There's no place like home

I'm back home after a fantastic weekend with my peeps. We have made this our little tradition; heading into the city without our husbands and kids for some girl time. Nobody leaves NYC without a Broadway show, loads of good food, fake purse shopping, and late night hilarity (that's when the REAL Stie comes out. If you haven't met her, you're missing out. She's much more fun than Daytime Stie).

It was great to reconnect - some of us haven't been together in three years, which was way too long. Adding to the fun was my adorable sister-in-law, Gabi, coming to meet us on Saturday for a show (although we would have kept you all weekend if Brad would have spared you, Gab). We saw The Drowsy Chaperone (HIGHLY recommend it, if it comes to your city. So, so cute). It was just the old fashioned Broadway that I love. Tap dancing, zany characters, soaring voices, and a wedding or two thrown in for kicks. It was a musical as they are meant to be done. We all absolutely loved it. The weekend was just what I have been needing. [Jackie, Cindy, and Bridget - you were sorely missed. We will not accept your excuses next time, trust me.]

We've all done NY a time or two, so this was merely a weekend spent eating, laughing, and catching up. We stayed in Times Square and shared our hotel with about a bazillion ladies in town for the breast cancer walk, all sporting large, pink cowboy hats. We walked through Central Park. We had a luxurious Sunday brunch at the top of the Marriott Marquee (for which my pocketbook has not yet recovered). It was a perfect weekend.

But the biggest adventure for me was the journey home. It seems I have had too long of a lucky streak in the travel department and was overdue for some misfortune and near-misses.

Let's just say this about the experience:

One cancelled flight + one flight re-booked on another airline = Racing to TWO different terminals to find the right gate.

Two different terminals + 1 suitcase + 1 purse = TWO long waits in security lines (AGAIN).

One cancelled flight + one stupid ticket counter person = Second leg of journey cancelled for you. [Oh, how nice. I always wanted to move to Washington, D.C. without my family. No, I don't need to get home, you IDIOT!]

One stupidly cancelled flight + no record of previous flight plans = One ANGRY, anxious, yelling Me.

Ten minutes of yelling, pleading, and explaining + shortened layover time [due to the First Lady flying into LaGuardia and causing the runway to be unusable until secured (yeah, Annie, my lone celebrity sighting: I saw her plane and security detail. Woo hoo.)] = Me RUNNING through Reagan Airport to catch my second plane, practically shoving people out of the way as I go.

One minute of begging to get to the front of security line (which I am now going through for the THIRD time in this stupid airport) + sprinting to my gate to catch a flight that was due to leave any second = Sweaty, sobbing heap of a mess. Me.

And nothing says WELCOME HOME, MOM! like a five-year-old throwing up all over the [yes, carpeted] stairs at two-thirty in the morning. WHY, WHY, WHYYYY couldn't she have done that on The Husband's watch? WHY? Oh, no. She saved that little ditty for my cleaning pleasure. I think it's her own private way of punishing me for leaving her alone with the men in this house and having some fun without her.

I think I need another vacation. Now.

Happy Birthday, Opa

Ask and ye shall receive

Because of the roaring demand from the likes of Celia Fae (and because she makes me laugh so hard every morning), I have added a portrait of myself to the sidebar. It may not remain there for long as I rather hate staring at myself unless I'm looking in the mirror having the eternal debate of "Bangs?" or "No Bangs?" But because you internets were so nice (and some of you nice without seeing me), I decided to oblige. There I be.

Anyway, probably won't post much in the next few days. I'm off to New York City with some of my long lost best girlfriends. And to my BFFs who couldn't come: Bridget, Cindy, and Jackie - we won't be having any fun without you. I promise. No broadway shows, chocolate souffles, fake purses in Chinatown, or frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity. No, siree. No fun at all. We will just be jogging, eating tofu, and cleaning graffiti off buildings in the Bronx. Just think of us doing that and maybe you'll be glad you couldn't make it. Anyway you slice it, you girls will be sorely missed.

So have a great weekend, all. I'll be back on Monday with loads of pictures (of me jogging, eating tofu, and scrubbing graffiti, ahem!) and can't wait to catch up with all of you. I'm outta here!

Flirting over the canned peas and macaroni

Today I was strolling up and down the aisles of my local grocery store. I kept meeting the same person in the middle of each aisle. Every time I passed this man, he smiled up and me and said, "Hello, pretty lady."

Which, thanks to my most thoughtful son telling me all that is wrong with my fine self, I was needing today.

With each passing aisle, and each passing compliment, my self-esteem soared. See, McKay, SEE? Strangers tell me I'm pretty. I can't be ALL THAT bad.

But our little game ended when I heard him say the exact same thing to another store patron. Sadly, it was not a trim, cute soccer mom that drew his attentions away from me. It was a balding, elderly man wearing a pink shirt.

Next time our carts passed, I eyed him more carefully.

He is mentally challenged.

And I, unfortunately, am still ugly.

Is it possible that I'm not as attractive as I think I am?

McKay (or who shall now be called the Son Who Gets Cut Out of the Will) asked me what appeared to be a purely philosophical question yesterday.

"Mama, if you could change anything about the way you look, what would it be?"

I was thoughtful for a moment and then said, "I'd probably get rid of all my freckles."

His face scrunched up in a REALLY, THAT'S IT? kind of look. I took a deep breath and asked him the question that sends men everywhere running for cover: "WHY, what do you think I should change about my looks?"

And he answered me, internets. He actually answered THAT question.

"Well, I'd make your eyes bigger. And your nose smaller. And your ears bigger. And you have too many freckles on your neck. And maybe you could have better hair."

Umm, yeah.

Clearly, he has not yet learned that when a woman asks ANYTHING about her looks, size, face, hair, clothes, eyebrows, muffin top, weight, freckles, or pinkie toe, you reply with, "Why no, honey, you're perfect just the way you are."

Because I am, you know.

And there's nothing like a nine-year-old boy to make you suddenly so insecure. Do I have a big nose? Are my eyes small and squinty? Are my ears too small? Can ears be too small? Yes, I know the freckles are a problem. But my hair? Is it really that bad? What else is wrong with me? And look, LOOK, at my behind. It's HUGE. I'm like a tank walking around with all this girth. And all this flab around my waist? I'm like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. And what about my feet. I have horrible feet. And I hate my eyelashes. They're so ugly. Why do I have to have these bird-like arms? I hate my mouth, too. I'm a freaky, mutant animal, I tell you. THAT'S WHAT I AM - AN ANIMAL. I'm hideous. Look away, lest I burn your retinas with my Quasimodo-esque face. I'm SO UGLY!

After my womanly tirade is over, The Husband sighs, looks up from his football game, and calmly replies in that Pavlovian way all husbands should, "Nah, you're perfect just the way you are."

He at least was brought up right. Can't say as much for his son.

What not to use for a belly ache

So I'm back. Survived the visit from both in-laws and parents. Did more than survive, actually. Had a great time. My kids have some pretty great grandparents. Missed my little bloggy world though.

One night this week, my mother-in-law and I are chatting on the couch. Hannah comes in, moaning that she has a tummy ache. We had just eaten at the World's Largest Chinese Buffet, and truth be told, I had a tummy ache, too. Being the excellent, lazy mother that I am, I sent her up to retrieve a bottle of Tums. I describe it to Hannah as "That thing you always think is candy and I never let you have? Go get that."

She is upstairs rummaging for a few minutes and comes down empty-handed. She just can't find it. She asks what letter it starts with. I tell her it has a big T on it. So she heads upstairs again.

Then, she comes downstairs with the biggest box of this you can buy:

"Is this it, Mama?"

That does start with a T.

And it may be until she actually needs one of those herself before she forgives me for laughing so hard.