On Monday morning of Memorial Day weekend I woke up feeling great. Which means that either I have the stamina of a twenty year old… or I was still drunk. I’m sticking with the former (although I fear it was the latter).
Yes, it was yet another weekend in New York. We hadn’t been in a while, so we took the train down for the weekend. As we walked off the train, Adam was walking with Pie, and I had Doodles. A guy cut between us, and practically ran the boy over. “You okay?” I asked the boy. He nodded and I said, “What an a**hole.” The boy’s eyes opened wide as I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “This is New York City. You’re allowed to curse.”
“I can curse?” he asked with wonder.
“Yep,” I said.
“F*ck yes!” he said. That boy is a Brown through and through.
Adam was just as happy. Not about the cursing. He’s allowed to curse even in Boston. But the first night we met the Tweedle Twirp for dinner at Craftwork. I had mussels. Tweeds had ravioli. And Adam had the special, Pork for Two. For one. Two racks of pork. Pork belly. Pork head. Just for him. He started out happy, but ended up crying uncle and taking a bunch of it home. Adam clearly isn’t as tough as those of us with Brown blood.
The weekend was full of fun: The boy, my dad, Tweeds, and I hit Liberty Island and Ellis Island, while the girl, my mom, and Adam went to the Cindy Sherman show at MOMA (“One room was scary,” the girl told me, “so Nana covered my eyes so we could just walk through it.” I saw the show on Monday. “Scary” isn’t the word I’d use. More like “traumatizing.”)
We hit candy stores: Dylan’s Candy Bar for the girl; Economy Candy for the boy. I love Economy Candy. It’s totally old school, and any candy you remember from your childhood, they have. 
I was looking for a big bag of gummy bears, but they only had them in single colors. In 5 pound bags. I came very close to buying 40 pounds of gummies. I did learn that even I have my limits on gummies and there are some gummies that I refuse to buy. This one in particular:
After the sugar high, we switched children, and Pie, Tweeds, and I went for our regular NYC mani/pedi.
On Sunday, I had brunch with a friend from college, and now I’m plotting how to get to the Galapagos Island with the family to hang out with her (she’ll be moving there soon). Then Adam, my mom, and I took the kids to their first Broadway show, Newsies, and even waited for autographs at the end.
After the show, we hit but Strand. But for the first time ever, I messed up at the Strand. Normally I go through the New York Times Book Review for my shopping list, but this time I did some web searches and looked through some magazines and I made a list I was quite excited about (in particular, I’m eager for The Receptionist: An Education at The New Yorker by Janet Groth)… only to discover that the books I had selected aren’t released until the summer. Time was limited, the kids were antsy, and I didn’t have time to aimlessly wander aisles picking books at leisure. So while the kids stocked up, I actually walked out empty handed. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. Proof that the impossible is possible in New York.
That night, Adam ended up hanging at my parents’ apartment with the boy, who had a bad headache, while the rest of us went out for a family dinner. We got home at about 8, and I decided I was just too exhausted to go out. But I felt bad that Adam didn’t get to go out, so I said I’d rally for just one drink with him and the Tweedle Twins. Five hours later, we were walking home, my feet were hurting, so I just went barefoot up Avenue A, and stumbled back home to bed. We hit a bar on Avenue C that advertised on its sign “no phone” (too cool to chat with you, I suppose), then we made our way to Death and Co., where the entire time, I wanted to tell the woman at the table next to us that she could do way better than the guy she was on a date with. Of course the drinks were so tasty (and it didn’t hurt that it was my fifth drink of the night) that it probably added to the urgency of the situation, but I managed to keep my thoughts to myself. Back outside, I mentioned to the door person that the woman at the next table was on a date with a guy who clearly was gay, and she said, “Yeah, we get that a lot.” I’m generally happy with my suburban life, but watching that poor girl on that awkward date makes me so incredibly happy I’m no longer in my twenties.
Despite the late hour and the drinks, I was still up bright and early for a walk on the High Line with my family, brunch at Pastis, and a trip to MOMA, where I saw the aforementioned Cindy Sherman show and the others went to the Materials Lab.
And then, sadly, it was time to go. I hate leaving NYC. But we made it home and we dove back in. To Colonial Day. To Daisies bridging to Brownies. To baseball, soccer, track, piano, and drums. It’s been a week. And I’m ready to go back to New York.
Fuck yeah!