A Day Alone, Plus the Most Romantic Thing Ever Said to Me

In Warsaw, I spent most of one day by myself while Ryan taught. It was fun and quiet, like solitude can be. I felt so adventurous flying solo with only a couple of poorly pronounced Polish words in my pocket. I wandered in and out of shops, walked up and down the streets, and even took my lone self to lunch at a tiny café where I ordered a mile-high chicken sandwich and a tiny bottle of "Coke Light."

The sandwich was so grand, I took out my camera and documented it because there was no one across the table from me to appreciate its ginormousness. I deconstructed it with a knife and a fork, eating it in awkward pieces and wishing I had ordered the spaghetti instead.

After lunch, I wandered more. I people-watched and listened to my iPod. It was strange to have the soundtrack of my regular, suburban life playing in my ears in this foreign place. I almost turned it off, but then decided to keep it on in hopes that the next time I heard those songs they would remind me of Warsaw.

There was only one real task on my agenda and that was to find the street vendor with the oil paintings. We'd picked out a favorite two days before and tried to give the man a low-ball offer, being the savvy travelers that we are. (Smirk.) He counter-offered, but only for a little less. Our counter-counter-offer was to walk away and tell him we'd think about it. He let us walk away, which led me to believe that we'd reached the lowest price.

I left my art buying until the end of the afternoon. I found the little side street where he set up shop and reminded him of our last negotiated price. He smiled as he put the painting in an old Hugo Boss plastic bag and exchanged it for my money, tipping his hat as I walked away to meet up with Ryan.

The statue in the square was our meeting place, but it was crowded with a bunch of teenagers, so I found a spot nearby where I could wait and watch for Ryan. He spotted me before I found him. He gave a nod and then grinned as I walked toward him.

"What?" I asked, smiling back.
"I would pick you out of a crowd," he said and pulled me close.

The Remedy is the Experience

Want to know the remedy for seeing too many gorgeous, ornate structures in Vienna? Visit the Hundertwassen Museum and home of modern artist Freidensreich Hundertwassen. Quirky, funky, abstract, and completely sincere, I loved wandering in his little world for a while. Even the floors aren't straight, but hilly wandering paths of brick. So cool.

His art and design made me think of someone else I know. One time my Max was looking out over the New York City skyline and sighed. "Why do all the lines have to be straight?" he wondered.

In the museum there is a quote by the artist: "The straight line is godless."

Seems like the hard questions are always answered in art.

(P.S. In personal news, I lost a big part of my job this week. Keep your fingers crossed for me in my new job search! Thank ya kindly.)

So American

When we were abroad (we love that line around our house, especially said in a snooty, self-absorbed, aristocratic tone), we frequently felt stupid.

Miscommunications because of our mono-lingual state were aplenty. There was the time our friend Tim thought he was ordering one ice cream cone, but was actually ordering one teeny tiny scoop of ice cream. Or the time Ryan was yelled at by the grocery checker because he needed to purchase a plastic bag for his items and had to figure it out via charades. Or the many occasions our friend Kristin apologized, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English," when what she meant was, "I'm sorry, I only speak English."

Communication in Europe was simplified by the fact that 83% of everyone we came in contact with knew English. And, yes, you can argue that English is the language of business and commerce and the future and that's why everybody learns it, etcetera, etcetera. BUT. It is extremely humbling to walk around in a foreign land, looking for rough translations of recognizable words, and trusting that if you can't figure them out, a random teenage passerby can likely help you out. You can't help but realize that while he spent his youth learning a small handful of languages, you spent your youth trying to save the princess at the end of Mario Brothers.  I'll say it now and I'll say it again, it is invaluable to spend some time as a minority.

Never in my life have I wanted to learn or speak another language. My two years of French in middle school consisted of the same five worksheets and the same five episodes of French in Action, the french equivalent of Sesame Street. I passed both years with flying colors and without even the ability to order soup du jour at a restaurant. And I was completely okay with that.

However, as I wandered around Warsaw, Vienna, and Prague, I was overwhelmed with the urge to know another language. I wanted to be able to communicate, to tell the man that he dropped his paper, to  overhear what the girls at the tram station were complaining about, to ask the old woman in the square where to find the best loaf of bread.

Since I didn't know another language, I felt myself offering the far lesser next best thing, a bad French and/or Italian accent. In a crowd, I'd find myself uttering, "Eskoosee, eskoosee," or sometimes, "par-doan, par-doan." Other times, we'd be wandering a cobble stoned street and I'd unknowingly be mouthing "shockolot" over and over again.

Forget the fact that we visited neither France nor Italy. There is no reasonable explanation for this.

Like Kenny Rogers, For Example

Ryan: Do you like my beard?

Me: I really like your beard.

Ryan: I'm thinking about keeping it, but I'm not sure exactly how to maintain it.

Me: You need a beard mentor.

Ryan: I do. I really do.

Snap, Crackle, Pop!

In Vienna, at an evening concert, during a cello solo, I figured out my entire life. I sat in the beautiful, nearly-full hall and let the music wash over me. Earlier in the concert, I had been a little transfixed on the giant chandelier in the middle of the room. I had a great view of it from our spot on the front row of the cheap seat section. During some of the especially boisterous songs, the chandelier swayed a little and turned. I realized that it must be the sound waves moving it and I was self-pleased to have noticed such a clever detail.

I guess the sound waves were moving me too, because my thoughts started turning and turning, and as the cellist performed, I began to see everything with stunning clarity. Everything that has been bothering me about myself, my world, my circle of family and loved ones, was unraveled and untangled from my thoughts, released from my heartache, and completely solved. The ones that have no solution, and therefore don't require my personal worry regime, were released to fly away. Everything was going to be fine, I realized. Within myself. Without myself.

The cellist continued. He looked as if he were performing open heart surgery on his instrument, he was so thorough and delicate and ambitious. And my heart, the one that has felt torn and heavy for months, finally seemed to be weightless and whole again. It was amazing.

And then.

There was a sound. A crackle.

Then quiet.

Then another crackle.

It came from behind. I looked over my shoulder to see a blondish, twenty-something woman digging in her giant handbag. Craaaackle. Crackle. CRACKLY-CRACKLY-CRACKLE-CRACK! I had to wonder---did she not know that we were sitting in a concert? And furthermore, that I was in the middle of figuring out my entire life?

It was the sound of stiff paper bags that I figured were holding individual Viennese pastries or brownies or other delicious sustenance. Now, I'm sympathetic to the spontaneous need for a snack, especially when it involves Viennese pastries, so I decided to forgive and forget.

But then.

Crackly crack crack crackle crackle CRACKLE crack cracklecracklecracklecrackle.

I looked over my shoulder again. I watched her remove a handful of little paper bags from her purse. And what she started pulling out from them was not an assortment of petit fours, or even a delicious frankfurter, but a bunch of cheap, wooden toys to play with and show off to her friend, crackly, crackly, crackling all the while. I was aghast, which is the Viennese translation of the American English word "pissed."

In the meantime, the brilliant cellist at the opposite end of the hall, played and played while tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow. And the handbag hedonist kept crackling her stupid paper bags. It was like dueling banjos, except for the lack of banjos.

I decided to pull out the Glare. Yeah, that's right, the Glare. Some of you probably didn't even know that I have a Glare, but that is because I use it with great discretion, only in moments of true need. (Because I am generally a non-confrontational pansy.) However, I summoned the Glare, affixed it to my face, and peered into the black soul of the woman with the cheap toys who was ruining the song, the concert, and also my entire life.

Crackly crack crack crackle crackle. Crackle CRACKLE crackly crackly crack.

Within twenty seconds, the Glare had done its work. She looked up, her eyes met mine, and she read my face. She looked down and within a quick crackle or two she was silent.

The Glare had done its work. I put it away as the cellist crescendoed into the final measures of the song. I tried to settle back into my Zen-like state. I tried to review all the beautiful truths I had discovered. I tried to remember all that I had moments before figured out.

But I couldn't. Everything was a tangle again. The song ended, the crowd erupted into applause, and the chandelier turned and swayed. My mind was still searching as one truth bobbed up to the surface, perfectly clear and brilliant. It was: This is what you get for buying the cheap seats.

I Interrupt This Blogging Slump...

...with happy photos. Many happy photos.

Like this one. This is Ollie and I'm in love with him. And don't accuse me of just falling for his looks; the boy has a great personality, too.

Here we are loaded in a minivan headed to New York City. That's James and DeDe along with my boys. James says it looks like I'm trying to show off my wedding ring in this picture.

We had an amazing few days together. We toured Washington DC, New York, as well as the mushroom capitol of the world. We spent most of our many hours of driving time playing "Hot Seat," asking each other deeply personal questions. 

Here's the boys club. Aren't they cute?

Let me now interrupt this blog post to point out a disturbing trend I've noticed. It seems that my last born offspring is slowly, inexplicably, morphing into Richard Nixon. What the?

If you have information regarding this problem, please let me know. I'm officially concerned.

Anyway, back to the trip. We had a great time and looked forward to it for so long, I'm completely sulky now that it's over.

It's impossible to tell but I promise it's true, minutes after this photo was taken, Ryan did an AMAZING toddler impression. It was an oscar-worthy performance. Even Ollie liked it.

Here's one last shot of me and my brother. I'd like you to know that I didn't pin him down, sit on him, or threaten to beat him up once during his visit. And likewise, he didn't call me a fat cow. We've really grown since we were nine and six.

It was so much fun being together. However, I've been thinking about it and I've determined that it was NOT long enough, and I demand a do-over!

Who's with me?

Hollywood Flashy Crap

I talked with Ryan via Skype yesterday. He was filling me in on all the Polish 411. The old town in Warsaw is amazing, he said. So far the food hasn't been spectacular, but the views, city, and people make up for it.

Later in the conversation, I asked him how people dress. I would like to blend in when I'm there and look less western, since the news channels can't shut up about the elevated terror threats in Europe directed at Americans.

"They dress pretty nice," he said, "but very toned down. Black, brown, gray. That stuff."

"Okay," I said, making mental wardrobe notes.

"I wouldn't wear all of your Hollywood flashy crap, like you're headed to a magazine shoot."

Ahem?

He said that for my safety, right?

Maybe Leroy at the post office was speaking for the Universe when he told me, "There's no need to vogue."

(My non-vogue passport photo.)

Abstract Thoughts at Almost Midnight

Here's the thing about me and Life.
I work really hard on my relationship with Life.
I pay attention to it,
Make it cookies with toasted coconut,
Listen to its self-centered stories,
Send it "just because" cards in the mail,
Invite it over for dinner.
OK, I admit it: I am sort of a suck-up to Life.
I totally dig Life.
Even though it mumbles sometimes and walks too fast.
(Wait up, Life! I got short legs!)
Every now and then I think I understand Life.
Life smiles at me and tells me a funny joke about mustard,
And for five minutes I'm blissful.
I'm like, Life and I are so tight. 
We totally get each other.
And then out of nowhere,
Life dumps its Diet Coke in my lap,
Grabs my ankles,
And drops me on my head.
And I'm like, Whoa! What just happened?
What the hell was that for?
Then Life just shrugs and walks away.
And I hold my head in my Diet Coke lap,
Wondering how many batches of cookies it will take
To get Life to like me again.

Dear Mom: The Morning Routine

I'm going to multi-task here. In an effort to both keep up with blogging and tell my mom everything she's going to need to know while I'm gone, I'm going to write her some letters here on the ol' blogaroo. And in the event that she gets lost here while trying to find the mailbox and can't fulfill her duties, all the information will be written out and one of you dear readers can fill in for her.

Dear Mom,

The first thing you should know is that there is something wrong with Christian. Like, seriously messed up. For reasons that can't be explained, the kid gets up every morning around 6:00, sometimes earlier, without the aid of any encouragement on my part. Sometimes he uses an alarm clock, sometimes he lets his circadian rhythm naturally launch him out of his bed and into the shower. After he showers, he gets ready, makes his bed, picks up his bathroom and bedroom, and then heads downstairs to spend some time on homework or catching up on ESPN or mastering another level on one of his video games. I'd like to say that I've influenced this bizarre, responsible behavior, but I think you probably still have vivid memories of my morning lethargy, not to mention the hazardous conditions of my bedroom.

You'll make him feel most at home if you, as I do, stumble out of bed around 6:50 or 7:00, wander downstairs with eyes half-closed, wish him good morning, and ask him if he'd like anything for breakfast. Most of the time he declines, but I make him a couple of pieces of toast (with peanut butter and honey) anyway and then spend the next ten minutes begging him to eat them. He heads out to catch the bus at 7:15, lugging his overstuffed backpack. Feel free to eat the rest of his uneaten toast.

I refer to the hour of 6:50 to 7:50 as the Honeymoon phase of the morning. It goes so swimmingly, so effortlessly, you might be lulled into thinking that cartoon bluebirds are going to swoop in and begin dressing you in handmade (wingmade?) clothes from the tablecloth.

This will not happen.

Max usually has to be nudged/threatened awake, sometime around 7:40. He'll want his fuzzy red robe to put on and you'll have to resist giggling at the way he looks like a little old man in it. You can ask him what he wants for breakfast, but I don't recommend it. He'll take a full 20 minutes to contemplate it, and you just don't have that kind of time. He likes toast or yogurt or a Toad in the Road.

Max should be dressed and fed and freshly tooth-brushed by about 8:15, give or take a few minutes. He needs his homework in his backpack, as well as a snack of the toasted goldfish cracker variety. You'll want to grab a jacket and head out the door with him to join our friendly neighbors at the bus stop/mailbox for a wonderful morning chat before the bus comes to pick the kids up.

At this point, you can walk down a couple of doors to Estelle's house to join her for a morning walk on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We used to walk every morning, but Estelle has recently ditched me on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays in favor or a senior citizens water aerobics class at the local gym. I'm not sure what that means on a personal level that someone would choose pool time with the seriously bathing-suit-challenged over a brisk walk with moi, but I plan to ponder it on my lengthy flight.

Back at the house, it's just you and the dog. You should make sure that she has food (one scoop per day) and water. Do not give in to the urge to feed her whatever the kids didn't eat for breakfast, no matter how forlornly she looks at you, wincing, and trying to pretend like she has a hard life. Her life consists of napping, snuggling, eating, more napping, and low-impact resting. We should all be so lucky. That's why we get to eat peanut butter and bacon and she doesn't. There has to be some balance in the world, for crying out loud.

Feel free to indulge yourself in reading or TV, but avoid the fourth hour of the Today Show at all costs. Kathie Lee is...scary. You can dabble in dish-doing if the mood strikes, but if I were you, I'd probably sprawl out on the couch and ponder life with a bag of potato chips.

This takes care of the morning. Any questions?

Didja hear the one about the lady who flew to Poland by herself?

That's right. I'm flying to Poland by myself. Ryan will already be in Poland, which will make him unavailable to fly with me. I'm not really worried about flying by myself. I've done it before. However, I do get occasional butterflies when I remember that I will have to switch planes in Paris and find baggage claim in Warsaw, when I speak neither French nor Polish. Oy vey! (I do speak a little yiddish. Will that do me any good?)

Ryan will already be in Warsaw, teaching a course at Warsaw University to Polish grad students with one of his colleagues. I will join him at the end of his teaching and then we're going to tour Warsaw, Vienna, and Prague. It's going to be an adventure, for sure, not to mention for my mom, too, who is flying out to stay with our kids when I leave. She assures me that she has no worries about managing the kids, but she is terrified of getting lost on the way to our mailbox. She comes from the land of wide, straight roads, and, well, we don't.

I've asked the neighbors to watch out for her, to offer directions and even escort her if necessary. The fact that there is a GPS in the car seems to bring her no comfort. The fact that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west provides no relief. The fact that I'm going to provide her with a list of addresses of any and every place she could possibly need or want to go offers her no solace. However, the bulk case of signal flares I ordered in the event of her getting lost is giving some peace of mind. I have also advised her to wear reflective neon clothing and to leave a small trail of breadcrumbs everywhere she goes.

I know it's not always wise to blog about upcoming travel. However, I am confident that I have taken all necessary security precautions. The house will be protected by our alarm company, our terrifying guard dog, and our short-tempered Samoan bodyguard, Mewannacutchoo.

Everything's going to be fine.

Dear Blog, It's not you. It's me.

Not sure why the words aren't coming so easily these days. Well, actually, that's not true. I'm pretty sure I know exactly why. My mind and heart have been caught up in some matters that aren't blogable and I've never been very good at blogging-as-usual when my heart and mind are elsewhere. It turns out that my mind and heart are key players in this writing thingie I do. (I shouldn't have typed that out; they're going to come begging for a raise.)

Anyhoodle, I'm going to try harder to get both of them on board to keep up here. Because I miss this. I miss you. 

In other news, did I tell you that I'm headed out of town next month? In fact, I'm headed out of state, country, time zone, and foods I'm familiar with. I'm going to cross an ocean, people. And--get this--I'm flying alone. Eeek!

But all of that is a story for another day. It's late now and I'm going to retire. But I promise I'll be back. You'll be here, won't you?

Ten Thoughts for a Tuesday and an Unrelated Photo

1. Bad economy! Go to your room!
2. I am in a funk. Funny how being in a funk does not make me feel funky. 
3. J.D. and D.D. arrive in eight days. That makes me feel funky.
4. The forecast has been spectacular.
5. I like doing laundry, which I realize means something is wrong with me.
6. If a genie granted me three wishes, one of them would be to have a British accent. (I cannot reveal the other two because they would blow your freaking mind.)
7. I found some amazing knives the other day at TJ Maxx, and cut my finger within 12 hours of the purchase. I am not used to amazing knives.
8. I keep ordering weird, unknown movies on Netflix, expecting to be delighted. Turns out, some weird, unknown movies are unknown for a reason.
9. The other day we saw a Chevy Citation on the road. I used to drive one. It was blue.
10. I love my sisters. I love other people too, of course, but I'm dedicating this thought to the two of them.

Christian just got home from school. I forced him to take a picture with me.

A Ringing Endorsement

These are my friends Annie and Dan.

They are ready to be parents.

Guess what kind of parents they will be?

The best kind.

The kind that will read story books every night before bed.

The kind that will keep track of teeth brushing, fingernail clipping, and vegetable intake.

The kind that will say no when you should say no, and yes when you should say yes.

The kind that will surround their kids with loving cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

The kind that will make sure their kids never stay up or out too late (unless there's a really good reason).

The kind that will make birthdays and holidays and even normal days special.

The kind that will check for monsters under the bed and witches in the closet every night, if needed.

The kind that will wipe noses, clean up puke, and pull all-nighters when the occasion calls.

The kind that will give their kids tedious chores that they won't appreciate until adulthood.

The kind that will continue to buy Legos even after they step on a few strays 

left in the middle of the floor.

The kind that will gladly attend parent teacher conference and back to school night
and PTA meeting and soccer practice and piano recitals and fund raiser meetings 

and even a few blood-curdling tween concerts.

The kind that will be good examples of hard work and a strong marriage.

The kind that will answer all the tough questions as best they can, 

and admit when they don't know any more.

The kind that will smile and laugh at lame-o first grade jokes.

The kind that will give pep talks, hugs, and unsolicited advice,
no matter how many times the eyes roll.

The kind that any kid would be exceptionally lucky to have.

The kind our world needs more of.

Annie and Dan are adoptive parents, waiting for a miracle. 

I am their friend who is happy to share their story.

You  know, because.

Because maybe you know someone.

Or maybe you know of someone.

Or maybe you will know someone.

Someone who isn't able to care for a child.

Someone who is looking for a solution to a heart-wrenching problem.

And maybe you will think, Hey! I think I know who could help.

And maybe you will remember Annie and Dan.

They even have a website with more of their information.

Check it out.

Spread the word, if you like.

Hug your kids.

And keep my friends in the back of your mind.

This Story Is Way Shorter Than It Looks

I'm suffering from a chronic case of writer's block
I think I need a strong antibiotic
And perhaps some sort of -ectomy
I've sat down to write many, many times
Then frozen completely
Several hours later when I finally thaw
I can't write
Because at that point I need a snack
Because I'm hypoglycemic
Speaking of hypoglycemia
Most people roll their eyes at the hypoglycemic population
(I'm looking at you, Ryan)
But that's just because they are jealous
That those of us who are hypoglycemic
Have to eat at regular intervals
Or else we get really mean
And lightheaded
And headache-y
And petty
And sometimes dead
I cannot be held accountable for things I say or do
When my blood sugar is low
I have a note from the doctor
No I don't
I just fibbed there
But you can't blame me
Because I haven't eaten for three and a half hours
Let's switch gears now
A funny thing happened today
Ryan's been waiting for some test results in the mail
Not results for blood sugar levels
Results from the licensing exam
He studied all summer long for that damned exam
It was one of the black rainclouds that hung over our summer
(There were others, too)
He took the exam at the end of the summer
And had to get a 70 percent to pass
It's a ridiculously difficult test
Most of which has nothing to do with his work at all
But a man's got to do what a man's got to do
And my man had to study for and pass this test
He found out last week that he passed
(Holy Mother of Yahooeeee!)
But he didn't know his score
Until today
I got the mail and texted him that it arrived
I asked him if he wanted me to open it
He didn't reply right away
So I was forced to open it
(My blood sugar was low at the time)
I saw his score and was confused
It said 720
I thought maybe a decimal was missing
Like, it was supposed to be 72.0
And I thought to myself
Wow, he barely passed
That's going to bother him
He's going to ruminate about this for months
When he finally texted me back
(After I'd had a cookie to prevent death)
I asked him if he wanted to know his score
He said yes
I told him that he got a 72
Or at least what I figured was a 72
I told him the decimal was missing
It just said 720
But it was supposed to be 72.0
Because I had it all figured out, of course
He called me at that point
He was laughing
He said 720 is the scaled score
Which made sense, now that he mentioned it
Since it said "Scaled Score: 720" on the paper
I asked him what that meant, then
What's your score? I said
He said, Well, 500 is 70 percent
Oh
Which means 720 is way more than 70 percent
Right-o
Even more than 72.0 percent
You betcha
Like ninety-something percent
Yowza
He's not exactly sure how many percent
Because as it turns out
That is a really tough math problem to figure out
And this wasn't a math exam
It was a licensing exam
Which he passed, by the way
With a buttload of flying colors
And I couldn't figure out what percentage it was either
Because I'm hypoglycemic

The Very Complex Creative Process

• Stage 1: A good idea is born. No, make that a great idea.
• Stage 2: Your soul is filled with purpose, your veins with adrenaline. You're the king of the world! No, better than that--you're an artist!
• Stage 3: You compose the entire piece in your head and...it's brilliant.
• Stage 4: Pen (or computer, or paintbrush, or guitar) in hand, you begin the real work, the nuts and bolts of putting your brilliant idea into a tangible form!
• Stage 5: You stop for a snack.
• Stage 6: You check out what's on TV.
• Stage 7: You get back to work and redo the entire beginning.
• Stage 8: You stop for another snack.
• Stage 9: Potty break.
• Stage 10: You get back to work and erase at least one-third of what you've done.
• Stage 11: Panic.
• Stage 12: Confusion.
• Stage 13: Blank staring.
• Stage 14: You force yourself back to work and squeeze out a painful sentence/line/stroke/chord.
• Stage 15: You stop fooling yourself and admit--out loud--that you are an idiot.
• Stage 16: You wallow in the miserable realization that you will never, ever, ever have a good idea again in your life.
• Stage 17: You imagine yourself as an old, toothless homeless person talking to anyone who will listen about all the brilliant ideas that escaped you.
• Stage 18: Massive chocolate and/or potato chip intake.
• Stage 19: You give yourself a half-hearted pep talk and decide to try again.
• Stage 20: Before trying again, you wander every room in the house and lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling.
• Stage 21: You re-read The Little Engine That Could.
• Stage 22: You weep uncontrollably.
• Stage 23: You force yourself back to your work.
• Stage 24: You're really serious. No more playing around. You're going to soldier on. You're ready to get back on the creative horse, no matter how many times it bucks you off.
• Stage 25: You get back to work...right after you take a very important self-portrait.