This is a state park near us. We go to walk, to picnic, to lay about – actually that’s what I go for.
My family goes there to bike.
I think I’ve told you before. Haven’t I? It’s no biggie. Everyone has something. Some people can’t eat a peanut. Some can’t have dairy (the horror). Some are diabetic. I too have a debilitating challenge. I can’t ride a bike. Well, technically I may be able to actually ride a bike without killing myself, but I really really don’t want to.
My family tried to have an intervention a couple of years ago. They were horrified for me. My husband lived on his bike throughout his childhood. Both my kids adore their bikes. They gave me a long list of reasons why I’d love it. The freedom! The independence! So I finally caved in and they bought me a fancy bike. Took me out every night to practice. And I tried. I acted excited. I seemed enthused. It was awful.
I don’t like riding a bike. It makes me nervous. It makes me feel out of control. It gives me zero happiness. Freedom and independence are not for me. Sorry.
This causes great sadness in my family. I’m like a traitor among them. An alien. They’ll never be able to ride like a full family.
We live about 40 minutes from the beach. More specifically, the Jersey Shore. You know, the place that gave birth to GTL, Snooki, and the Situation. But it’s also the place that gave us big old boardwalk slices of pizza, funnel cake, arcade games and oh yeah, the beach.
Because it was sunny. Because it was a perfect 65 degrees. Because I needed to extract myself away from the TV. We headed to the beach.
This was also the place hit hard by Hurricane Sandy – and although they were still rebuilding parts of the boardwalk – doors were open.
Here’s my babies playing an overpriced game that can’t possibly be worth the crappy stuffed toy that they will eventually win. Everything is back to normal.
On Easter Sunday, thanks to our lovely Kosher neighbors, I had Matza, or Matzah, or Matzos for the very first time.
I’m in love
Unleavened, unsalted, unbelievably perfect. I’m sure all my Jewish pals are rolling their eyes but listen, there aren’t a lot of carb items left in the world that I don’t know about. This was a revelation.
With peanut butter. With cheese. With coffee. It’s the perfect vehicle for all kinds of fat.
We took a quick trip to DC after Easter – literally. As in we cleaned up, packed leftovers, said goodbye to our family and hit the road.
My husband and I have both been to DC often, but just for work. From train to conference room to train. This was an all out tourist trip.
We landed in the capital at the stroke of 11pm. After miles and miles and miles of traffic, here’s what we saw heading into our hotel. Pretty friggin cool.
For the next two days we traveled by trolley, monument to monument, museum to museum.
It was cherry blossom festival time but a late snow meant no blooming trees (actually there were a couple but we couldn’t see them with all the Japanese tourists surrounding them. True story).
This is Julia Child’s kitchen. Recreated spoon by spoon at the Smithsonian. This was my favorite monument in all of DC. Cluttered. Utilitarian. Completely unMartha. It was awesome.
This is my boy and his all time favorite teacher – Mrs. Jones.
A second after 3rd grade started, the teacher he was supposed to have all year had a baby and Mrs. Jones stepped in. She immediately turned the room into an interactive, dynamic place – new rugs, new wall coverings, new everything. It wasn’t just room B-6, it was Hollywood. All the “kiddos”, as she called them, were mini directors in their own productions. The room was covered in colorful, themed imagery. She was animated and sweet and my boy (and the whole class) loved it.
As the year went on and we all got to know Mrs. Jones, it was clear how much she loved teaching and how much she loved our kids. Yes, all the usual teaching stuff happened. They learned, they read, they wrote. But her class was more than that – it was fun. It was silly. It was over the top. And it was exactly what those little people needed. I’ve never had a teacher send me daily updates (sometimes more!) or pictures of fun things the class did that day. We even got Sunday reminders of what the week ahead would look like. I don’t know about you, but I try very hard to forget where I work from Friday night to Sunday night, not her. It was obvious that this wasn’t a burden for her.
This past week we got a letter from the school that our original teacher (who I’m sure is a wonderful person) is coming back for the last two months of school.
Devastation ensued.
9 year olds crying everywhere.
I still remember my favorite elementary school teacher, Mr. Walter Freeman. 4th Grade. He ate oranges at his desk every morning. When you went up to talk to him, he had a citrus halo around him. Is it weird that almost all my good memories have food related connections? Anyway. He was dreamy.
Teaching is a calling. You need some sort of superpower to be able to walk into those classrooms every day and actually enjoy being there.
So good luck to you Mrs. Jones – there’s a lucky class out there waiting for your cheery voice. Thanks for making a really good memory for my boy.
You know those weekends when the garbage bag almost makes it to the garbage? And then you just come to terms with it being on the floor. And you start using it. And then it gets fuller and fuller to the point where it’s too late to stuff into the can. That would be wasted energy, you think. The next bag will go right in, you decide. And the other three people that live with you decide the same thing. You’re not committing a crime. This is no big deal. I mean… How type A would you have to be to get totally obsessed with a dumb bag.
Oh thank god.
My husband just threw the bag out. I love him.. I just hope he puts a new bag in. Happy Weekend!
These two monkeys live in my house and yell and fight and laugh all day long.
They’ve been at it since she was 5 and he was born.
They are 5 years apart. Two little Scorpios.
She was going to be an only child – imagine that! But then we came to our senses and added the ying to her yang.
They are so different. And so alike. They write each other letters of love and devotion – and then sell each other out at the drop of a hat.
She’s his best friend – says him.
He’s her best friend – says him.
When they tell each other secrets they make a “world” promise. The biggest, most powerful kind of promise. A promise that, if broken, can have dire circumstances. These usually involve hidden candy in their rooms, newly learned bad words or inappropriate videos on YouTube. The usual world promise stuff.
Last night I was writing another blog post and my girl asked what the topic was. When I told her what I was writing about she said,”oh. you should write about me and Jack.” So there you go.
At about this time, my mind and body starts craving/dreaming/needing a vacation. Somewhere different. Preferably to a place where trains are called metros and where you can stay in a flat instead of an apartment. Or maybe a tropical turquoise retreat where I can drink from a coconut and lay on beach.
A place where I can be Vacation Mom and Vacation Wife. The one that doesn’t worry and nag and yell and order. The one that lets you buy obscenely pricey gum from the gift shop and stay up until you feel like falling asleep. The one that doesn’t care if anyone has brushed their teeth or combed their hair. She’s awesome. I miss her.
But in order to transform into this groovy, go-with-the-flow chick we need to get the hell out of dodge first.
And in order to do that we need to find a place to go.
And every time we find a place I am compelled to that damn website to check out the reviews.
It never ends well for me.
Everyone has an opinion, and I read every last one.
MaryS from Wichita thinks the rooms at a certain resort in Puerto Rico aren’t clean enough.
George from New Jersey didn’t like any of the restaurants but loved the pool at his hotel in Hawaii.
clevergirl8 from Texas loved Peru but had a horrible time with customs at the airport.
I try to focus on just the positive. You can’t make everyone happy, I say to myself.
But then I toss and turn and doubt. And doubt.
Are people just really really picky?
I realize that I could never have been one of those people backpacking through Europe or Asia or Idaho. I need research. Data. Background. I need to know that others have gone before me and had a good time. Or not.
So we’ll make our plans for vacation and it’ll be very exciting, but deep down I’ll be thinking about MikeP from Albany, who thought Dublin was beautiful except for the hotel concierge who was a bit grumpy the whole time.
I give Tripadvisor.com 3 out of 5 stars. Lots of consumer information which usually results in the firm knowledge that no matter where you are going or what you are doing – it could have been better somewhere else.
I took this video for my boy – who is in mad love with this cat. Since it’s Friday and my brain can’t function – I decided to use it as my post too. A nice Friday cheat.
I came down this morning to find Lexi sleeping in her spot and making a noise. Kinda like snoring or sleep meowing. I dunno.
She was doing it loudly enough for me to hear it in the kitchen. By the time I decided to go get my phone and tape her, she’d mellowed a bit.
Stick with the video…around the 2o second mark, like a great whale, she starts again.
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The round blob of fur is hard to figure out.
Here she is in all her fat, whiskery, stank eye splendor
