Hasta la vista, friends. Scotch Straight Up is drained. It was a summer thang. Email me if you’re interested in learning about the new blog site (bitsyparker@gmail.com)

Here I come rolling down the dusty Shoal Creek trail like Granny Sue on my big-wheeled bicycle that looks it might be some type remedial training bike. Were the bicycle a motorcycle it would be one of those massive ones where the tubby riders wear headsets and are taking a break from their bookkeeping jobs to ride the Interstate. Instead of padded bicycle pants and a shinny zipped mesh shirt I sport a Mexican shirt snatched right off Matthew McConaughey’s bedroom floor. Topping my less than impressive look is the sissy pink dog leash I hold adorned with white leather flowers and dotted with garish rhinestones.

Like a turtle I creep down the trail with my panting barrel-chested dog who might, at any moment, slip into cardiac arrest. A former colleague jogs past me with his energetic dog who laps around Slowboe and me to splash in the creek and then jump back onto the trail and catch his master. In other words, in the athletic world, my dog and I can’t even make it as pretenders.

“Come on, girl. You can make it to Austin Java. Run for coffee!” This seems to put a kick in her step, and the dog ratchets her speed a notch. Just as we see the end of our measly stroll, a most interesting sight catches our eye. The stats:

Girl: Caucasian, approximately twenty-three years old, perhaps completed one semester of college.
Hair: long, honey-brown with well-done highlights, layered with no ponytail
Apparel: skin-tight sleeveless ivory workout shirt, black leggings, high-heeled wedge canvas shoes, Nicole Richie sunglasses.
Significant features: completely flat stomach, large bubble butt protruding more than necessary because of the shoes, scowling face

Man: Caucasian, mid-fifties, salary approximately $180k
Hair: combo of buzzed and bangs, silver like aluminum foil
Clothes: t-shirt from law firm picnic, gray athletic shorts that haven’t been sold in stores since 1992
Significant features: none

The girl stands over the man with her trampy shoe on his shoulder as he does one-armed push-ups. The scene of a dominatrix in action in a public place was so captivating that I had the nerve to stop and stare. I couldn’t see the girl’s eyes as her gold-stemmed sunglasses hid them, but it is certain they burned a hole through my sweaty cotton shirt. In fact, I think she even hissed at me. Needless to say, I pedaled on while silently hoping the man wouldn’t have a heart attack.

This poem is reprinted without permission. Heard it on the radio and loved it:

by Jennifer Rae Vernon

Blackberry Pie

is kernels of juice
blue, mom makes it do
magic heat to vanilla ice cream
purple dream

there were many nice things,
the corduroy pinafore
the daily notes in lunch sack
of a smiley face and curly cue hair
your mama loves you, and do great
with a thermos of homemade soup

dad too, he rocked me on front porch
after seven yellow jacket stings
i howled through the valley
in baking soda paste
while he sang, in the big rock candy mountain…

but just like grandma vernon always said
don’t bother doing anything nice for your children
they’ll only remember the bad things, anyway
like when she tethered my dad
to the front yard tree
so he could play when she was at work

was that bad? a ruined childhood?
bless her heart
and pie too, is sometimes
tart

Deep drooling sleep shut off in an instant with the siren of the alarm clock. Turing it off I snuggle back into the pillow and think of taking the sleep I deserve, not the niggardly hours I was allotted.

Suddenly, like an electric shock I realize that a minute has passed and now I have one less minute to perform the tightly choreographed school morning routine. Whipping off the blankets I fly out of bed and throw on the clothes that wait on the upholstered chair next to the fireplace – the decorative spot designed for luxurious relaxation where nobody ever sits much less relaxes.

People pee. Dog pee. Cats fed. Dog fed. Coffee made. Little people awake. Dressed. Fed. Brushed. Packed. Helmets. Leashed.

At 6:45 a.m. in the quickly fading dawn the bike ride to school begins.

Screw the neighbors and their morning peace, the children race down the street screaming to one another about the game of chase that is already underway. Apparently the dog whose lead I deftly hold in my left hand while holding the bicycle handlebars with my right hand is some form of criminal or law enforcement who is chasing the children.

The dog, on the other hand, only watches the children out of the corner of one eye because she is now concerned with Bonaparte, the yappy King Charles Spaniel who races against a fence barking. Hopefully my low, purposeful voice doesn’t reflect my fear that the dog is going to bolt and throw me from the bike. “Focus. Keep your focus. Good girl. Stay with me, “ I want to beg, but force myself to chide.

Despite the day’s expected one hundred degree temperature the morning is relatively cool with the sun still tucked in the east, but somehow the scene completely changes by the time we arrive at 34th Street. The sun is out, the St. Andrew’s School parents have formed a long carpool line, and during the hectic part of the trip where we ride on a narrow street the dog slips her collar. Simultaneously, Baby G’s handlebars go loose and flip forward.

Crying child, dog loose in traffic and hobbled with a bicycle loaded with two backpacks and various dog accoutrements, traces of drugs from years past flood my blood and give me the calm resolve to lure the dog (who was wild only a week ago) back to my side, coax the first grader to figure out how to ride the broken bike the rest of the way to school and keep an eye on independent girl who has ridden ahead and is already forging the creek.

After drop-off the dog and I rest in the park while cursing the Queen of England who hated Princess Diana and therefore must have made the Diana flask I bought at Windsor Castle a leaky one. If the flask didn’t drip sticky raspberry vodka in my backpack it might still be in there and I might be drinking from it.

Fuzzy, juicy peaches nestle next to pert, taut grapes and depict the spoils of my back-to-school grocery shopping. Beside the alluring produce sit two steel cylinders packed with ice and water awaiting their placement inside the mesh pockets of the children’s backpacks. It’s 7:39 p.m. on Sunday night, and it is certain that one child is asleep and the other one is at least reading in her bed.

My mind laughs that only yesterday I vowed to be in bed by 9:30 p.m. With most people just now considering dinner and the sunlight still beaming through the kitchen window I consider injecting myself with horse tranquilizer. There is no way I will be ready to sleep in less than two hours.

It is a fact that tomorrow on the first day of school I must flee from my bed no later than 6:15 a.m. so that I have time to throw on a pair of shorts, pee the dog and make the hot brown liquid that will allow me to cheerily greet the children at the rude hour of 6:30 a.m. In thirty minutes the little people must be dressed, fed, strapped into their backpacks and seated atop their bicycles for a 7:00 a.m. departure. With a dog leash in one hand and a shock collar zapper in the other hand, I will balance upon my bicycle and lead my pack away from our den toward the elementary school that sits four miles north.

Despite the hideous 7:40 a.m. start time the school is great. In fact, some jolly soul procures a vat of coffee, sets up a table and dispenses coffee to the parents on Monday mornings. When the PTA sent out a survey asking what parts of school we valued most, the leaders wanted to hear praise for the extra Spanish classes and computer labs, but I honestly rated the free coffee as what makes the school exemplary.

Immediately before bedtime the world fell apart for my sensitive child. In the almost three months of summer vacation the rising third grader chose to ignore the workbook her second grade teacher dispensed last May with the instructions, “You better complete this workbook, or you’ll be behind when third grade starts.”

Just before the discovery of the forgotten workbook, Sensitive Girl had vacated her spot in the big bathtub full of bubbles and left open a prime seat under the voice of The Husband as he sat upon the frilly bathroom chair reading aloud MacBeth to us. As a woman who lived a full day in the Texas heat, I couldn’t resist an opportunity to submerge myself under the scented bubbles and claim a more comfortable spot for the reading. Baby G and l lay under the white foam staring at the toile wallpaper imaging Duncan getting stabbed.

The evening was progressing as the perfect back-to-school night. Earlier we popped a bottle of champagne and an apple cider for the children and toasted the summer while our pot of crawfish boiled. A recent trip to Ikea to buy wooden hangers instead found me lured into purchasing a crawfish party kit that included crawfish cutouts, napkins, party hats and a songbook of crawfish songs. Don’t think that we didn’t sing odes to the crawfish to the tune of Auld Land Sang. We did.

Early evening or late afternoon, found us sucking the heads of crawfish and lolling in a smelly bath while taking in a good story. But. Sensitive Girl bursts into the bathroom in full-mode hysteria at the undone math workbook, and unfortunately The Husband decided to take issue with her ill-timed rage. Moreover, he reacted to her statements as if they were spoken by a sane person instead of an eight-year old who might be anxious about her first day of third grade.

Because I know she’s speaking out of anxiety and there is no need for a man vs. child row, I leap out of the bathtub with suds trailing and begin my border colley routine where I separate all the people and nose them into their proper places. After only thirty minutes of wailing the tantrum-timer stops and Sensitive Child morphs back to delightful child. Just like that. One minute she’s spinning like a Tasmanian devil because she can’t remember how to subtract and the next minute she repacks her pink and green whale folders with the chipperness of a happy little bird.

Wonder what will happen at 6:30 a.m?

(Sorry, peeps! I never pressed the “publish” button. Sorry, Shelly you had to nag about the dog post.)
For six weeks K drew pictures of Cupcake, wrote stories about her and told every person with whom we came in contact that she was getting a dog named Cupcake. Exactly like the black kitten she willed to our house, K spirited a white dog to us. Well before the email arrived from the elementary school listserve announcing Tosca Toscana, a two-year old white mixed breed needed a home, my children incessantly chattered about the white dog they were getting. In the background I listened but never had any intention of helping them procure their white dog. Guess they didn’t need my help.

Sunday morning with temperatures expected to race past one hundred-degrees the children pace the sidewalk in front of our house waiting for the dog to arrive. Wiping sweat from my face I try to sit with them but it is unpleasantly hot and I linger inside the dramatically cold house peering out the front windows. Finally, a messy gray car arrives with a dog’s head swiveling back and forth trying to wrestle free from the tether holding it in place in the backseat. A rather tall Mexico City-style woman wearing a long gray sleeveless dress with no waistband alights from the car and then assists the guest of honor onto the street.

The wild dog immediately wraps her leash around Baby G and upends him to the sidewalk. Dog smell hits me and in less than five seconds I’m ready to say, “This won’t work.” In the photograph Tosca’s pale, slender face was slightly elegant and her perked ears playfully feminine. All summer I imagined petting her silky white hair, but the reality is that only her head has soft hair and from her shoulders to her tail she’s broad in a repulsive masculine manner with wire-y, bushy hair.

The woman who is offing Tosca to us has fostered her for eighteen months and says that she feels the dog needs a family and more active household than she is able to provide. While the woman speaks, the dog humps her leg in an effort to demonstrate to me that she is the leader of their two-dog pack. I give the dog the eye and silently let her know that in this cave, I’m the leader of the pack.

With a patrician accent the creamy complected woman tells me how she spotted Tosca at a café in Mexico City and complimented the owner on the beauty of the dog. As it turns out, the dog was a stray and the woman in the café was trying to find a home for her. The dog-loving women exchanged contact information and decided if a proper Mexican home could not be found for Tosca that arrangements would made for the furry hound to become an expatriate in America, the land of opportunity.

In our breakfast room Tosca leaps about the furniture and flinches her big body like a neurotic small dog each time the children make a big move, which is often. My smile is permanently fixed, and I stare empty-headed at the woman acting as if Tosca’s new life in our family will be like her current life where the dog is the boss.

“Tosca starts out sleeping on the floor, but then she gets into my bed.” Sure thing, I think. I’d love those sandpaper claws on the antique linens I spent years locating. Not even my children are allowed in my bed. The Husband, in fact, is hesitant to climb in each night and always reconfirms which pillows he is allowed to use.

We bid the weepy foster mother goodbye with many thanks and lock the door. Eye to eye Tosca and I stare while K uses her thin voice to repeatedly chant, “Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Tosca, sit.” Down the tree-lined street we walk with dog and children. Yes, it’s hot. It’s sweltering, in fact. However, we’re not walking to Japan, we’re walking in the shade and we have plenty of water.

Tosca sits down and refuses to walk. “Yank the lead and get her moving, K,” I call. “Mom, I can’t pull her leash because it will make her neck bleed. She’s too tired to walk.” At this point in the walk we are barely a block away from our house.

Watching K with the dog, it all becomes vividly clear – the dog is K as a baby and K is me as her mother. Screaming baby in my arms I was bamboozled by K’s hysteria and always thought that my infant must be refusing to eat because she was sick. In retrospect, K popped out as dominant child and I paved the way to let her behave that way.

Taking the lead in my hand, I give Tosca a hearty yank and move her over-sized butt down the street. During lunch she sits quietly under the table occasionally lapping water and receiving a pet on the ear.

* Follow-up: The next day Tosca had her first training session followed by a bath and haircut. No longer is her coat dirty, smelly and shedding, she’s light and white. For almost a week she’s walked four miles each day and has become a happy member of the family. She plays in the creek, rides in the car, goes to park playdates, sits at outside restaurants, fiercely guards the children while they bathe and gets into her crate every night to sleep. She seems to be happy that I’ve taken over as pack leader. Truly, I think she’s relieved that someone else will do the work.

Ah, America. Fresh and tasty like Dunkin and his donut. After a summer of oatcakes and raspberries, my newly trained family returns to the USA just in time for breakfast. Waking up at 3:30am my little travelers slip into the shorts they rarely wore all summer and leave the hotel motel to catch a 4 am shuttle to the airport.

“We didn’t have room service yet!” whines the child destined for a more gentle life that excludes nights at crash ‘n dash motels. Even the all-you-can-eat breakfast bar certain to be stocked with doughy white flour bagels and super-sweet yogurt is closed.

If it were up to me, we’d arrive at the airport moments before take-off, but the responsible man to whom I am married insists we arrive early. Such wisdom pays off when we discover we are droplets in a rainstorm of people fleeing to Port Au Prince and apparently taking with them every single item they own.

With a $50 surcharge on every additional bag plus the numerous red stickers I see noting HEAVY attached to their bags and those correlating fees, I’m amazed at the hundreds of extra dollars these people are paying to travel. Even if they are permanently moving, do they really need that much stuff? The Husband knocks me off my high-horse and suggests that maybe they are taking merchandise to poor relations. Ouch. My bad..

It is fact that my children must have caloric reinforcement every few hours or they become unpleasant and have to be put in their cages. When we arrive in Chicago the bowl of oatmeal they ate three hours earlier in Boston starts to wear off on cue of the clock reaching 7:30am. The first whine sends me off to kill a second breakfast for the offspring lest they destroy the control tower and cause major disruption.

Gazing around the food court I rule out McDonalds’, Dunkin Donuts, Pizza Express, and a host of other fast food options. Seriously searching I find not one whole food in the entire O’Hare airport. After the big investment in healthy eating this summer, I refuse to turn back and stuff a sausage biscuit in the mouth of my growing little people.

The best choice I can make is a bag of nuts for one child and a Clif Bar for the other. After my big display of walking every nook and cranny of the facility searching for an acceptable snack and dragging the family behind me, The Husband announces, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get a Chicken N’ Biscuit at McDonald’s.” He wasn’t even teasing!

On the plane the stewardess announces she has “Chocolate Chip Mega Bite Cookies” for sale at $3. Only moments earlier the obese woman who had been waiting in the handicapped chairs endured the walk of shame down the isle as she turned her body sideways in an attempt to squeeze through all the seated passengers and make her way to her seats in the back of the plane.

How could an entire nation miss the message? Where has America gone wrong? It’s not just America; it’s poor people everywhere. It’s no secret that processed foods are marketed as cheap, easy fixes for hunger, and seemingly, the corn syrup has gone to people’s minds and they don’t realize that empty calories don’t endure. As a result, at least double the money is spent on poor quality food because it takes twice as much of it to keep a body running.

Furthermore, the “cheap” food isn’t really that cheap. The Clif Bar we selected was a fourth of the cost of an offering from McDonald’s. A serving of oatmeal made at home is virtually free. Granted oatmeal doesn’t have that greasy hash brown taste, but the flip side is that after consumption the mouth doesn’t have a rancid taste and the desire to take a nap isn’t overwhelming.

Somehow Irish Family would have traveled with apples, bananas, cheese sandwiches, oatcakes berries and nuts. At some point, I can’t tote two full days of food on my back for four people. Why isn’t there a better choice?

A few summers ago K and I rode a train to Italy with a beautiful skinny young woman who was on her way home from a glamorous vacation in Ibiza. When the food chart rolled by I bought a pastrami sandwich but was embarrassed to be the fat girl eating a sandwich ‘o lard while the skinny girl stared out the window. I commented that the food choices were so bad and asked her what she ate when traveling. She said, “Oh, I never eat bought food like that. I only eat at my house.” Well, yea, I say, but when you’re traveling all day you have to eat something. She responds, “I eat my toast and fruit in the morning and eat nothing until I reach my destination.”

That strategy does not work for me, or my children. Until the food industry changes, I guess I have to tote a sack of groceries everywhere I go or risk becoming the lady who can’t fit down the airplane isle.

(Take your time reading this and fully appreciate the house. It’s worth the sneak peek, and after this post I won’t be able to take you back there again.)

Even though the large Swiss Army silver case now contains a purple fur rug, wetsuit, Wellies and velvet crown encased in an odd-sized Plexiglas box, we manage to leave the UK with the same two cases we brought over and no additional baggage. Along the way, we discarded worn out clothes, shoes and toiletries and made room for ivory-handled fish knives, Delft bells and a few odd new pieces of clothing and shoes – oh, and a menagerie of cumbersome plush animals that include two seals, two Westies, two Harry Haggis, two squirrels, a penguin and two large paper mache dogs!

With the two cases in hand we arrive at the Irish Family’s home and the four children fall into elaborate play and secret games while the adults retire to the garden for cherries and mint tea (it’s Wednesday, nobody ever works.) The mint tea is not bagged or boxed, just fresh leaves snipped from the garden and submerged in hot water from the kettle that sits in a constant state of pre-boil on the always hot Aga.

Sips of tea are wedged into sparse gaps in conversation ranging from mental illness to wars, past and present, and punctuated with the dermatologist’s recent case of hypertrichosis where a fifteen-year old girl has a full face of hair that resembles a werewolf. Poor girl is unable to leave her house and her mother is apoplectic.

Still chattering like mice, the group saunters down the lane to a nearby French restaurant, and I try to take a mental snapshot of Edinburgh’s stone buildings and daintily decorated pocket parks. Tomorrow morning we leave Scotland and head back to the land of cantilever, low limestone and barebones play parks with neither seesaws, Flying Foxes, spinning rope trees or merry-go-rounds.

After dinner the Irish Family’s house is busy. Two students, one German and one Spanish occupy the two bedrooms in the charming basement. The first floor hosts the men folk in the chartreuse living while the second floor secludes a mother soothing a little girl who is busy fighting her bedtime. On the second floor is my favorite room, a big open drawing room with formal furniture interspersed with easels and paints and a massive wooden dollhouse scattered with upturned furniture affecting a look that the dolls have been robbed.

The third floor finds me in the bathroom whose floors are the color of a mouse’s back submerged in an ancient porcelain tub overlooking the deep back garden that blooms with blue, white and pink hydrangeas. The fourth floor is where The Husband and I will sleep and where Baby G snoozes in an enchanting pale yellow bed recessed into the wall and papered with Beatrix Potter wall print. His angelic face looks as if he fell asleep staring at the glass and porcelain rabbits and other special treasures that sit atop the frilly mantle over the tiny coal-burning fireplace.

The fifth floor, which is really only six steps higher than the fourth floor is the very best room of all, an original Victorian room whose elaborate trim work and fireplace have been doused in deep pink paint and decorated with a hot pink chandelier that only a pre-teen girl could love.

The two primary school girls sit on the floor around a low square table and paint, an activity forbidden in my house, which is not nearly as nice or valuable as Irish House. Directly behind the children under a low skylight is a fabric-covered table holding a sewing machine. Next on the agenda the girls will sew bathrobes for their plush animals. Throw in some Hello Kitty tiny colored pencils and I would give my eyeteeth to be eight-years old again.

Plunged in goose feathers encased by supreme cotton printed with baby pink flowers, I close my eyes and drift into peaceful sleep on the twin bed that parallels The Husband’s twin bed. Tomorrow when I wake up, the dream will be over.
***************************************************************

On an unrelated note, I wrote this piece listening to the Scissor Sister’s Filthy Gorgeous. For a good time, do a quick download and have yourself a good time.

Hostile and cranky, Suburbia refuses to turn on the sunshine, and instead of offering an olive branch and mending our raveling relationship I turn my back to the window, nestle closer to the thin and boney mattress and ignore him and his obnoxious ways. Blustery wind blows the curtains in the bedroom, but getting out of bed to close the window would put my already cold and nude body at greater risk of chill. So, I turn on my side and stare at the do-it-yourself paint job. With all my mental energy I will the golden brown paint to cover the white spots that have been mistakenly forgotten.

My family has an inkling that Suburbia and I aren’t getting along, but they have no idea how serious our animosity has become, and as a result, I hear them blissfully frolicking downstairs, oblivious to the silent fight in progress in the bedroom. The noise, plus my uncooperative bladder and extreme need for coffee, finally force me to abandon my standoff and get out of bed to accept the day Suburbia presents to me.

The Husband joyfully bids me a hasty goodbye and almost skips out the door on his way to play golf on some nearly two hundred-year old golf course. His thrill at leaving is my pain at staying.

Drinking the last bit of lukewarm coffee, I burrow into the fleece of my jacket and realize, much to my dismay, that not only is it cold, but it’s raining. Spitting, as they say. Pulling on the hood of my Rainy Day Mac means that all day my hearing will be limited, and repeatedly I will utter, “Huh?” Also, my periphery vision will be compromised causing me to step out into oncoming traffic, which will startle me to the core as I realize my life was almost cut short.

The children know something is off. “Why is this town so cold?” Yea, I think to myself, why. Suburbia litters the streets with strolling tourists walking three abreast who won’t break apart to allow passage on the sidewalks. Bored teenagers crowd entrances to businesses as they share one cigarette among the lot of them.

Our destination is a local bird watching and appreciation center that has built a small facility and overstuffed it with exhibits, gift shop and cafe. Toting the bulky coats and backpack I’m bumped and jostled by children and visitors eager to get a better view of the live cameras that spy on birds mating across the water on an island.

My children make rubbings of birds; use binoculars and magnifying glasses to get a closer look at the complex flying creatures and are generally happy to learn everything the center can tell them about the featured animals. Meanwhile I feign interest in the looping ten-minute movie in the schoolroom-sized theater. Over and over I wait for the lights to dim and the babies to cry.

In the dark, annoyed by the garbled voice of the film’s narrator, I think about how I’m walking out on Suburbia and never looking back. We’re finished. This relationship was never meant to be and clearly we can’t get along. He’s cold, rainy, sandy, limited, unimaginative, single-focused, unsophisticated and intellectually uncurious.

Outside in the town the wind swirls my hair into a tornado circling my head and lands the longest strands in the middle of my sticky lip-gloss. Who cares if my face is streaked with a color called Sugar Baby; there is nobody in Suburbia I want to impress.

Midnight arrives and for hours Suburbia has been slowly chilling my feet and they are now frozen. Despite the two layers of bed covers, the coldness of my feet cannot be penetrated, and in fact, my entire body is chilled to the bone, which renders me sleepless. Rolling my two-inch pillow into something that might provide the slightest bit of neck support, I wait for morning when we will pack and leave Suburbia forever.

In Scotland daylight has begun to arrive later than it did at the beginning of our summer adventures, and around five in the morning, the sunlight creeps through the separation in the drapes. Any sign of light is good enough for me – I’m up. The faster I pack, the faster we leave Suburbia and escape into the strong arms of Beloved City, even if its only for a brief period.

Who knows why things happen, but for some unknown reason Suburbia greets me with a morning that features an enormous blue sky and a full sun bath while I water the geraniums on the back terrace. The garden explodes with daisies, Lucifers and a zillion other flowers whose names I don’t know. Like a victim of domestic abuse, miraculously I begin to forget last night and yesterday when Suburbia acted like an ass.

Walking into town, the children and I revel in the good weather before we slip into the Buttercup Café to enjoy a perfect breakfast of local fare. The Husband is cleaning the abode and my job is to keep the children out of the house until he’s through and our luggage waits on the curb.

As we troll the beachside stores suddenly they are filled with interesting merchandise. Just yesterday the stores were packed with tacky seaside bric-a-brac extolling quippy sayings like, “Free Hot Baths, soap and towels 25 cents” or “Fun in the Sun, This Way (arrow)”.

Oh, Suburbia! He’s trying to make friends and end our relationship on a good note. Passing my remaining British pounds I purchase the most adorable English made pajamas for the Irish girls. The littlest Irish girl is quite a character and the Pepto Bismal pink grandpa pjs with the white polka dots and ruffled bottoms could not be any better match for her. The older Irish girl is artsy and romantic, and for her the store has a lovely sleeping gown of pink floral with maroon velvet piping.

As if perfect gifts for the Irish girls isn’t a big enough find, we stumble upon a set of mint green and gold juice glasses from the 1940’s for the Irish parents. Not only are the presents perfect, the gift-wrap is positively edible. Lush deep pink paper with green scroll and gingham ribbon – it’s an English wonderland.

The Husband sits on the front steps with our packed luggage, his gift of cleaning has been granted to the little house. The Husband, loaded for bear, seems to have given the house a cleaning like its never had before, and honestly, it might be a little much. Hopefully, the family will not return and be shocked at how the splash marks from their messy cooking have been scrubbed clear from the wall and the furniture has been dismantled and vacuumed, not to mention the chest of drawers whose drawers now actually operate.

Sitting on a bench surrounded by our two cases and four backpacks, we wait for the train while my typically unaffectionate daughter sits on my lap and rubs the mink button I scored at the antiques store and am wearing pinned to my sundress. Love must be courted. It’s not always obvious that a mink button or a sunny day is the answer.

Totally packed and leaving the beach (we had a nasty fight yesterday – I’ll tell you all about it in the next post). We’re moving in with Irish Family for the next day and night, and I can’t wait, then we really are leaving on Thursday. Since we have the most horrible flight ever invented we’ll spend the night in Boston on Thursday night and leave early Friday. The good news is that my sister-in-law and her family from California will be in Boston visiting my brother-in-law and our niece from NYC will pop down to join us for a wee evening.

All those details to say that I’ll probably be out of touch with you until maybe Saturday, as Friday is my birthday and I hope not to be conscious enough to write to you. If I do drink and blog, please delete without reading.

Cheers!

B.