you faster and stronger. It’s a fact. It sucks, but it’s true.

In the beginning of May I ran my best marathon yet (3:50) in the New Jersey marathon; I achieved what we runners call a PR, or personal record. I was pleased but not yet satisfied, for my quest is to qualify for the revered Boston marathon, for which I need to run a marathon in 3:45:59 or less… so I am still 4 minutes short of the elusive goal.

The beginning of the month also marked the start of a new training program I’m trying for October’s marathon (a 24-week program). I’ve run the most recent 3 marathons (February’s Myrtle Beach marathon, March’s Washington DC National marathon, and May’s New Jersey marathon) without having trained intensely, mostly just wanting to get my body more accustomed to running 26.2 miles more frequently than the once per year I used to run a marathon. For October’s marathon, however, I will be stepping it up a notch or two, taking it more seriously; October’s Bay State marathon in Lowell, MA yields the highest percentage of Boston qualifiers every year (Philadelphia’s produces the highest NUMBER of BQs, but only because of its 40,000 field), and I intend to be one of them.

This brings us back to hills, the bottom of them, more specifically. Matt Fitzgerald, author of the current training program I’m using, LOVES hills. Believes in them. Recommends them. Sardonically prescribes them. Uses them in his training programs.

Ugh.

Having done 9 marathons at this point in my life, I’ve “done hills” in training before, but it’s been awhile since I’ve seriously incorporated them into my training schedule.

Some of you are thinking: “big deal; jog up the hill and be done with it…” Ah, were it that simple! Here’s what “doing hills” entails:

1) You run a couple of miles at a relaxed pace to warm up.
2) You arrive at the bottom of the chosen hill. The earlier in the training program, the shorter and less steep the incline.
3) You swear softly to yourself in dreaded anticipation.
4) You look at your watch and note the time.
5) You sprint to the top of the hill for the prescribed number of seconds.
6) You jog slowly down to the bottom of the hill.
7) You run at the same “relaxed sprint” pace up to the top of the hill again.
8) You resist the urge to sit and chill out and instead jog slowly back down to the bottom of the hill.
9) You question why it is you’re doing this again?
10) You repeat this process again and again and again and again, up to as many as perhaps 20 times.
11) You acknowledge that the folks watching you think you’re a bit loopy.
12) You ignore your dog who urges you to keep going over the hill toward home.
13) Finally, this week’s hills behind you, you run 2 miles at a relaxed pace to cool down.


Doesn’t that sound fun?

Last week’s hills were 45 seconds and 8 repetitions. I took the dog with me and ran my 2-mile warm-up, only to discover that my chosen hill was also chosen that particular day for the installation of Verizon’s new FiOS cables, which meant a veritable plethora of observers of my strange behavior. After about 3 repetitions, the workers began to give me looks and mutter something in Spanish about “loco.” A few repetitions later, Sophie, my very intelligent and loyal German Shepherd who plodded along with me every step, began to doubt her previous estimate of her owner’s IQ. We’d get to the top and she would look at me imploringly: “okay, Mom. Home’s THAT way… wait. What’re you doing? Back down? Helloooo? Why are we doing this? Are you lost, Mom?”

Yesterday’s chosen hill was a bit longer (5 repetitions of 1 minute sprints uphill), but blessedly sans FiOS installation and also without Sophie; I can’t have my dog questioning my sanity.

I can’t wait to see what awaits me in next week’s training schedule…

Semantics, Schmantics...

me: Hey, buddy! It's the Memorial Day holiday weekend! We're going to the beach tomorrow!





10-year-old: Oh, wow. It's summer now? We're going to the beach?





me: Yeah! Are you excited?





10-year-old: cool. So are we gonna see the 4th of July fireworks?





me: Yeah... no. So, buddy... what month is it now?





10-year-old: May.





me: And the "4th of July" is in what month?





10-year-old: um.... Oooooooooooohhhhhh....

A working definition

Sad (adjective): The sensation experienced when one drops a piece of chocolate onto the floor, with its ending up covered in dog hair and microscopic organisms which, combined, render it thenceforth inedible.

Parlez vous francais?

Who says it's not possible to get a traditional education in Las Vegas?

At the Paris hotel and casino on the strip, you can learn french! For free! No need to sign up for boring, time-consuming classes, either. Simply use the public restroom in the casino area. That's right, folks. Just by utilizing the toilette, one can learn key phrases in the french language. A continuous, pre-recorded, background monologue of both a male and a female voice broadcasts in the bathrooms (both the ladies' and the mens'), teaching you much-needed vital phrases. The sensuous voice utters the phrase in English, then repeats the phrase in French.

It became VERY exciting to use the restroom among our group of intrepid travelers; we would emerge after the experience, congregate, and bemusedly exchange the most recent phrases we learned. Here are some examples (only in English, because I wasn't taking notes while giggling):

- "Your clothes would look great on my bedroom floor."

- "Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?"

- "Has anyone seen my panties?"

- "If my husband calls, I'm not here."

- "Where is my wedding ring?"

- "I shaved my legs for this?"

- "Oh la la. I'm never drinking again."

The beautiful and classy fleur de lys tiles in the ladies' room truly mitigated any kind of raunchy connotation during the lessons, and the phrases were almost so soft as to be subliminal; indeed, it was challenging to hear the lessons amid the pesky, yet necessary flushing and hand-drying.

I searched Google images to provide you with a picture of the pretty bathroom; however, astonishingly, no one has posted a photo of the Paris Casino's public restroom and I, myself, was not witty enough to have snapped one.

What a fabulous idea it would be to broadcast subliminal messages in my own bathroom, particularly, ahem, one in which the husband spends a significant amount of time. OOh I get giddy just thinking about the possibilities; it could be a subliminal "honey do list" or just a sardonic medium to communicate to him in the inner sanctum:

- "You should really take the wife out to dinner tonight..."

- "The laundry is really piling up, huh? Maybe you should pitch in..."

- "A movie would be really fun Friday night."

- "Grilling is fun and easy."

- "The vegetable garden would really benefit from having a fence around it to keep out the vermin."

- "Weeding is great exercise... you really should weed more..."

- "Gosh the wife's voice sounds sweet when she's nagging."

- "Hey! Watch where you're aiming!"

I mean, the possibilities are without limit.... what would you broadcast in your bathroom?

Irony in a picture (okay, 2 pictures...)

Please note.... this is, thank goodness, not my lawn, nor is it any of my neighbors' lawns...

Laughter is contagious

I'm a little grumpy today, so I'm posting a video that can't help but make you at least smile... I guess they really like my blog?

Pull out early

Here is a rough and dirty summary of our extended weekend trip to Vegas with my brother and the wsil (on their "prehoneymoon" before swine-flu-infested Mexico) and my friend with the long boobs and her hubby...






We gambled.


We won some money.


We lost some money.


We drank.


We won some money again.


We lost it again.


We ate.


We gambled again.


We won some money, and then we lost it.


We came out about even. We decided together that, all things considered, pulling out early is a good thing, all puns intended...

more later, hopefully...


P.S. A big thank you to my new friend Vivienne over at the V Spot for my lovely blog award... She is a highly entertaining kindred soul who shares my smart-a$$ sense of humor...

Never wear a thong

The lesson of the day: never wear a thong.

Yesterday evening I decreased the number of things on my “to do” list by one and finally got to the flower nursery to buy annuals for my pots on the front stoop and patio.

The nursery is an idyllic atmosphere to indulge myself in fantasies of having millions of dollars to plant all things pink, purple, and white on acres and acres of land inbetween perennials. Back to reality: I had to fill 6 or 7 pots.

I wandered among the colorful aisles, delightfully sans children, taking my time to pick just the right colors and combinations. In the last greenhouse, I bent down to the ground to pick up a market pack of white petunias, which would spectacularly contrast with my purple verbena and my hot pink geraniums.

As I bent down, there was a fairly loud and unmistakable rip, so dramatic that I felt where the rip occurred. To my great astonishment, I now had a 10-inch hole smack-dab down the center of my REAR AREA.

I burst out laughing, looking around in embarrassment to ascertain whether anyone observed my little mishap. I had previously intended to do errands on the way home, including stopping by the grocery store for a dinner I could cook quickly; however, as going anyplace but directly home was now out of the question (not passing Go and not collecting $200), I phoned Pizza Hut and arranged for a delivery.

My next thought was to be grateful for two things: 1) It was a weekday night when there were very few people at the nursery and 2) I wasn’t wearing a thong…

The picture below, because we all know that a picture is worth a thousand words, was hereby taken by the 13-year-old under official protest, as he had no desire to take a picture of his mom’s back end.

It's the little things...

Little things that make me happy…

When the sign hanging over the express lane in the grocery store reads: “15 items or fewer” rather than “15 items or less.”

Getting carded (even though it’s utter BS. There’s no way in hell anyone would think I’m under 21, give me a break).

Having the house all to myself. i.e. Peace and quiet.

When all of the laundry is done (very, very rare).

When my whole house is clean (also quite rare).

Pink tulips, pink azaleas, and pink dogwoods… okay basically most pink flowers…. And I like purple/bluish ones, too. Verbena rocks.

The way a cat cleans her face. How cute is that?

When someone uses lay/lie correctly (see a pattern here?)

When I go to purchase something at the cash register and I find out THEN that’s it’s on sale.

When the person next to me on the plane doesn’t want to talk.

When someone comments to me that my boys are well-behaved (ha! Little do they know).

What makes you happy?

Wedding Dos and Don'ts

It's official. My brother is married. Throughout the 3-day event (rehearsal dinner, wedding & festivities, post-nuptial breakfast), I took notes to myself so that I could improve the wedding days of people everywhere, all over the world.





Here, I'm convinced, are some important dos and don'ts:





1. Do not attempt to strangle your 10-year-old nephew shortly before the ceremony begins.



2. Do not tell the 3 1/2 year-old flower girl that she can't wear a tiara a few weeks before the big day after she's had the news that she won't be allowed to wear her Jasmine costume. How much can a girl take?




3. Do not tell the bride that the groom's grandmother, integral to the wedding audience, is 45 minutes away 5 minutes before the ceremony (particularly if said knife is in view).




4. Do cut the groom's mother off at a 1/2 martini during the rehearsal dinner. Cut the groom's sister off after 1 martini. Do not allow the groom's 91-year-old grandmother to consume any portion of a martini.




5. Pastors/ministers/priests: after the groom's father has read the oft-repeated passage from 1st Corinthians, chapter 13 about how patient and kind love is, do not declare that Paul didn't really mean those statements to describe romantic love.




6. Do not plan a honeymoon to Mexico during an outbreak of a deadly flu that originated in Mexico.




7. When reciting your vows and promising to be "loving," do not hesitate just before the word "loving." No, you can't change the vows to eliminate the words "poorer" or "sickness."




8. If your almost-spouse has not read #7 and does, indeed, hesitate, do not yell: "check, please!" in the middle of the recitation of the vows.




9. If the bride and groom barely know you, do not ask the official wedding photographer to take a picture of you, the bride, and the groom together.




10. Wedding coordinators: do not present the bride with the knife you propose to use to cut the cake just as she's about to walk down the aisle during the procession. It's just not a good time.

11. Finally, be sure to check that all tuxedo pants fit before leaving the formal wear shop. For example, the 13-year-old's pants might be the wrong size, notwithstanding his having been measured, and he just might, hypothetically, spend the entire evening in great discomfort with the circulation at his waist being cut dramatically and the fabric across his derriere closely resembling an image from a Britney Spears video.

She's smart, really she is....

Sophie hunting bees, her current obsession... sorry about my giggling in the background. It couldn't be helped. She is such a nerd.

An ominous beginning

This morning I was awoken by my 10-year-old loudly yelling from the kitchen [to his older brother in defense]:

"The bottom gave way and it all fell out!"

I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep for a few minutes so that I could start over and repress the thought of exactly what had all fallen out and where.

Bad doggie!

4:09 am. Sophie barks. It's the "uh-oh. I really can't hold it" bark. Like a good mom I hop out of bed quickly and descend to the first floor where she anxiously awaits to go outside. I can't see her eyes in the darkness but I sense their gratefulness.

I open the door. It's raining, as it's been doing for 5 days in a row now. Sophie exits the house with her trademark trot, headed toward the usual spot.... when all of a sudden...

she bolts like a bat outta hell way past the neighbor's house, faster than I've ever seen her go.

I can only assume she's spotted a rabbit. Typically I don't discourage her from chasing rabbits, as they are a nuisance in my garden; however, what didn't register with her little doggie brain before she took off was that it's 4 am. Dammit. I'm not afraid she's not coming back; she's a smart German Shepherd, after all. She knows where her canned dog food's buttered. I don't, however, know how far she'll chase the terrified little bunny. I can't yell for her, because I like my neighbors. Damn dog. I mentioned it's 4 am, right? I am now fully awake, which is exactly the state in which one does NOT want to find one's self at 4 am. I don't know whose heart is beating more quickly: the bunny's or mine.

At this point the bunny has probably made it to safety, and Sophie, at the end of the literal trail, is probably thinking to herself: "oh shit. Mom's gonna kill me. hmmm. Do I stay here for awhile and let her cool off? Do I run back home? Do I pretend oblivion? "

While Soph is having this dilemma, I have grudgingly put my shoes and some shorts on, the very last activities in which I wanted to participate at this hour, and proceed out the door in the rain to locate my dearest dog, who is SO in the dog house.

"Sophie!" I whispered, extremely frustrated. I wander to the edge of the yard, quietly calling her a couple more times.

Then, as soon as she disappeared, she comes cantering back into the yard, feigning innocence.

"Oh hi, Mom... um. Just had to find a different spot to go potty... yeah. uh. took me a little longer than usual."

I furrow my brow, not needing to tell her to come into the house. I look at her. She looks back at me, sitting straight up with excellent posture. My eyes have now adjusted to the darkness, thanks to her. I can see her sheepish, inculpable eyes directed back at me.

I am not deterred. "B a d d o g!" I admonish her quietly. As if she didn't already know. "On your bed," I command. She quickly plops down on her bed as I ascend the stairs to attempt to fall back asleep.

I know what she's thinking, and it pisses me off.

"That was SO worth it."

Irony

Irony (noun): Asking your 13-year-old son's teacher to remind your son to attend a meeting about running for the office of Secretary for the Student Council

Good parents/stupid parents

In this post I shall hereby bore you with pictures and details of our recent adventure across the pond. Intrepid explorers included:

1) moi, of course - in London on a business trip with the bright idea to bring my family with me

2) the husband, having traveled before in Europe but "mass-transit-hesitant"

3) one boy, aged 10 years, 8 1/2 months, armed with a digital camera

4) one boy, aged 13 years, 1 month, whining about homework he had to schlep with him


How do I begin? Cliche?

"A grand time was had by all..."

nah.... um...

"Once upon a time..."... nope. wrong genre.

I'll just jump in....

By now y'all know that we have just returned from Europe, its having been the boys' first trip across the ocean. Here are the highlights and my random thoughts, some with pictures, some without. Deal.

- What was I thinking? Just kidding!! I have to begin by saying that my new system of printing out a packing list and getting the boys to pack for themselves, checking off the items as they proceed, is the best idea ever. I am positively brilliant; I don't mind admitting it. The husband did check to verify that the boys faithfully stuck to the packing list and did identify a couple of snafoos. For example, the item on the packing list: "4 pairs of pants" should have read: "4 pairs of pants with no holes in them." Live and learn.

- Knowing that World War III would erupt if both boys didn't have window seats on the plane, I chose window seats in the same row on the plane, one on the left side of the plane and the other on the right. I also snagged the two seats next to the window seats, so that our seating arrangement afforded us the 2 seats next to each window in the same row and 5 strangers inbetween family members. I wish I could draw a diagram here but you probably get it, no? The husband and I figured the boys could sit together and we could sit together. It worked out fabulously for us, but I think the people inbetween us fatigued of our leaning over and yelling across the plane to each other and passing things back and forth. Just kidding! We communicated with hand motions and lip-reading. Some versions of communication require no words, such as the 13-year-old pounding on the 10-year-old, and my mouthing to him, across the 5 strangers, "I will kill you..." Again, just joking. They were absolutely fine sitting next to each other while mom and dad enjoyed some nice red wine to put us to sleep for the 8-hour flight. I think the kids might have slept a bit, too, but who knows?

- Note to self: getting around is infinitely easier when one is by one's self. Articulated in a more detailed manner, it is both challenging and stressful to have 3 family members in tow when one is attempting to utilize the subway. Being the intrepid (and cheapskate) traveler I am, I forced the family to use the much more economical and vastly more efficient train and subway system to get to the hotel rooms and to and from airports. This is a bad idea when you're carrying suitcases and must go up and down stairs in the subway, but is nonetheless far cheaper than a taxi. The only issue, besides the unwanted weight conditioning workout, was that the 10-year-old was forever trying to hop off of the Tube (London subway) before it was our stop, so that my chief memory of Tubing with the kids is an image of pulling my 10-year-old back into the train by the back of his shirt just in time.

- Sharing a hotel room with 2 boys and trying to get to sleep unsuccessfully with two goofy boys bites the big one.

- French 3-year-olds speak better French than I do. That's just humiliating. I can, however, order a mean bottle of Bordeaux with 2 big-ass glasses (and a beer in myriad other languages).

- The boys mainly appreciated everything they saw very much, but they were just as goofy as they are on American soil; the husband had to remind me continually: they're only 10 and 13...

- The last day of the trip involved rising at 4:45 am in Paris, schlepping luggage to the Metro subway stop, down the stairs, onto the subway, back up the stairs, to the train station, onto the Eurostar, through the chunnel back to London, then onto another train to the airport. I was so proud of myself for having so well utilized the public transit systems (both bus and subways) in both London and Paris; we got around beautifully without ever having to take a taxi. We arrived at Gatwick airport in London with 2 hours to spare, when I motioned to the husband to stop so I could check which terminal for check-in. I looked at the piece of paper I had neatly folded in my carry-on and stared at the itinerary. We needed to be at Terminal 1 - IN HEATHROW AIRPORT. Many brownie points to the husband for keeping his cool. We got a taxi to the other airport and made our flight, thanks to the fabulous London taxi driver who drove 90 mph to get us there in time for 150 pounds ($180). so much for economy.

Here are a few photos for your visual enjoyment....
























A study in contrasts. Above: The British guards: a model of decorum and propriety. Below: well... not so much. the boys frolicking near the English channel at the White Cliffs of Dover

Leeds castle in the English countryside, where Henry VIII escaped the city during the Plague. Tourguide: "Does anyone have any questions?" me: "yeah. uh. Does the drawbridge still work? And does the castle have keys? Can I lock my boys in there for awhile?"

La Tour Eiffel. "Can we spend $10 each and wait in line for 45 minutes to go to the top on a freezing day? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we?"






La Tour Eiffel encore....







et encore une fois...








"No guys, turn around so I can take a picture of you..."








That's better. Ile de la cite in the background....









Preferred Caption: The husband and 13-year-old (and the hidden 10-year-old) sitting on a bench on the Champs-Elysee (pipe in pleasing background music)

Alternate caption: "We have been sitting here waiting for you for an hour!"

The fabulous view of L'Arc de Triomphe while waiting for mom to run and shower....

Beautiful window of Notre Dame. "No more cathedrals, mom, please..."

Young boys in front of something very, very old in the Louvre

View of the Arc de Triumph from Place de la Concorde

A fountain in Place de la Concorde, centerplace of the French Revolution, where Marie Antoinette, Robespierre, Louis XVI and 2800 others were beheaded with the guillotine. How can I get a guillotine for my house? I think they might make their beds then....

"Hi, My name is MJ, and I am a cameraholic."

Et voila! Adieu, Paris...