A Safe Comment About the Weather

It is gray, and sad, and stormy. The rain alternately pounds the windows and drizzles abjectly down on our bedraggled chickens.
It's one of those days that usually makes me feel warm and cozy, eager cuddle up with a hot water bottle, to read a good book and sip a cup of something.
Today, however, is a day to be grouchy, pessimistic, and cynical (the last two are NOT the same, just conveniently similar). A day to wear lots of black and eye makeup and talk in a slow, defeated voice.
Even my cat has taken refuge indoors, no doubt confused by the very confusing weather: Yesterday, it was sunny, slightly humid, and 69 degrees in the shade (though there wasn't a lot of it). Today, it is thoroughly dismal and dreary, forlorn and 42.

What ever has happened to our sub-tropical climate? Has El Ninio finally moved against us? Have the Snow Gods had a change of heart? Or maybe we'll wake next morning to find that it was just a fluke, or maybe a nasty trick played on us by those Floridians...

This is a historic day in world history.

In a good way.

On this cold and blustery Saturday in December, 2007, at 3:10 in the afternoon, it was found that EVERY SINGLE CHICKEN WE OWN IS LAYING!!!

Now, I know that we only have nine girls, but five of them are pullets.

And four of them are old, crabby ladies.

Green eggs, brown eggs, speckled eggs, big eggs, small eggs.

And the rest of Dr. Seus' books.

And ALL OF THEM ARE LAYING!!!

Today's news was earth-shattering, to say the least.
It was completely and totally unexpected. I have lost all faith in the human race. There is just nothing to believe in anymore.
And yet, it is true.
Somebody had apparently forgotten to tell our poor, naive radio networks that there are STEROIDS IN BASEBALL.
Shocking. Absolutely shocking.

Yes, the Mitchell Report has now been released.

Perhaps people will go back to eating the Red-Hots that are served at Baseball stadiums. It looks like they have fewer artificial ingredients than the players.

Fame can be so tiring. Someone discovers that under your pretense of mediocrity, there lurks an undiscovered Above-Average Person, and then it's nothing but work, work, work. That's why I'm usually an under-achiever: give them mediocrity all the time, and they'll be much more interested when you eventually display your true Above-Average Qualities. Alas, my dear masses, I have been displaying Above-Average Posting Habits for far too long, and just look at what's happened: Above Average is what you now expect.
After much petitioning from the Above-Average masses, I have decided that it is in my best interests to write an Above-Average post.

Mediocrely, of course.

My choir sang at Duke Chapel on Sunday, and it was very beautiful, and the acoustics were incredible, and the preacher-man had lots of very pretty white hair. We sang our Christmas Concert Repertoire and what felt like the entire hymnal, but it was a nice hymnal, so. That was good.
There is a podcast on the Duke Chapel website of us singing, and it is almost perfect, except that you can't hear Alicia's harp. So for some of the songs, there is silence where it is not supposed to be silent, but it sort of works.

After Duke, my dad drove me downtown, where there is a tour of historic houses every year. This year, most of the houses seemed to be as yet unfinished, but there was 411 Oakwood, with it's French Doors flanked by upside-down Christmas trees, and 523 Bloodworth, the Art Deco house with a bathtub set on illuminated blue glass cubes.
My mum sang with her a Capella group, Domestic Harmony, and they were lovely. I felt like I should be dressed in period costume and sipping tea.

That evening, my friends came over, and we had some Serious Soup, and Kasha-nut loaf, and Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie and Mulled Wine.

Today, I have been looking at different college websites, and growing steadily more depressed as I think about what the requirements are, what they will be, and what I will be able to get
done.

Are you masses appeased yet?

There's Just Gotta Be A Morning After...

Hello, dears! Having fun nursing your post-thanksgiving turkey-induced stupors?

It is tradition in my family to go down to Kinston (only we pronounce it kein-stun) and be embraced in the bosom of our family (or, well, our Kin) while a pig cooks in the grille, and eat Cole slaw (with sugar), marinated bean salad (with sugar), cooked down greens (with sugar) and various "sugarless" deserts (with Splenda).

The day after Thanksgiving, we eat our Turkey, our Cranberry-Onion Compote, our Sweet Potato Casserole with lemon, our stuffing and our dressing, and (O, glory of glories! O most perfect perfection!) the Pumpkin Pie.

Then we watch M*A*S*H, entertain ideas of watching Home for the Holidays, and think about what we ought to do next Thanksgiving.

All that to say, the pilgrims probably didn't know what they were getting us into when they boarded the Mayflower.
But I can think of a dozen Turkey dinners that would mean a lot less without them.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Falling thoughts...

1. One year from today, a nation-wide presidential election will take place, employing all of America's favorite pastimes: bribery, gain of power, prestige, and status, and, of course, Political Scandals. For yea! We must uphold the Noble American Way of Life.

2. It's hunting season.
Again.
Time to thin the Union of Non-Edible Animals, which have grown WAY to big for this town, thanks to the overpopulation of Here, the next China.
And besides, dead animals make lovely Thanksgiving centerpieces. Just think of those conversation-starters, "yeah, so I was driving down the street one day..."
And the terror you shall inspire! "Hey, kids! Guess what were having for dinner this year!"

3. It's time to turn those clocks wacky for an hour, just like we did last year. Unless of course, you live in Arizona or Hawaii. A pox upon thee. You people who live in warm, tropical places know nothing of the cold darkness we poor, semi-northern chaps and chapettes are forced feel for six out of every twelve months. Fie to thee, I cry! May a thousand frosts plague your black coral and bolo ties!

4. I believe that it is a manly instinct brought on by the cold weather that awakens the urge to grow a beard (even though your wife hates facial hair), chop loads of firewood (even though it's 75 out and you've had gas logs since you moved in), and hunt deer (even though you'd only shoot yourself in the foot and scare away the game).
My dad has similar testosterone-induced urges, but they verge on sanity, a fact I attribute to all the estrogen my mum and I produce: wearing flannel, brewing beer, and napping with a wool blanket on Sunday afternoons.

My little-little brother is going down the street to collect free candy from strangers.

My big-little brother is trick-or-treating with a Scarlet-French-Maid-Woman of the Evening. (And that will only make sense to you if you have a reliable thesaurus and a twisted imagination.)

And me? I am sitting at home, with my mum, filling up the house with lots of nice Estrogen, and wondering why in heavens' name my parents let my brothers out of the house while they were still minors.

Why, oh why, did my parents have to have boys?

I think I'll make some hot chocolate...

Well, it's time.

Time to finally bite the bullet. Time to get it done and out of the way.

Homicide lawyers, be at the ready.

I have never been at the receiving end of this particular peice of advice, so I'll be quick, so as to damage my cringing reputation as a non-licensed personage little as possible: all you innocents out there, stay off the sidewalks.

I'm doing Driver's Ed next week.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I just realized that today is Friday! Which means tomorrow is Saturday!
Which means that I am going to be singing downtown with my mum and a bunch of other Theatre Maniacs in LESS THAN 24 HOURS!

Does the fact that costumes aren't required make it easier, or harder?

I know I haven't been writing very much lately, but that is simply the cross I bear for theatre. Now that the most recent of Fabulous Productions is over, I can once again give you my undivided attention! Aren't you lucky!

'What's in a Name' was stupendous. It was more of a musical review, rather than a play, and the songs were fantastic!
I won't say it was perfectly perfect, but considering that we had all of fourteen rehearsals, it went really, really well.

I was a little nervous at first, since this production was also at Franklin Academy (and we all know what happened last time), but after a few rehearsals of not walking into anybody and hitting my notes every time, I was sufficiently relaxed to do the great and wonderful job I have always done.

(Oh, yeah.)

And this Saturday (the 13th) from about 12:30-1:00, down by the gazebo in downtown Wake Forest, the Theatre Maniacs will be performing selections from 'What's in a Name', including mum's rendition of 'In Buddy's Eyes', Gilly's 'Rose's Turn', and Morgain's 'Notice Me, Horton'.
(And-horay!-ME!!)

I know this post isn't up to my usual standards, but I'm a busy dame, and I've simply got to see a man about a dog...

Today is Rachel's 14th birthday.



Well, okay, today is Rachel's 14th birthday party. I really don't know when her birthday is. (Which is a really rotten thing, seeing as I've known her for so darn long.)



We are going out to the Eno river to wade and swim and feast on Carob Chews and probably catch hypothermia, but blast if we aren't going to have a fabulous time!



In other news, Mum, Eamon and I are slated to perform in the Theatre Maniacs (a name to inspire confidence) new musical review, What's in a Name, at Franklin Academy on October 6 and 7 at 7:00, and October 8 at 1:00 and 7:00. Judging from my EXTREMELY abused knees, it shall be quite a show. Eamon and I don't have any solos, but we do some cute chorus parts, and Mum does a solo piece.

Everyone: please, please, PLEASE come, or Koko will unleash her wrath. She claims to be very wrathful. I don't know how she does it with a name like Koko, but I've been told that actors can be deceiving, and I can never face wrath unless I have a full house.

Happy Autumn Equinox!

Today is supposedly the only day of the year that you can balance a raw egg on its pointy end. (However, it should be noted that you really can do this any day of the year, if you have the patience for it.)

Today also happens to be the day that the earth's tilt toward the sun causes static to all the satellites in orbit. So we can all say what we really want to on the phone! Yay! Isn't that exciting?

Yesterday, it was a balmy 79 degrees. The sun was shining, the birds were twittering, I was wondering when I should get my Winter Wardrobe out of the attic, and contemplating a glass of iced coffee.

Today, it is a frigid 71, there is a cold sun out, my winter wardrobe is taking up the better part of my room, and the iced coffee I made is giving me hypothermia.

And so, fall is upon us. Whatever shall we do next?

I see it on the horizon, a Winter Season of faux-shearling-lined coats, insulated gloves, and J. Peterman's Le Chameau Rubber Boots (wellies with class. And lining).

Meanwhile, I am readying myself for the immanent delight of the following Winter must-haves:

1. Mincemeat. All right, I've never actually had mincemeat, but I really want some. It seems like it's a really great thing. I mean, why else would they make such a big deal of it in 'State Fair'? It just has to be good.

2. Bonfires. Or any kind of outdoor fire, actually. Heck, it can be a Chimeneya as long as you have The Token Guitar Player, hot cider/mulled wine, and a box of strike-anywhere matches.

3. Popcorn and hot chocolate. Which is good anytime of the year actually, but it is just one of those things you NEED any time from September through March.

4. Siting on the dryer with a good book. Something you can't do very comfortably in the heat of summer. And if there's a warm, fuzzy cat on your lap, so much the better. Note: not a good place to fall asleep.

I went to the Bodies exhibit at the mall on Friday.

I loved it. Really.

I don't know why, but a bunch of plasticized bodies and parts of plasticized bodies don't freak me out. I was a lot more fine with it than I thought I was going to be.

The only problem I had with it, was that the brain was beige.

I hate beige.

Think of it: we're sending the next generation out into the world with beige brains. Who would be so cruel as to award this center of reason the altogether loathsome color beige??
Perhaps it was juvenile of me (okay, it was definitely juvenile of me), but I had always cherished the dream that perhaps, in actuality, my brain was green, or blue, or teal.

Other than that, I found the entire thing enjoyable, informative, and entertaining.

My mum, on the other hand, went MIA the entire two hours we were there.

At least, that's what I was told. At the time, I was freakishly absorbed in staring at this brain with all the tendons and nerves coming out of it and the spinal cord hanging down, and the eyeballs popping out of it.

And then there were the veins: all the veins and arteries were injected with this plasticky stuff, then the rest of the body was chemically removed and all you had left was this fine, delicate network of brightly-colored plasticky stuff, floating around in tanks of water like day-glo coral.

It wasn't just a piece of a body anymore. It was art.

Dear person or persons whom I have irrevocably failed and/or disappointed,

Facebook is evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.
I really did try to sign up. I really did. My very best. You won't hate me forever, will you?
See, it just rejected me. I think it's because I'm a confessed member of Autodidacts Anonymous. They just hate homeschoolers. The System is trying to bring me down!...In fact, it's succeeding!
Facebook is evil. That is just all there is to it.

With too many apologies,

Me

The Summer has come.

It has come up to terrorize our gardens. It has bred many thunderstorms, but not nearly enough. It has evaporated our pools, fogged our glasses. It has dried up our reservours, killed our chickens, and gunned down many a resolution for Summer Fitness with its tempting array of cold and frozen sugary treats.

And the Summer has gone.

And with it, every friend I have over the age of 18.

I wish every one good luck for the coming year. And the nicest and most understanding of roommates, and very good cafeteria food, and very nice dorm rooms and fridges and professors and classrooms and whatever else you need.
Till next time...

Where's the Big Big Man?

Ever since I was a little girl, the Big Big Man has been in that field on 401 (or capitol blvd, or whatever). You know the one I'm talking about. Blue overalls, black beard, seasonally changes his shirt. I used to beg my parents to go out of their way so I could say 'Hi' to the Big Big Man. At Christmas, the people who owned the farm where he stood would rig up a star over their house, so high up I thought it was part of the sky. During Independence day week, an American flag would be clenched in the Big Big Man's hand.
He was a landmark. No matter where I was, I would think to myself, Okay, the Big Big Man's over there, so I must be...?
He's always been there, the unsung fiberglass watchdog of the capitol.

SO WHERE'D HE GO???
Is it normal for ten-foot-tall men to suddenly dissapear? I mean, he was an innanimate object, for crying out loud.
Or am I just overreacting? Was it 'his time'? Am I going crazy for missing some over-large portrayal of a farmer?

Does anyone have the faintest idea of what I am talking about?

I adore eggs. Almost as much as I adore mayonnaise. Or chocolate. Or Butter.

When we got our first five hens a few weeks ago, I was more than very, very happy. I was ecstatic. I was beside myself with uncontained glee. I was ready to burst with the idea that we were going to have more eggs! Yes! I had just been told that the meaning of life was in my back yard!

But alas, no. Not nearly. Aparently, chickens are slaves to routine, one of their routines being that they go on strike every summer, without warning (maybe there Italian?).

Estimated total egg consumption per week: Let seven eggs be assigned to french toast, three to toad-in-the-holes, six to scrambling/frying, six for hard-boiling, and twelve for baking and ice cream. Total: Thirty-four/Three dozen, at least five per day (and each one of those conclusions came to a completely different number, but whatever).

Actual laying amount per day: Two.

Apparently, our chickens do not share my family's love of eggs. There is a very distinct +/- thing going on here.

(Perhaps I shouldn't write this at lunchtime.)

And it is August.

Is it just me, or is really, really hot?

Alas.
Here's what happens: Harry is horribly disfigured and almost dies but his watch face saves his life, Voldemort gets blue contact lenses and becomes Minister of Magic, and Hermione and Neville get plastic surgery and Bellatrix adopts them. And Ron is blown up on the London subway.
So ends the turmoil and strife of the greatest series this decade.

I had a fabulous time at the Smith's pool today. We stayed all day, and ate cheese and crackers and had flourless chocolate cake, and got very wet. It was drizzly the first half of the day, but dad showed and it all cleared up and was very nice and sunny and the tops of my feet got tan. But the rest of me is lobster pink. How did I manage this?

Today is my Sixteenth Birthday

...And that's about it.
I'm opening a whole lot of cards, and eating a little cake (hopefully), and going to the Smiths' pool, and maybe maybe maybe watching the new Harry Potter movie, if my brothers and I can actually stay in the theatre to see them mangle another one for three hours.

...The Capitol Steps have their 4th of July radio broadcast up! All hail the deranged mocksters!

After Rome, it was a simple matter of our plane from JFK being delayed thirteen hours and an overpriced Starbucks meal to get home.
The limo was not nearly as much fun the second time around. Although that might have been because we spent the night in a deserted terminal under the florescent lights of the seventh level of hell.

And now our fabulous trip is over, and the boys are away at Summer camp, and when we pick them up, we will all go up to the mountains for a week of CFO. (Yes, the many reports you are hearing are true, mum will be camping. All week. In a tent. Without Laura Ashely.)

First thing tomorrow morning, we head out to get my guys, go to the nearest Laundro-Mat to wash a week's worth of boy camping laundry, then go to CFO, where they will just get stinky all over again, but this time with parental supervision.

See you when I get back (again)!

Sunday, June 10, 2007 8:23
The Hotel Osimar
Rome, Italy

This was a horrid hotel that hardened cab drivers drove over hell's half acre to find, on the outskirts of a horrid city.
When we got to Rome, we were all tired and rather unhappy and very hot, and to make things worse, the cab driver didn't know where our hotel was.
He made a few calls, and before we knew it, we were at a hotel in the middle of nowhere.
The best that can be said about it, was that it had a bidet.
We decided that no matter how hot it was, we couldn't just stay in our hotel rooms all day, so we ventured forth into the sticky, smelly, dirty crowded hordes of tourists to see what we could see.
Our first stop was the Colosseum, which I assume would be very appealing in the off-season.
It was...very...big? And hard. And old.
And on that particular day, hot, crowded, dirty and smelly.
Second was the Mouth of Truth, which was my absolute favorite, because the basilica that it was connected to was all stone with one or two windows, and very dark and cool.
From there, we went over to the Palaza de Spanga, to see the the overcrowded Spanish Steppes, and then to the Trevie Fountain, where we only threw coins in so we could ensure our safe return to a major airport next year.
After that, we got some gelato, and took an other taxi to the hotel Osimar.
We got dinner at a tiny place two minutes from our hotel, had a long dinner under the stars, and vowed never to return to Rome again.
Rome sucks.

Let me just say right now, that the Smiths throw the best parties in the known universe.
That's all.

Friday, June 8, 2007, 22:20
Hotel Atlantic Palace
Florence, Italy

After an obnoxiously long train ride, we got to Florence.
After oo-ing and ah-ing over mum and dad's room, we were informed by the concierge that not only was our room not ready yet, it was still vibrantly inhabited.
We could have told him that (he gave us the key).

Upon gaining entrance to our room, we promptly fell on the bed and turned on MTV, which is the only cable show in Italy that speaks English sometimes. The commercials were awesome, because they were all in a language we couldn't understand, so we didn't feel compelled to buy stuff.

Sunday, June 9, 2007 22:00
Hotel Atlantic Palace
Florence, Italy

Today was packed and exhausting and exhilarating and filled with old rocks and gelato.
First thing in the morning, we went to the Academia, where, amongst the old, the antique, and the Prisoners, we saw Michelangelo's David (YES! I SAW DAVID), which was about the only thing worth looking at.

On our way back to the Hotel, we were caught up in a big market, where we bought mounds of silk and linen and Pashmina scarves.
I fell asleep while dad went in search of a post office to mail out our billion and one post cards (if we didn't get one to you, it wasn't for lack of trying), and mum went back to the market in search of more bargains.
When I woke up, it was time to go to the Uffizi Galleria, but dad (who had gone in search of mum when she didn't come back from the market), was not with us.
We were outside the Uffizi for about half an hour (quite a while when you're on 24-hour time) waiting for our tour before dad turned up.
The tour guide was great. He had a bit of a lithp, and said, "believe me," and "by the way," a lot. We saw the Birth of Venus, and the Three Graces, and loads of Pieta, and a couple Adoration of the Magi. Afterwards, we had dinner at il Fratelini, a tiny sandwich stand across the piazza from the Duomo, and walked down to the Ponte Veccio.
It was crowded. Everybody was either watching the Harri Krishna parade that was noisily cavorting down the street, or hanging over the bridge, watching the sun sink into the Arno.
Mum disappeared on a mission of mystery, and the boys and I leaned out over the Arno while dad took pictures.
After about twenty minutes of this, mum reappeared, only to shang-hi me into one of the jewelry shops along the ponte, and after many tears, after much arm-twisting, and after hitting up my dad for a hundred fifty euro, we got a perfect cameo from a Russian lady who spoke English with an Italian accent.
We went back to the Hotel, and the boys went to the gelateria across the street from our hotel to get the Italian equivalent of ice cream take-out.

Day three of Italy
Thursday, June 7, 2007, 10:00
MY Hotels La Spezia

1. Riomaggiore
Riomaggiore is the first town in the Cinque Terre. It was there that we got our first tastes of mountain vineyards, brightly-colored Mediterranean houses, and clear, blue water. We started with a very exciting elevator ride up the mountain, so we could save ourselves for the long climb down.
We solicited sandwiches at the nearest grocery, and ate them overlooking the beach as it started to rain. An American woman had been teaching there for two weeks, and decided that as long as she was over there for the summer, she might as well stay there. Her mother was born in one of the five villages, and she and her sister were going to hike and explore her mothers' homeland.
We lost her in the hike through via Dell'amore, a meeting place for several hundred Romeo and Juliets over the years, decorated with creative graffiti and lots of padlocks.

2. Manarolo
We came through the via Dell'amore into Manarolo, the second village in the Cinque Terre, and immediately sought out fortification in the form of gelato.
Once obtained, it was a simple matter of walking through the village and trying to sight-see in the pouring rain, until the cold pound became too much for up and we ducked into a handy-dandy Basilica to wait it out.

We emerged after fifteen minutes into the sunlight, shaking out raincoats and starting back down the mountain to the station.

3. Corniglia
In Corniglia, we experienced the beautiful views and tastes and smells that I am sure make European adults so irresponsible.
Halfway up the village, mum and dad stepped over to take in a wine tasting, while the boys and I navigated the treacherous waters of a foreign language and got several enormous gelato cones to eat in the hot sun spilling over the buildings.

4. Vernazza
If the Cinque Terre has a village that can be described as more picturesque than all the others, this is it, as it has the best easily accessible beach on the coastline.
We walked through piazzas, past vias, and around endless fountains, slipping on the rain-slicked cobblestones and marble down to the waterfront.
A dog was gleefully ignoring the 'No Dogs' sign, and splashing in the water around a boat that was launching.
At mum and dad's insistence, I put my toes in the freezing cold Mediterranean sea (which turned out to be the Legurian sea) and then skipped over to the bench with mum and ate many yummy sandwiches.

5. Monterosso
Monteroso was a fancy, resort-y village, entirely populated by the rich, the old, and the tourist.
It kind of looked like the Florida keys, except there were gelato stands instead of ice cream trucks, and there were cigarettes on the beach.

Tomorrow at 13:00, we take the train to Florence.

Day two in Italy
Wednesday, June 6, 2007 12:24
The intercity train to La Spezia

This morning, my brother and I went with dad to cash the traveler's cheques that NOBODY USES ANYMORE.
The metro we took was noisy and crowded, and when we finally got to Piazza Missuri it took us 12 blocks of of eternity to find an American Express on via Lago, because the streets change names at every driveway, the map was wrong, and the policemen didn't speak English.
Yeah, I can be an ugly American tourist. So what?

Later on Wednesday
La Spezia, Italy
MY Hotels La Spetzia

16 minutes before we were due to arrive in La Spezia, the train was forced to stop, due to a rather large rock slide. We (and our luggage) were shepherded (with a trainful of other passengers) to a bus, then to an OTHER train on the OTHER side of the rock slide.
When we finally get to La Spezia, my brothers and I (having not eaten all day) are famished (understandably), so we raid the mini-bar (it was free in the last hotel!), and consequently find that this is about twice the street price.
Hmm.

We head over to a restaurant that the concierge recommends, the Trattoria La Nuova Spezia, and upon arriving, are treated to jokes in Italian, swordfish steaks, nyoki with pesto, pasta with cheese sauce and bacon, the house wine, a tray of desserts, a cognac, a cafe corretto, and some very delicious sea-something, which turned out not to be so delicious when we learned it was Squid.
After four hours of this, we had to pay up and go to our pseudo-home, or else risk exhaustion's wrath. It was rather dark, and after about ten minutes of walking this way, we realized we had no idea of where we were.

And that was when it started to rain.

We traipsed over deserted piazzas to deserted streets for another fifteen minutes, finally bumping in to a group of streetlamp-lit teenagers who had a very bad case of the giggles, but did show us to our hotel.

We fell into bed with nary a care.
Only as I was falling asleep did I remember that we needed to get up the next morning...

I'm back. Miss me?

I'm trying to figure out how to do this, since I actually did quite a lot in a week, and even though my life is not very exciting, I'd like to reserve the right to have a good rant every now and then.
Maybe I'll add those later?

Day one of Italy
Tuesday, June 5, 2007, 19:50
Milano, Italy
The Hotel Michelangelo

We just arrived in Milano this morning. We checked in to the hotel, and immediately went over to the train station (across the square!) to buy tickets to Bergamo (about 2 hours from Milano). Bergamo is important because it is where mum and dad had their Montessori training and lived for a year.
We take the funicular to the middle city (Bergamo being on a verrry steep hill).
Once we get there, we are all famished, so we get a lot of sandwiches and eat them on the steps of the bibliotecha, facing the Piazza Vechia, and watch an old man in a purple shirt walk up and down the street with an umbrella, singing to himself.
We took the funicular to the upper city, where the Montessori school was (a Montessori learning and a Montessori teaching school) and along the way, we meet a family of Liverpudlians on their last day. Soon after that, it begins to pour. We skip off in the rain for about 15 minutes, decide that caching a chill would not be a smart thing to do on our first day, and take the funicular back down.
Once it stops raining, we go buy gelato (our first of many), and look at the view (also our first of many).

Tomorrow, we take a train to La Spezia.
And right now, I will indulge my jet-lag, and sleep until dad makes me get up.

Hannah had her graduation party today. Her dad made this toast-speech about doors closing and it kind of made me wonder if I was a closed door, or if I was still open. And it also made me get really teary, so I gulped down my champagne so I'd have something to cry about and got some cake.

Tomorow morning, I shall head off to Italy.
I promise to bring back a camera full of pictures.
And tales of cute Italians in picturesque landscapes.

Ciao!

OHIO:

Packing (I have always hated packing).
Driving (TEN HOURS!).
Nana (words cannot express).
Diana exhibit (very very pretty).
Cheryl's graduation party (Ali's was better).
Seeing the cousins (rambunctious) and the aunts (women) and the uncle (SO man).
Visiting Penny and Jaffe (Yay!).
Packing (I really HATE packing!).
Driving (TEN HOURS!)


Home.

Long, long exhale.

I would like to publicly apologize for:
a) not writing since the first and, alas, keeping my adoring public in the dark (there was nothing to write about! I cannot always make dullness sound exciting, sue me. Any complaints, I take calls Mon-Fri, normal work hours.)
b) not going on my second official Venture Crew outing (a fishing trip. Red necks. Need I elaborate?)


On Friday I went to the Relay for Life kick-off, saw a bunch of people I knew, laughed, and walked a lot.
On Saturday, we dropped my Nana off at Peace college for her 50th High school/college reunion, and I decided I am SO going to Peace until I find an alternative, because the campus is the best.
On Sunday, we went to Mellow Mushroom and I found yet another good reason to attend Peace: there's a Starbucks not five blocks away!

Tomorrow I shall rest and recuperate and pull weeds.

On Thursday, I am going to Cleveland for my mums' best friends' second daughters' High school graduation, see my cousin's cute not-puppy, and eat a bunch of stuff I don't want to know about.

I will see your adoring faces when I get back!

I sat out on the deck today in the Silk-Road-esque heat, slowly eating the topping off four pieces of pizza, while the sun first baked my still-bald scalp, and then made my upper lip break out in moisture so profuse, I was under the impression (for a little while) that I had bitten in to a hot pepper.
Afterwards, I crunched down the last of the ice cream we had for my baby's FOURTEENTH BIRTHDAY GOD HELP US, and thought about meaningful things like the fact that my baby brother will never be thirteen any more (thank God for small favors), and this ice cream would be really good with coffee flavor, and meaningful things like that.

I love an Ordinary Summer Day.

Especially in Spring.

Hmmm...

My mum is 'rendering fatback'.

This is rather off-putting, because on the one hand, it looks like a side of Lamb, only it's fat, and on the other...it...SMELLS really really really GOOD.

Like bacon.

But not smokey.

Just to let people know, mum and I sang Mozart's Requiem with the NC Master Chorale yesterday at Meymandi.
Yes, I know I didn't say anything, but the ticket prices were atrocious ($24.00 bucks! Who do they think they are!?)
It was SO MUCH FUN, and also rather too warm, and now my Little-little brother is going around singing Dies Ire, only with lyrics like, "cum se-dasy-dasy-meela".

My little-little brother, One Who Has Ultra-Low Pain Threshold, just got back from the dentist after having two baby molars extracted.
He hath been talking like thith ever thinth he goth home, because of two gauze pads in his mouth. But unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. I'm betting two hours till that novocane runs out.

Plus, dad gave him a hair cut last night, so his misery is quite complete.

Awaking from my Easter afternoon stupor, I came upon a revelation: I never get the sugar high. I skip straight to the low.

Boy, wouldn't I be a riot on recreational drugs.

To complicate matters, the Blue Screen of Death was in reruns on our computer.
Or the desktop just took a holiday. Which is probably more likely.

Good news, though. We got more M*A*S*H, so at least we are entertained through our Sugar Blues.
Happy Easter...

I arose yesterday morning and was on the point of making breakfast, when I opened the fridge, and--!!!!!


Tragedy! Disaster! O, woe! O, misfortune! O, despair! What exigency!

NO BUTTER!!!

I hadn't really considered my dependence on butter. To me, it seemed rather nonexistant. I mean, no butter? Please! I can so deal, people! It isn't like I've never been deprived before, wretched child that I am.
But little did I know: no butter = No french toast, no scrambled eggs, no fried-egg sandwich, no toad-in-the-hole, no grilled cheese... I know I sound like I'm whining, but NO BUTTER! O, calamity! REALLY.

It's like running out of Coffee or Hot Water--You don't do a thing like that.

But we all had this enourmous breakfast this morning, and a long walk, and it is a gorgeous day, and maybe this whole unnatural-daylight-savings-time thing is working...

My mind seems to be rather Skewed today.
That's a great word. I love that word. Isn't that a great word?
But I just wanted that to go on record for posterity.

Why is it already in the 80's? It's MARCH. I love changing all my winter clothes out for my summer ones, but I like doing it until mid-to-late April.
My friend's pool doesn't even open till June!

Global warming might have sent a calling card, at least...

I have reached a quandary: I am undoubtedly Irish, right? With my last name, family heritage, inexplicable desire for corned beef three hundred and sixty-five days a year and general hatred of the color orange, how could I be anything else? (The fact that mum's reliatives are all German is immaterial).
So why do I have such a deep-founded lack of interest when it comes to the potato?

I really do feel sympathy for the sufferers of the potato famine--a whole infostructure based on a root!--but I must be chanelling Queen Anne or Elizabeth or whoever it was that outlawed the potato in England, because I just do not see the attraction.

Maybe I'm English.

Or worse! Scottish!

Either way, I resign myself to being doused with whiskey and/or Porter and carried to the nearest Catholic confessional in an wool Aran playing "The Yoodil Is On Me Now" on a Bodhran.

Happy St. Patricks day.

Why is Daylight Savings time FOUR WEEKS longer?

Has the President taken leave of his remaining senses?
Why are we asked to abandon a tradition that our forefathers long upheld? A tradition that was invented by Ben Franklin? WHY MUST WE AWAKEN IN DARKNESS???

Because, as we all are perfectly aware, four weeks will help boost the floundering economy to such a level that even (a certain person who is in office who will remain nameless at the present time) won't be able to rip it down.

Of course, those with seasonal depression are in a lurch. But hey! We figure that the economy will be booming along so nicely, we won't notice the insurance agency's shares plummet.

What makes French Vanilla french?

Well, I was going to tell you all about the fabulous Lunar eclipse I saw last night, but that was driven clean out of my mind by the fact that Google has taken over Blogger!
No, maybe this isn't newsworthy, but I am very annoyed when I try to write on my blog and find I can't even LOG ON because the stupid COMPANY sold out to GOOGLE.
So what if they've updated their system? Could they LET ME KNOW? Give me fair warning? Not make me get a Google account?
Ugh, I hate Empires.

And I was singing all day yesterday, and I'm still really, really tired, and I just finnished a serise, so I have that melencholy, let-down feeling.
All that to say, take whatever I say with a grain of salt.
Or maybe the whole Ocean.
But Ocean is masculine, so take whatever I say with a little Sea instead...

Disclaimer: If any of the words in the below post, previous posts, or posts as yet to be realized are spelled or used incorectly, TOUGH TOENAILS.
Go kiss a dictionary.

Why do these things always happen on Saturdays?

Today is a momentus occasion. A celebration of aging. Out-with-the-Old, In-with-the New. The ONLY TIME this will EVER HAPPEN, darn it.

My youngest brother bridging over to Boy Scouts, walking across a flimsy peice of rope suspended two feet off the ground, receiving the red epaulets that symbolize countless Pinewood Derbys, banned Hazing, Sleepless nights on frozen ground, and go oh-so-becomingly with his complexion.

This Arrow of Light Cerimony will be attended by the Cub Master, Den Leaders, younger Cubscouts, Den mates, and most important, our friendly neigbourhood Plumber.
That's right, folks, you heard it here first: Our Water Heater has officially bitten the dust, I repeat, has OFFICIALLY bitten the dust.

A tragedy that will soon be overcome by the wonders of Home Depot Instillation and the IRS Tax (Return) Agency.

Until then, I will be living out of the our immaculate 1/2 butt kitchen, musing about the many ways in which my life revolves around Hot Water.

By the way, a typical Happy-Bridging-Over present is a 47 gallon Water Heater. Electric. Any color, brand or style okay. WE DO NOT DISCRIMINATE.

When I first went to the Post Office to get my passport, I thought I was going to Austria with my choir.
Slight change of plans:
1. Destination: Italy
2. Entourage: Family
3. Head exploded--Just a tad worrisome
4. No Singing--Bonus?

10 Things You Really, Really Need

10. Bonfires. Unfortunately, none of you is likely to lie on your deathbed and moan "Why didn't I go to more bonfires?!" You ought to. Everyone loves glowing embers, and good things come to those who sing Kumbayah.

9. Flowers. Go out and buy flowers. Even if you're deathly allergic. Even if your face swells up and your lips puff out (Angelina Jolie is fuming) and your eyes turn red. Buy flowers, and know that the days of darkness and cold are soon to be over. Smile.
Then take an Antihistanine and lie down for a few months.

8. Coffee. What more can be said? I ought to just stop writing here.

7. Tissues. Can you beleive that sane people traveled with small squares of linen? And this was in the days before allergy medicine!
It should be noted however, that a) you can't sleep with a guy's tissue under your pillow, and b)Kleenex boxes positively RUIN an dashing image.

6. A rainy, stay-at-home day. Fire, good book, tea and Chinchilla-fur hot water bottle cover included. Extra for Snow, Sleet, blanket and Digestive Biscut.

5. The Peterman Catalog. You will NEVER have enough money for ANY of it, not even the 1903 Cologne and Aftershave set, but it's worth getting the catalog. You can look at gorgeous stuff for free.

4. A friendly IRS agent. A couple thousand could come in real handy sometime.

3. A baseball bat. Please, don't be so quick to dismiss it. Use to attack rowdy boyfriends, deface mailboxes, in self-defense, as a paddle if your car gets stuck in a downpour, or as a cat-trainig device. Or you could always use it to kill the opposing team's catcher.

2. A Gin-Sue. For use on anything from a Tomato to a cinderblock.

1. An Ostritch egg. It won't really do a lot, and it'll be pretty quiet most of the time (Warning: talking eggs not good.) But it's...Big. And a good conversation starter. And really, really round.

My eye lashes are growing back in!
They're about 1/8 of an inch long, and very thick and blonde at the tips.

YAY!

...Of course, NOW my attention is drawn to the final two lashes on my right eye, which are long, and close together, and dark, and spindly and they look like spiders' legs.
I know they'll have company soon enough (give me six weeks and my eyelids will be so heavy as to render weight-lifting obslete), but why do good things come to those who wait?

If you're willing to wait, you don't want it bad enough.

GROW, my velcro, GROW.

Is it at all fair that we had a 60-degree IN JANUARY?

It's okay in Florida. It's okay in South Carolina. It's okay in places where nobody has a Down Jacket to their name.
But please. My brother has a snowball in the freezer, he's so desperate.

Shall the Snow Gods smile down upon us?

Oh, and no more Dam jokes.

Last night, I was sitting quietly on the couch, minding my own busines, when out of the blue, my family hit me with six 6-ml saline saringes.
Salt water. In those little needle jobbies that you get shots in, but without the needle.
Have I not suffered enough???

Although, I must remember that...

Oh, and my brother gets his final four braces out today!

Hey... Guess what I just got? No, c'mon guess. I really want you to guess.

Okay, here: A perfect 20's silhouette.

Because guess what just came out at 9:10 this morning?
HA!! YES yes YES yes YES!!!

Now I have a hardcore Buggs Bunny Band-Aid over a little quarter-inch scab, and I can shower and put my arms over my head and turn 60's rebel and not wear a bra and be happy. HA!

I did ask if I could take my bloody, used Catheter home to show you guys and watch you ooh, aah and be violently ill, but evilsome Dr. Skinner put the kabosh on that one. His high on the humor reader is -52, not that he'd admit to it.

But I did try for you guys. I made an effort. Honest.

And now all I have to do is two months of PT (I hope) and I shall make you throw a Ridiculously Large Party for me.

Or I could take a really long shower...

Yes! Yes! YES! Yesyesyes!
My Catheter comes out on the 22!

...For those of you who are not as divinely blessed with the knowledge of The Catheter as I am, let me elaborate: Ick.
It is a peice of plastic that sticks out of the right side of your chest (and it has to be in a blood vessle or it won't work), enabling the Vampire Nurses to painlessly draw blood and preventing you, the Long-Suffering but Silent Wearer, from taking a shower.
Wondering why I haven't been smelling as rosy as usual? Wonder no more.

I plan to take a very long, hot bubble bath when I come around from all the knock-out meds, so please, no letters till half-past February.

There is a cooler on our back deck, stuffed with all the things that won't fit in our fridge.

"Honey? HONEY? Shrimp, Safer Soap and brandy...Tails on or off, mom?"

My brothers are in a vaccuming frenzy. Can a straight guy be in a vaccuming frenzy?

"Are your ears burning yet?"

My Nana is helping with the millions of dishes that have to be cooked or prepared.

"No, I have enough of that...NUTS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON FIRE!!"

I take this opportunity to say, if no one shows up tomorow, heads will roll and heaven will tremble.

...And really quick while I'm thinking of it, drop by our house on January 7 between 1 and 6 for cheese and crackers and hugs and all kinds of fun stuff.

So I'm finally back! We're all glad and happy. We're so overjoyed and boisterous, we don't even care about redundancies (or misspellings?).

I'm so glad the holidays are over, though. This means I shall stop all this Chemo-induced writing and revert back to my usual self.
Consider yourselves warned.