Lighting Candles

Life has been all kinds of busy, Internet, hence my lack of verbiage.

And because I could get Carpel Tunnel Syndrome trying to fill you in, I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Last Saturday we realized school was about to start



and we felt pretty ambivalent about it,



so we went to Warren's in Kittery, ME for one last big-ass dessert



before packing up the car and heading back to Illinois.

On the way we spent the night in Chautauqua, which is all kinds of adorable



what with the porches bedecked with vases of gladiolas



the pedestrian-friendly streets,



the cultural offerings,



and a really good bookstore. (If you haven't heard of the Chautauqua Institute, you could read this interesting Wikipedia entry or get the brief version from me; it's a resort for intellectuals, where the focus has always been adult education.)

So that was fun.

Then it was home to inspect the damage from the big storm that struck the Chicago area while we were eating ice cream in New Hampshire. So I bid you welcome to my back yard




and you can see what my first order of business was.

It was obviously not to get my son a haircut, so he went off to school somewhat on the shaggy side but relatively cheerful about the start of the school year.



Unlike his mother, who vacillates between full-on nausea and a sense of impending doom



because my next tasks were: 1. to get the building permits that will make it legal for the construction people to rip out the kitchen and two of the bathrooms;

and 2. To join Weight Watchers. Where I got weighed in. Shall we see that again?



So now, I am figuring out this whole Weight Watchers Flex Plan Jargon Thing. And Tracking Points. And keeping the Supreme Dieting Icon candle lit:



All I need now are two more candles: St. Jude Pray for Me as I Oversee Homework and St. Joseph Watch Over My House as It Is Remodeled.

"This is such an elegant evening--such fun--more with you there. Hope you can make it!"

In case you've been wondering--that's what I've been writing. Not blogs. Enclosure cards for fundraiser invitations.

Over and over and over again.

Sometimes on the massive card stock provided by the Music of the Baroque. Sometimes on the tiny card stock provided by the Chicago Branch of the English-Speaking Union. Sometimes on the envelope itself, because the idiotic printer sealed the envelopes.

And over and over and over, always customized for the recipient. Is he or she a music lover--a party lover--an English major?

*...---+++###+++---......---+++###+++---......---+++###+++---...*

And in other news, on Sunday I booked a trip for the four of us. To Paris!

Why it never occurred to me that my children, who at 10 and 12 are long out of diapers, could actually handle an overseas flight--not to mention a vacation that did not revolve around waiting in line to get Minnie Mouse's autograph--escapes me. I mean, hello? They're out of diapers! The stroller is history! You can actually have a conversation with them now! Sort of.

So anyway, when a friend mentioned that's what she's planning for the summer, ze light bulb, she went off in my tiny brain, and I thought--hey, why not?

Well, there's the expense. That's one reason. And it's a pretty good one. As it turns out if you wait this long, airlines charge lots of money for round trip tickets.

But then there is the little matter of airline miles. Of which that Stud Muffin I Married had accumulated not a few. Methodically. For years. Like since 1991. And I think--honestly--we might have cashed in, say, three domestic coach round trips in all that time. So, free flights.

So, Paris in June! Sound good? Zut, yeah. Maybe more "with you there," as there are many readers whom I think it would be great fun to travel--but fun, anyway.

Not to mention how hard they must be to parallel park

When I drive to Florida I see a lot of things I don't see in Chicago. Too many to list, so I'll just talk about one of them, OK? Recreational Vehicles, otherwise known as RVs.

You see a ton of these bad boys on the highway--enough to wonder whether there are fads in RV design, the way there are with automobiles and trucks and such. I mean, it stands to reason, right? Except that I wouldn't be able to tell a brand-spanking new RV from one that was 25 years old, unless the old one was all rusted out.

Yes, the sight of these behemoths fills the mind with many questions. Like: how many miles to the gallon can they possibly get? I'm betting seven or less. And: when someone else is driving the RV, can you just sit around normally inside it, or does it get really bumpy and unsafe, so you have to wear seat belts? And: do they have bathrooms? But the big question is: Where the hell do you keep them when you're not driving them?

Because I've heard there are people who camp out in Wal*Mart parking lots, but these people are already on the road. What I want to know is where do you keep them when you're at home? I mean, I can barely fit a minivan down my driveway. Where the hell would I put an RV?

Does everyone who has an RV live on a farm or something? No, wait a minute--that doesn't make sense, either. Farmers never get to go anywhere. They have to stay on the farm so they can milk the cows and chickens and stuff.

So basically, who buys these things? No one I know. So I'll probably never find the answer to any of these burning questions.

Still--and I'm sorry to report this, but it's the truth--pondering these and other road-trip inspired mysteries (which is better--Waffle House or Huddle House?) really makes me feel alive.

Super Size Us: The Prelude

So we just got back from Walt Disney World. This involved driving a rented minivan from Florida to Illinois. I must say, I'm feeling pretty smug right now. This is not something designed for pussies to do, no sir. I feel all macho 'n' shit.

On first day, we drove through appalling traffic (the entire state of Georgia is pretty much one big parking lot--also it poured rain a lot of the time) to Chattanooga, Tennessee. During the second day, we made it all the way back to the Frozen Nawth, a/k/a Chicago. Home of Jay's Potato Chips and not a Goo Goo Cluster or sack of White Lily flour to be found.

Not surprisingly, I spent a lot of time driving (when I wasn't watching DVDs with my kids or playing Tetris on my huzbin's Palm or camped out in the way-back seat reading P.G. Wodehouse short stories). Driving brings out my contemplative side (when it isn't turning me livid with road rage.) Not surprisingly, during two days of driving, I thought many deep, meaningful thoughts. Which I will be happy to share eventually.

But right now I have to get used to Central Standard Time before it changes to Central Daylight Savings or whatever they call it. All I know is that I expect to be suffering from time-change whiplash any second now. Plus I truly need to finish drinking this glass of wine so that I can bask in the sensation of knowing that if I want a refill, there's a bunch more of it downstairs in the refrigerator of my very own kitchen. It's not all that great, so I probably won't bother to get any, but just knowing it's there gives me a warm glow.

Home ... good.

I know that my Spring Break liveth

Here in the frozen north, we were greeted this morning by the sight of fine fat flakes of snow tumbling softly through the leaden gray sky to land gently on the sodden ground, where they either melted or chose to accumulate in small, slushy mounds, according to their whim.*

This is apparently the way people in these parts know to go out into the garden and hide Easter eggs. Not me, though. I know better. This is no time to hide Easter eggs. Unless you want to get frostbite.

Yes, Spring Break has finally arrived! I know this because it's almost Easter and it's 35 degrees.

That means it's time to head to the AAA office and pick up new, updated trip books about every state between Illinois and Florida. (This includes Indiana. Even though That Stud Muffin I Married grew up there. And even though, because of this, I've spent way more than enough time in Indiana. He and I realize that there is nothing to see in Indiana except Steak and Shakes, cornfields, a city with a race track, and a college town. But one must be fair. And, apparently, obsessive when it comes to accumulating an assload of maps and AAA guide books. So we get the Indiana book.)

We get all these books in order to read about all the sights of extreme historical and cultural interest that we will completely ignore while we barrel down the highway on our annual Spring Break trip to Walt Disney World.

It goes like this: we get up at 5:00 a.m. on Good Friday, bundle the kids into the rented minivan, and start driving. The scenery starts to perk up in southern Indiana, and from there on, Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia are pretty damned gorgeous. Also kind of scary because of the BIG ASS trucks on the road, not to mention many, many tourists with license plates from Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan, and Minnesota, not to mention HUGE signs advertising XXX porn video places. Thank you very much for keeping the truck drivers of America happy in what I shall chose to call their "down time," but I hope and pray we make it past all those billboards without having to take a single question from the offspring. Did you hear me? NOT ONE.

We spend the night in Atlanta, and the next day, after tucking in heartily to the free hotel breakfast, we take off for Florida. Lower Georgia and Upper Florida are very weird indeed,which is all to the good, and I start to get all giddy and happy when I see signs about oranges and alligators and such.

Then we peel ourselves out the car at the Polynesian Resort at Walt Disney. And start to have big fun, beginning with a glass of wine that is about [_____THIS BIG_____].

So anyway, now I've got to get cracking with the packing.

*Yes, I was an English major. So what.