What have I been doing, anyway? I mean, other than laundry?

It's life among the lotus eaters around here. In case you're a bit rusty with your Homer, the lotus eaters were a bunch of time-wasting lay-abouts Odysseus encountered on his way home from Troy. You know, that trip that took 20 years? And nobody recognized him when he got home?

That's me. It has been twenty years since my son started high school. Maybe more. Soon his children will be riding the bus to ninth grade with him. Yes, it feels that long.

Meanwhile, my daughter doesn't go back to school for another week.

I really don't mean to complain, but I've got one kid who needs to be chivvied into getting up, getting dressed, doing his homework, showering, practicing, you name it. I'm like a sheepdog pushing a large, gelatinous blog from one activity to the next.

In the meantime, my daughter sits around playing video games and watching YouTube videos in the Summer Vacation That Wouldn't End. And sleeping, my lord, can that child sleep. Last night she fell asleep before dinner, and she's still asleep now.

When we do anything, I brightly try to make it a Real Project, like today, let's Go To The Orthodontist! or Let's Go Shopping for New School Supplies! Which really doesn't fool anyone, let alone me.

I guess I should go. First of all, at some point my daughter will wake up ... after all, it's been 13 hours. And then I'll need to come up with some enjoyable activities, like Picking Up the Vacuum Cleaner. Or Mailing Out the Packages. Or Going to the Bone and Jone Center to Have My Shoulder, Which is Acting Hinky, Looked At.*

Or posting to Mamarazzi.

* See how I mention that without whining? You're welcome.

More. Of. The. Same.

Today my in-laws came by. And my sister was already here--as she has been for almost a week.

We all went out to a used bookstore.

I know, I know. This is beginning to sound like a Talking Heads album: More Songs about Visitors and Shawpin.

But at least my mother-in-law asked my sister when she's leaving. And it's tomorrow. So I'll have the house back to normal soon. And my daughter will have her room back.

Anyway, we went to Drake Farm. It's a massive place--a huge old barn filled with books. Two resident cats, some antiques, old chairs to sit in and read, a couple of donkeys out back. I went a bit mental in the cookbook and interior decorating sections. After lunch my in-laws went home, and my sister and I went to Christine's Crossing in Rye to ogle antiques. And buy a few things, too. Mostly old magazines, but also a funny I Love Lucy flowered hat covered in pink roses.

Yes, I should post pictures. I took tons, you know. But honestly, people; I never get a moment. It's frowned upon to sit there using your laptop while people are visiting, did you know that?

It sucks.

More later. I need to get rid of my visitors. And get un-Simpsonized.


(Why did they give me such big hands? Who can type with these sausages? It's not fair. Marge doesn't get stuck with sausage fingers.)

More visitors

My sister is safely married. Wedding and reception went well. BUT:

My other sister is still staying here.

My in-laws have come by the for the day.

Too. Many. Visitors.

Too. Much. Family.

I just want to curl up with my laptop and have a cozy afternoon with the Internet. But it won't happen any time soon.

And now I need to go make more polite conversation. Which you, Internet, probably sense is probably not what I'm probably in the mood for. Probably.

"If you look like your passport picture, you aren't well enough to travel."

If I had a scanner handy, and were the sort of person who uploads pictures of myself to my blog(and I'm not) I'd upload the pictures that were taken of me today. You would just love them, in a sort of schadenfreude way. They are TERRIBLE.

They're so terrible that I'll be amazed if I'm not quarantined upon my re-entry into the United States. I wouldn't need to worry about stalkers, because not only are they uniquely hideous, they're also unrecognizable. At least I like to think so.

And just think. I'm stuck with these hideous pictures for another decade. Unless my passport gets stolen again.


* * * * *

So, my passport picture will act as an immediate emetic on any and all boarder guards who have to look at it. That's the bad news. The good news is that by letting mes droigts do the marchant dans les pages jaunes, I found a photographer who could take pictures for an American passport. And this photographer was open for business on Sunday.

This might not sound like such a big deal, from where you're sitting, but trust me. If the English are a nation of shopkeepers, the French are more like a nation of clockwatchers.

Sunday in Paris is a bad day to find anything open. It's a day when every other Parisian is out strolling the boulevards, eating a leisurely dejeuner, drinking vin rouge, and playing boules. Actually, I have no idea what they're all doing, but I do know that while New York is the city that never sleeps, and Chicago is the city that works, Paris is the city that doesn't work. Yes, it's lovely and historic and the food is great, and the shopping would be great if I had, you know, a wallet and some credit cards to shop with, but the go-getting entrepreneurial spirit we enjoy in the United States is completely lacking.

In fact, the biggest go-getter I've encountered on this trip is the shithead who stole my purse.


* * * * *
See, this is how travel broadens and educates a person. After my purse was stolen I spent something like three hours in a Parisian police station waiting to file a crime report. There were two crime victims ahead of me. When the first one went into a little room with a policewoman and was there for over an hour, I knew I was in trouble. Meanwhile I sat there and watched as about eight policemen and -women arrived in street clothes, disappeared, reappeared wearing their uniforms, walked around the entire station kissing everyone on both cheeks, and then sort of drifted away, or crowded behind a counter to not do much of anything.

This was cute in a "it's just like a movie!" kind of way, but eventually I started to get pissed off. I mean, seriously. Imagine if before getting down to the business of writing this entry, I went "blackbird! How's it going? kiss/kiss!" "Hi Joke! kiss/kiss" "Badger! How are you? Kiss/kiss." I know what you'd be thinking: holy shit; is this a blog or a talk show? Can we get on with it?

Meanwhile we crime victims sat and waited some more. And then when I finally got my chance to talk to a policewoman, I sat in a room with her while she typed shit into a computer, then emerged with lots of pieces of paper and no real sense that anything had been accomplished. Plus nobody kissed me even once.

* * * * *

Tomorrow I'm going to the American Embassy, where I expect to spend another eternity waiting in line. There will probably be less kissing, because I'll bet a lot of the people who work there are American. Then we'll come back to the hotel and check out because they don't have a room for us here anymore. Then we'll go to our new, inconveniently located hotel in a charmless modern section of Paris and mope around some more until we all look as bad as our passport pictures. Because for us it's all about family resemblance togetherness.

Only then will we return to the United States and bring our sweetness, light, and hideous faces passport pictures with us.

Terra Firma

We made it back home yesterday evening and immediately went out for Japanese food, where we ran into the other Newtopians who had also returned to empty refrigerators.

Then, my brain sharpened with sushi, I went over to Mamarazzi to make fun of Madonna.

And now, inspired by the sight of Madge in her purty white clothes, I'm doing laundry.

Live blogging from Orlando airport. Again.

You know, I'm sort of a Pollyanna type, so my first reaction to dealing with adversity is to find the bright side.

Now the dark side of my situation is that lately, I've been spending an unbelievable amount of time in airports. Even though hanging around in airports is not my idea of Spring Break Bliss.

On the other hand, hanging around the Orlando airport is affording me the opportunity to drink Cafe con Leche and eat quesitos. Which is nice. And with luck, the fat and sugar calories will decide that what happens in the airport stays in the airport.

Although even the Pollyanna in me suspects that those calories are going to climb onto my ass and ride back to Chicago with me.

If you're reading this, you should know this:

I'm not. My internet access is all but non-existent.

So I'll have to save the thrilling tale of our journey to Walt Disney World for one of those long winter evenings, as this is my first internet access since Wednesday, and I doubt I'll have much time for composing witty blog entries while on board a cruise ship.

BUT you need to know two things:

I have been hanging around with the Jokes.

And I'm staying in Tuvalu.