the pieces of my life

(photo from Miami Herald)

The only bad thing about going to Miami in January is coming home. Nothing like leaving 75 degrees for single digits.

While I did miss my family while I was gone, I discovered this amazing thing: sleep! Friday night I slept so soundly, with no elbows, knees, and feet in my sides. No requests for waters. No bad dreams. No snoring husbands. Just me and my bed. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Friday night went so well, on Saturday I treated myself to a nap. And then, while I had trouble falling asleep on Saturday night (“I need to be awake in six and a half hours! I need to be awake in six hours! I need to be awake…”), once I was out, I was completely out. This is the first marathon where I didn’t wake up every fifteen minutes thinking, “Is the alarm about to go off? I don’t want to wake everyone else up,” because this was the first of five marathons when I didn’t have three others in my bed. I could just sleep and not worry and let the alarm wake me up.

Don’t get the wrong idea. I did do a few other things than sleep, but not much. A friend came down with me, and we went out for a nice breakfast at Front Porch with Teener Tuna and her man. I spent a while at the marathon expo, collecting shwag and buying an awesome running jacket. Dinner at cousin Ollie’s, massive amounts of pasta, birthday cake for his 41st birthday, and a little hot tub action, hanging out outside in his new tub, which overlooks Biscayne Bay with amazing views of Downtown Miami. Lunch at Versailles on Sunday was incredible, despite the tiff my mother got into with the counter person when she refused to serve my very blond friend because she wasn’t Cuban (she was served). And, of course, I ran 26.2 miles.

My cousin Ollie, his sister’s husband (A), his brother (R), my friend (S), and I all ambled to downtown at 5 a.m. on Sunday. Found a parking spot easily enough and headed to the American Airlines Arena for the start. It was so clear who was a local and who wasn’t: I had on my shorts and a tank top; Ollie peeled off his long pants, but kept on his long-sleeved black Under Armor shirt. But could you blame him? I mean, it was 61 degrees at the start! Brrr!

Ollie and I kept ourselves busy with the Portapotty line, and the next thing I know, the start went off right on time at 6:15 a.m. We were way in the back, so it took us about 11 minutes to cross the start line. But boy, did those miles just melt away. The race starts going across the MacArthur Causeway, and it is the most amazing start to any race I’ve ever run. As we headed up the causeway, the Blues Brother’s “Going Back to Miami” blasted, which quickly segued in the theme from Love Boat as we passed the cruise ships all lit up, which moved into Madonna songs as we passed Millionaire’s Row. The sky was still dark with twinges of pink in the distance; the new Miami Beach fire boat tooted at us from the Bay; the billionaires on Fisher Island were forced to wait for us to pass. A beautiful site indeed.

Running along the Beach is always amazing–up Ocean Drive where Stoney and Claudia gave us the first of many shout outs (thanks, guys!!); past my high school, Beach High, which bears absolutely no resemblance to the school I went to with it’s beautiful new buildings and a law-abiding administration; past the old Publix of my youth as opposed to the new shippish Publix (that was for you, Ms. O and Teener!); down the Venetian Causeway, where my parents live and where I grew up (not the same places, by the way–and what’s up with my good old Dilido Island–known in the day as Dildo Island–becoming Di Lido Island, as if it were suddenly better than us?; Those were the days when the S in San Marino Island was usually spray painted over with a D). We saw my parents and friends and I swear, the first ten miles were the shortest miles I’ve ever run. Oliver and I agreed that instead of running a marathon, we were going to just do a warm-up run of about, oh, 13.1 miles to the starting line for a half marathon.

The bands were great, the scenery was beautiful, and I had the same urge I had last time at mile 12.8: I wish I had a camera. Two arches awaited us, the one of the left read “Half-Marathon” and the one on the right, “Marathon.” As I said to Oliver, “This is where we split the wheat from the chaff.” Okay, that’s not exactly what I said. Because I didn’t know it was “chaff.” So I said, “The wheat from the chafe.” Which was kind of right, as by then, the Body Glide had sweat right off my body.

Moving on! The road suddenly got reaaaal quiet and I felt some serious superior feelings over those folks who were running only 13.1 miles. Because in the sold-out marathon of 15,000 people, only 3,000 folk chose to do the full marathon. But Oliver and I had our own cheerleading squad and A.’s wife and R.’s wife came out twice (with signs! I love signs), Oliver’s family was out at least four times, Teener Tuna and Claudia and Stoney were out many times, and we cruised.

At mile 16, I was giving Oliver the standard pep spiel, which he was rapidly getting sick of, when a woman, Heather, nearby overheard me saying, “We’re right on pace. You’re doing great. Just stay on pace. We’ll get in easily under five. Remember, one foot in front of the other. Slow and steady finish the race,” and she asked if she could join us because she wanted to finish in under five hours and her running partner injured herself the week before, which was pretty much the death knell for Oliver. Because as much as I could tell Oliver just wanted me to shut up, she asked me to keep the talk going. Let’s think about this: One person wants me quiet; one wants me to chatter on. Which do you think I did? Oliver actually started hanging back so he wouldn’t have to hear me, but Heather was just a glutton for punishment. At one point her knee was bothering her, so I gave her the standard, “You know, you really have to pay attention to your body, and if you need to walk, then do it,” but she gave me a look, so I asked, “Or did you want me to just tell you to suck it up?” She said, “I want to hear ‘Suck it up!'” Which pretty much replaced “slow and steady” as our mantra for the rest of the race.

The only brutal part of the race was a couple of miles in the hot, hot (okay, about 74 degree) sun on the Rickenbacker Causeway. As we looped back to Brickell, we knew we were in the home stretch, and I have to say, I didn’t think the race got hard till about mile 23. That’s when my leg started spasming. But I ignored it, and we kept going. I warned everyone that the last mile is the longest, and it absolutely was. At mile 25, Oliver said to me, “Is this where we can pick it up?” and I thought, “Dear God, I’ve got nothing in my to pick up!” but I said, “Sure! This is absolutely the time,” but I was greatly relieved when he started laughing and said, “This is my pick up!”

C
oming down the home stretch was amazing. At 26 miles, Heather went for the last .2 on her own. Ollie and I had enough oomph to give it a good sprint. As we were coming down, in the next chute, were all a zillion (okay, 4,000) young kids in orange shirts who were running the last mile of their “Run for Something Better,” in which they ran 26 miles over the course of several weeks. We crossed the finish line–beating our goal, with a clock time of 4:58:18 and a chip time of 4:47:24 (I was a second behind Oliver)–and while the bodies were bruised, we both (I think) felt strong. We collected our spinning palm tree medals, and then I nearly passed out. I stretched for a while on the grass and let S. (who qualified for Boston, beating her old PR by over ten minutes!) bring me bananas and cookies while I let the blood flow back to my head.

We found A. and R., who did amazingly for their first marathons, especially given that A. hobbled the last two miles with an aching knee. I will say, if anyone is considering a marathon, I think the Miami Marathon is a fabulous, fabulous race. It’s flat. The scenery is the best. There are more Portapotties on this course than even New York (laugh if you like, but this is an important fact!). The support is amazing. Multiple gel stations. Multiple Fig Newton and banana stations. Pretzel station. Parrot Heads giving out orange leis. Sponges. School bands and cheerleaders. Rock bands. Music blasting. Did I mention the scenery? Go sign up now. You can run for half price in you register now.

And now I’m back. And the prediction for Wednesday is 3 to 6 inches of snow. And my quads ache. And I have to pick paint colors.

Better start training for the next marathon. Hawaii anyone?

Here we are, sitting at Miami International Airport, waiting for our 9:45 p.m. flight that has so far been delayed to 10:15. The kids are exhausted. In an attempt to keep them awake, I made the smart and rational decision to pump them full of sugar in hopes of keeping them awake until we board the plane, because Pie already fell asleep once on the way to the airport and then again when sitting on Adam’s lap at the gate. I went in search of cash, but the ATM was out of money, I tried to buy a trashy magazine, but there were no People magazines in English, and I’m really not excited about going from mid 70s weather to sub-freezing temps. Call me crazy like that. Of course, once we get to Logan, we still need to get a shuttle to our off-site parking, drive home, and somehow transfer the kids upstairs to bed.

Our trips to Miami have a certain rhythm to them, a checklist of activities to be ticked off. Trip to Jungle Island and/or the Seaquarium? Check. Ice cream at the Frieze? Check, check, check. Stone crabs? Check. Spa day at the Standard? Check. New Year’s eve at my cousins’? Check. New Year’s day ride on my cousin’s boat? Check. Runs on the beach? Check. Pool time, alone time (as the kids stay with the Nana), lunch at Van Dyke, breakfast at Front Porch, cafe con leche, cafe con leche, and just to be safe, another cafe con leche. Check.

This trip was no exception. T Rex and Pad were in town (from California) as usual and they picked up with Doodles and Pie as if it had been last week that they’d seen each other, and not last year. There were a few tussles between Doodles and T Rex–Doodles has this annoying HBS habit of stating–with ABSOLUTE certainty–“facts” that are completely wrong, which upset T Rex to no end. But it all worked out well, and this year, Teener Tuna’s daughter, Billie (remind me why I call her that?), was old enough to peak Pie’s interest. Billie, however, had no interest in my daughter, but that didn’t stop Pie from chasing her, saying, “Billie! Do you want to play baby? Do you want to run? Do you want to dance?” Billie barely had the time to answer the girl.

I guess I’ll have to finish this post later, as my daughter is moaning that she wants to go to sleep (so much good the M&Ms; did) and she wants to sleep on me. So I’m off in that other parental role–mattress–and I’ll be writing you again from Boston… I hope.

I ask this every year, and here I am asking it again. Last night, coming home from a grown-up’s evening out, I was exhausted. And what walking down Lincoln Road after midnight, there are tons of little kids out. Who are these kids and why are they out partying at these ungodly hours!

We’ve made our annual family pilgrimage to the homeland. Florida. I look forward to this trip all year. I come to Miami Beach for my parents, for my friends, for our annual New Year’s eve party at my cousins’ house. I come because my kids love swimming in the pool and hanging out with their California friends who come to visit (T Rex and Pad). I come because Nana paints Pie’s toenails and builds the kids forts. I come for the spa day at the Standard and the stone crabs and ice cream from the Frieze. I come for the sushi boat from Maiko. I come because my kids love Jungle Island and the Seaquarium and being able to run around naked without freezing their tushes off. I come because it’s home.

And Adam? Adam comes to Miami Beach for the cafe con leches. Not just any cafe con leche, but David’s cafe con leche. And that’s pretty much it. No, really. You think I’m exaggerating? The man is a caffeine addict. And his poison of choice is the cafe con leche. He dreams of the cafe con leche during the long Boston winters. He longs for it on the rare occasions he’s forced to resort to Dunkin Donuts coffee. Cafe con leche is his reason for flying 1500 miles, for putting up with Miami allergies and for putting up with the demand for “just five more minutes in the pool, Daddy!”

So you can imagine his absolute utter and total anguish when we passed David’s on Christmas Day and he saw a sign in the window that said the restaurant was closed until January 5. The moaning! The complaints! The frantic search for comparable (no such thing!) cafe con leche! He said the trip was ruined. He thought my father had let him down by not letting him know about this. He felt betrayed by David’s. Adam saw ten days stretched in front of him with no cafe con leches, no Cuban toast, no perico eggs.

Needless to say, as he discovered this morning, it turns out that my “always certain, often wrong” husband, merely can’t read Spanish. Because the cafe is open, alive, and kicking. It’s just the buffet that’s been closed. A buffet none of us have ever eating at. I figure he’s gotten his divine retribution in the form of three cafe con lecheless days.

Other than the near-miss David’s disaster, it’s been a successful trip so far, except for one aborted run for me. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever stopped a run in the middle, but I wisely decided that I had the choice of finishing my run or finishing my trip, and I opted for the trip. Every year on 12/24, our synagogue hosts a blood drive. I was determined to donate blood this year. I wasn’t going to forget. Absolutely not. And of course I forgot. So I was happy to see on Friday a bloodmobile at the end of Lincoln Road. I popped in, donated blood, and walked back to the apartment.

The next morning I suited up for my 14 miler. Fuel belt. Check. iPod. Check. Cash for coffee after. Check. However, a couple of miles in–halfway across the MacArthur causeway–I realized all was not right with the world. I’d pretty much finished my Gatorade and I was sweating bullets and it wasn’t till that moment that I realized running–especially in Miami heat–when my blood levels were literally low was probably not the brightest thing I ever did. I managed to make my way back to the apartment, completing 7 miles running and a whole bunch walking.

But even with a dehydration headache, I managed brunch at Van Dyke’s, Starbucks (because, you know, David’s is closed, or so I hear), and Lincoln Road playtime. And of course the night out with grown-ups (seriously! Who are those kids?). Dinner at Maiko. Sushi boat! A bellinitini at the rooftop lounge at the Tiffany hotel, with glowing ice cubes. Ice cream on the walk home. Babysitters that didn’t charge $15 an hour. Playtime outside in mid-70 degree weather. Brunch with friends we haven’t seen in ages.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow is nirvana. Tomorrow is spa day with the girls! Our house with no walls is a distant memory. Our tiny cramped bologna-smelling apartment is in another lifetime. Rain and sleet and snow don’t exist.

Welcome to Miami. Now pass the martinis.

Did you guys know that there’s a show called Paris Hilton: My New BFF, and I haven’t been watching it! What has my life turned into?

But that’s not what I came here for. This past weekend I headed down to Miami for a weekend without my children. It was a novel event. Although, little do they know, it’s the start of a trend because I also have a trip without them planned for both December and January. This weekend, in theory, was for a serious family event, however, if you know my family, it was pretty much anything but.

For starters, that lovely photo above was taken off my cousin’s boat. It’s a gorgeous view isn’t it? The weekend was unexpected. I arrived a little late on Friday to a house full of people at my parents’ place. I stayed up too late talking to my parents and then, all because of a five minute nap on the plane, I couldn’t sleep (um, remind you of a daughter of mine?). Which would have been fine except my eight-month-old cousin woke me up in the pre-7 a.m. hour the next morning. Now, don’t get me wrong. This cousin is incredibly cute, very well behaved, and exceedingly quiet for a baby. But you know how it is. Once you have a kid, you’re programmed. The slightest baby noise and you’re up, calling, “What! What! Bottle? Diaper? Potty? Bad dream? What??” And then you’re up. I swear, I felt bad for my other cousin, the eight-month-old’s mother, because I’ve somehow reverted to single gal in babyhood terms. I took the baby, and pretty much felt like I was holding her at arm’s length, like, “Cute baby. What do I do with you again?” Those early years have been erased from my mind. I seriously didn’t know what to do! Yes, my child-bearing years are done. The family is complete. Done. Finis.

Saturday though was a whirlwind. My favorite cafe con leches and Cuban toast. A pedicure. A ride on the Triple Play (and here comes the inevitalbe shout out to B., her freakishly smart daughter, H., and her always charming mother, C. Hi guys! It was fun!).

The next night I was up way too late because I spent the night at my cousin’s house and he’s building a new house around the corner, and of course I needed a tour. And then we got up at 4:50 the next morning to run a half marathon. (My cousin is running his first marathon with me in January. I called him and said, “We should do a long run while I’m home.” He said, “I can’t, I’m doing a half.” So I signed on! He did amazing for a first half. Really pushed himself. Wait till he sees what I make him do at the marathon!) Family function. Family drama. Trip to the airport. Make my way home to my claustrophobic little apartment.

And what did I come home to? I came home to kids who were clearly happy to see me (or perhaps it was the Epicure cookies I brought home for them). But the euphoria was short–very short–lived. I stayed up waaaay too late in order to spend time with Adam–I got back to the apartment at 10 p.m. and he had to leave at 6 a.m. for an almost-week-long trip to L.A. and there was oh-so-much to catch him up on. So I’m exhausted but at 5:42 a.m. I hear, “Mommy, you’re back! How was your trip? I got a flashlight. Daddy, Doodles, and I walked to Trader Joe’s and I got to use my flashlight. It’s green. That’s your favorite color! I want breakfast. Where’s Daddy? Is he at the gym or is he on his trip? The clock? It says thirteen hundred o’clock. Did you bring me something? I went to a movie, and I got glasses! The astronaut scared me but I laughed when he broke the glass and…”

I get the kids up and fed and clothed with little trouble. Pie is definitely in a volatile stage–so much so that after nearly a year, she’s sent me back to the parenting books–and I made it to Doodles’s school on time. Pie and I went back to check on the house. Progress is amazing. Shingles going up on the family room roof, electricians doing their thang, things are just falling into place. Only Pie tells me she has to go to the bathroom. I run her to her preschool, and magically, she no longer has to go. Hmmm. She didn’t go all morning. Of course, she doesn’t want to enter her preschool, so I end up slinging her under my arm, a la a football hold, and carry her in screaming. But I make it out with nary a scratch.

I head home to do a little Nano-ing. A note on the Nano. As you can see by my word count, I’m woefully behind. But I’m psyched to say that I’m making steady progress on my novel (doing editing as I go, which is verboten in Nano world), and I’m feeling good about it. So no, I won’t hit 50,000 words, but I just might finish this damn thing! Anyway, a smidgen of Nano and then off to volunteer at Doodles’s school. I started out in the cafeteria at kindergarten lunch. Um, do you guys remember your kindergarten lunch? As far as I remember, it was sink or swim. Not anymore. For starters, kindergarten, first, and second graders are not allowed (plastic) knives. Today was pancake day. So my job was to go around and cut pancakes for kids. Seriously! I also opened milks, peeled clementines, and told kids to get their butts back into their seats. I also spent five minutes consoling my son when it was time for me to leave. He was happy to see that I was there, and pretty much ignored me. But toward the end, he got the rubby eyes and the teary frowns and then the clinging for dear life to my arm. Eventually the teacher’s aide was able to release me, but it’s a terrible way to leave your child. Thank goodness I had to pass by the room later, and I saw him very happily building a habitat out of blocks with friends. Otherwise, the guilt would have stayed with me all day.

And then I went to pick up Pie. Pie Pie. Potty-trained Pie. Potty-trained Pie who was wearing the school’s pants because she had not one, but two pee accidents at school today. And did she care? No. She was just happy because Jasmine’s mom told her she could wear Jasmine’s sandals (someone was shoeless because she peed all over her shoes) so we didn’t have to go straight home after school. Oy.

So now, I should be sleeping. I should crawl into bed because tomorrow is all Pie all the time and I know she’ll be up at 5:42 a.m., I’m instead telling you about my life. Actually, I’m not crawling into bed because of the five (yes five) cups of coffee I had today. But let’s pretend it’s because of you. Somehow that just makes it all a little better.

Yesterday, it was sunny and in the upper ’70s and we had a lovely ride on my cousin’s boat, the Triple Play, with the usual Miami crew, Cap’t Stoney and Claudia; Oliver, Jennifer, and kids; Rachel and Bill with T. Rex and Pad; Teener Tuna with her daughter Billie (which I think is a much better name than Elfin Girl); my aunt and her husband; and my other cousin, Shannon, and her clan. We drank, we ate, we floated and swam in the Intracoastal. The night before my cousins (Oliver and Jennifer) threw their annual New Year’s party, and it was spectacular.

In addition, while in Miami Beach, we: went to the Seaquarium (where Pie got splashed in the dolphin show and had a complete meltdown), played at the Children’s Museum and the Museum of Discovery and Science (where Doodles and T. Rex ran wild and Pie and Pad eyed each other suspiciously), visited Jungle Island (where Pie insisted when we went to the reptile show, “No get splashed!”), had spa days at the Standard (yes, “we”–Adam had a “girl date” with Oliver over the weekend; note: Adam objects to the term “girl date.” Let me rephrase it: Adam and my cousin had massages, sat in a steam bath and sauna, and lounged around a pool wearing robes. What would you call it?), watched the King Mango Strut (where, thankfully, Doodles didn’t ask what “Bushes Against Bush” really meant), had multiple cafe con leches at David’s and ice creams at the Frieze, played in the sand at the beach, swam pretty much daily in my parents’ pool, had multiple meals out, and walked to Lincoln Road Mall, well sometimes twice a day. Adam and I got some grown-up time out. The kids got lots of grandparent time.

And now? Now it’s time to return to weather forecasts of “high of 17” and to wonder just how much we’ll have to shovel out to get the car back in the driveway. Now it’s time to insist our children start wearing clothes again. Now it’s time to stop having that nightly glass of bourbon (Adam) and cognac (me). Now it’s time to stop daydreaming about those houses we saw for sale…

In a matter of hours, Miami Beach is going to be a distant memory again. Sigh. Happy freakin’ new year. Now go dig out the snow shovel.

I enjoy cooking. It’s something I find relaxing and, well, I love to eat a good meal, so cooking is the right task for me. I especially love cooking when there are other folks around to keep Pie off my legs while I’m doing things involving a hot stove or oven, so you’d think a trip to my parents would create the ideal cooking situation. After all, my parents liking cooking? Not so much. Liking eating? Yep! Who doesn’t?

Every time I come home though, I’m reminded why I learned to cook in the first place: self-defense. It’s not that my parents are bad cooks–when they actually deign to do any cooking, the food is quite delicious. My mom’s beef kabobs are the best I’ve ever had and I still use her spaghetti sauce recipe from my childhood. However, they prefer not to cook and so over the years, as they’ve grown their reliance on Epicure and Citarella and as they have spread their lives over a Miami apartment and a New York apartment, they’ve divested themselves of many of their cooking implements. Need to mix something? Better have strong arms because the electric mixer mixed itself out of here years ago. Want a good bowl to mix in? As they’ve broken over the years, they haven’t been replaced. It’s a regular hodgepodge. Remember those expired medicines I just posted about? It’s even worse in the kitchen. A few visits ago I insisted the baking powder be replaced as the one they had expired over two decades ago.

So, this past weekend, tired of eggs, I decided I’d make everyone pancakes. I follow Mark Bittman’s recipe, as it’s nice and easy and reliably good and I can tweak it enough as I’m cooking to make it my own. The ingredients are fairly simple, right?
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¼ teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar, optional
2 eggs
1½ to 2 cups milk
2 tablespoons melted and cooled butter (optional)

Flour, right? Who doesn’t keep flour in the house. I asked Adam to check for flour as my dad was making a shopping list. “There’s flour in here!” Adam called back.

Lesson: Never trust a husband to do a thinking person’s job. Because the inch of flour in the container was nowhere near enough for one simple bowl of pancake mix.

I saw the egg carton. I know there are eggs. But how many eggs? My fault. Didn’t think to open the egg carton and actually look. Because that one poor lone egg really wasn’t going to do me a lot of good.

And then there’s the butter challenge. Find butter. I know it’s in here. But I can’t find it behind all the “smart blend” for butter. My mom is a big fan of the fake stuff. Then there’s the sugar vs. Splenda thing…

Eventually, the pancakes got made. And they were fine. But, oy vey, next time I’ll just go to Epicure for breakfast.

Coming back to Miami Beach is something of a time warp. Oh, I don’t mean running into old friends or visiting old haunts or anything like that. I mean my parents’ apartment.

You know how there’s that moment when you realize that your parents are verging on the edge of doddering? The thing is, my parents are quite young, relatively speaking. They lead this very hip life. My mom is an artist who teaches art at a well-known Florida art school/college. She’s relatively hip and up-to-date. To be honest, I’m frightened by the presets on her car radio (NPR, I expect; the hardcore hip hop was a bit of a shocker). My dad may be retired, but he works as much almost as much as he used to, plays tennis as often as he can, and is a regular at his New York gym.

Which is why I find it so odd that they’re have these–well–old people quirks. It started with Listermint. Adam came out of the guest bathroom and said, “Do you know you have a Listermint that expired in August of 1991?”
My dad: So?
Adam: That’s a little old.
My mom: 1991? That means it was expired when we lived in the old house, and yet we still packed it and moved it into the condo.
My dad: I’m sure it’s still fine.
I moved the Listermint out of the bathroom and onto the shelf of his study as I figured it qualified more as a period piece than toiletry item.

I opened up the medicine cabinet and found more.
Me: There’s a Kaopectate in here with a pull date of 2003. I’m tossing it.
My dad: Don’t you toss that! 2003 is practically new!
Me: But if you get sick, it’s expired!
My dad: I’d rather have that than nothing. Look, you can throw out anything you want with a pull-date before 2000. Don’t throw out anything with a pull date post-2000.
For the record, following this rule, I was still able to throw out a considerable amount of medicine.

But it’s not just the medicine. Adam found four packets of tuna in the cabinet with a pull-date of 2006. I don’t care about any kind of “2000 rule,” they’re gone.

And then there’s the bathroom reading. Currently, in the bathroom, are the following: If you’d like some current events, there’s a Smithsonian magazine from March 2004. Other than that, there’s an edition of Civilization magazine with a headline that screams, “How Not to Starve in 1999!” There’s the book Top 10 of Everything 2002. And a cartoon issue of the New Yorker from December 7 and 14, 1998. One book was in the bathroom for years and I did enjoy reading it, but it’s since migrated to my father’s bathroom. It is a book that highlights all of the idiocies the president has said and done. It’s quite funny. Oh, and the president? George W? Nah. George H.W.? Nuh-uh. Try Reagan. It’s all about Ronald Reagan.

For the record I found a the be-all end all. It’s a prescription. For my sister. In the guest-room dresser. From 1974.

As I’m sitting here my blogging, my father just said to me and Adam: I have something to confess. I retrieved from the trash the Neosporin from 2006.
Me: But we just bought a new Neosporin on it for the rash on Pie.
My dad: I know. But there are multiple bathrooms. We’ll have one in my bathroom and the other in yours. The new one, how many years you got on it?
Adam: I think at least 18 months.
My dad: I hope you got the smallest tube. Because 18 months. That could last till 2012!

By all means, don’t be afraid to come visit my parents. Just don’t get sick. The medicine might send you to the hospital.

(Note: My father read this and said to me, “You write like having expired medicines is such a bad thing!” As I said…)

I’m back. No hangover. Although I’d forgotten that Florida is a lawless state–no closing time for bars, smoke galore. I walked out of the Deuce smelling like a Phillip Morris factory and now my throat is raw. It what happens when you’re out of the practice of inhaling second-hand smoke. I love going to the Deuce, although the crowd is quite different from when I started going there, when I was a young, underaged drinker afraid of getting booted out. I realized I’ve been going to that bar for twenty years now. I was there with a crowd of other old-timers (sorry, Rachel, Jennifer, and Bettina, but you are) celebrating early the 40th birthday of my cousin Oliver. We tortured the other patrons of the bar by playing the music we listened to when we went twenty years ago (and I still don’t see what’s so wrong with “Just Can’t Get Enough.” Even my own crowd gave me grief for that one).

The trip began inauspiciously: Our plan to leave on Monday the 24th were scratched when a family situation required us to be home on Friday the 21. So I scrambled to get our tickets changed, not the easiest feat during the holiday season, but I managed to get all of us on the 7:45 p.m. flight on Thursday. I knew the kids would be toast, arriving at 11:10 p.m., but we’d get them quickly to my parents’ place and have them to bed and hopefully they’d be fresh for our obligations on Friday.

What’s that they say about the best laid plains? That they’ll screw you over and leave you in the middle of Logan airport with a screeching toddler with no desire to sleep at 11 p.m.? Yep, that’s it.

Thursday began with a dashing of snow–kiddies went to school, the day went along as planned. One inch of snow. One inch. One inch. And that’s what we got. One inch. And then another one inch. And another one inch… Delays at Logan. I checked before I did anything and was happy to see that we were still on schedule. For a 7:45 flight on the Thursday before Christmas we knew security would be a nightmare, so we figured we needed to be there at 6:30. We park offsite and take a shuttle over to Logan, so we figured we should be there about 6. I needed to pick Adam up at his office before we headed over, and as you may know, Boston traffic is rather notorious even when it’s not snowing and rush hour. So we figured we should pick up Adam around 5. So we left our house at 4:45.

Traffic? What traffic? Got to Adam’s just after 5. Got to parking just about 5:45. Got the car unloaded, car seat out, and at the shuttle at 6. At 6:05 my phone rang. “May I please speak to Jennifer?” the voice said. “Speaking,” I replied. “Hi,” the voice said. “This is Joan at American Airlines and I wanted to call you to let you know your flight has been delayed to 9:10 p.m.” As we’re on the shuttle. To the airport. At 6 p.m. With my toddler. And my preschooler.

At least we’re assured it’ll take us an hour to get the bags checked and through security. It’s the first time ever I’ve been grateful for a long wait because I’m not sure how to kill time with these two. Adam juggles the stroller, a car seat, and three suitcases; I’m handling the kids and the carry-ons. Time to check-in bags? We walked straight through to open kiosk. Done by 6:20. The line for security? Nonexistent. You people out there who have flown out of terminal B at Logan: When have you ever not had a security line? When have you ever just walked right through? If you looked out your window on Thursday night and thought you saw Santa flying, sorry, it wasn’t. They were merely pigs.

So it’s now 6:30 and we have A LOT of time to kill. We go to the Todd English restaurant, Bonfire, where Pie is delighted to order mac and cheese and Doodles is willing to have the relatively healthy guacamole with some chips. And here’s where we killed a lot of time. Because it took a full twenty minutes for someone to come back and report they were out of guacamole… and mac and cheese. Thank god those knives past security were plastic because I think the kids might have used them on the waitress… or me on the kids… or Adam on all of us. We survived a mac-and-cheese- and guacamole-free dinner and then headed down to our gate. To wait. And wait. And wait. Now my little munchkins who go to bed at 7 (the bigger muchkin) and 7:30 (the litter munchkin) react to lack of sleep in different ways. At about 7:30, unable to keep his eyes open any longer, Doodles climbed into Pie’s stroller and went to sleep. Pie, forcing her eyes open, realized that if she took off her shoes, the center aisle of the terminal was as good as a Slip N Slide for running down and falling. “Wheee!” she yelled and everyone thought it was sooooo cute. That little muchkin running and yelling and jumping up and down.

But, oh, did they think it was so cute at 11:45 p.m. when the plane finally took off? My bigger muchkin curled into the seat, trying to sleep and the litter muchkin straining against her car seat screaming at the top of her lungs, hysterically, “Get me out! No like car seat! No like airplane!” Do you know what an overtired Pie does at midnight? Refuse to sleep and scream like a banshee. Still cute, folks?

We landed at 2:45 p.m. My parents left a car for us at the airport, so we waited for our luggage, Adam put in the car seats, and drove to my parents. We arrived about 3:40 a.m. and by the time we got Doodles down, it was 4 and Pie refused to shut those eyes until she was in our bed at 4:30. Which might have been workable had everyone not been up before 8:30 a.m. Needless to say, Pie was escorted out of the family obligation shortly after it began for screaming about sippy cups, sunglasses, and snacks.

I’d like to say that things improved from there, but frankly they didn’t, and I’ll spare you Adam’s Day of Poop and the three days it took for for Pie to become almost human being-like again.

But yesterday things perked up. Rachel, Bettina, Jennifer, and I made the annual pilgrimage to the spa at The Standard, where we were buffed and polished to a high sheen, which we then showed off as we lounged in the steam bath, the hamman, the pool, and outdoor waterfall. No spa day is complete without a martini, of course, and it finally felt like vacation had begun. The evening continued with the aforementioned birthday party–complete with copious amounts of sushi and drink, which is pretty much my idea of heaven. Adam and I stayed out until–wait for it folks–midnight! Whoo hoo! We were partying like we were… well, like we were almost 40 (true, Adam is only 35, but he’s old beyond his years).

So now, I plan to drink martinis, mainline cafe con leches, swim in my parents’ newly heated pool, take a ride on my cousin’s boat, and generally enjoy the decadent behavior one associates with South Beach. Happy new year everyone!

I have a choice between blogging and going to the Deuce for a drink. The Deuce wins. Will blog tomorrow pending hangover.