Remember?

Remember that time we went to an magic island in Canada and all of the people were polite and the food was delicious and it was generally pretty sweet? No? I don't blame you, because we never put up any pictures of it, even though I have literally thousands of them. Here. These are for you:

Remember how we were all upset that morning but not with each other so it was actually alright? Remember deciding to have an absolutely perfect day just out of spite? Remember how much better that made everything?

Remember when we saw lettuces and tiny baby radishes still in the ground and met the future King and Queen of England and then Prince William was all like -- "get your hand off of my wife's boob" and we were all like "no because actually you're a cardboard cutout and can't talk to us or tell us what to do" and his expression didn't even change even though that was a super rude thing for us to say?

Remember how we sat in all those places next to each other because we were wearing coordinating clothes and wanted everyone to see how cute we looked together but we never actually got a good picture of all five of us and I tried to hang my camera on a tree to use the self-timer but instead it fell off and almost broke? Remember how everybody's name was Will?

Remember when we drove into town and Charity asked to street-preform with that boy who was handsome but only because he could play the piano so well and wore plaid and was polite. Remember when he said yes because it would have been rude not to and was so happy and surprised when Charity actually opened her mouth and sang like she does? Remember when we all sang along?

Remember when we ordered oysters on the half-shell and I ate one even though I usually don't and you told me it would taste like a salty kiss from the sea? Remember when I told you you were right about the oyster, but I still didn't like it?

Remember when we found the hat with red braids and we all pretended to be Anne of Green Gables? Remember how Momo bought Hettie one and whenever she wore it she'd become courteous and kind but also a little fiery and only answered to the name Anne? Remember the deep-sea diving shack that also sold the best lobster rolls you've ever tasted and pretty excellent salads too? Remember getting annoyed at all sorts of things that may or may not have mattered but still having a beautiful time?

Remember saying we wanted to walk back to the house but only because we didn't want to go in the car and didn't understand how far it was? Remember trying not to squash the tiny frogs as they hopped across the sidewalk? Remember being scared when we heard sounds coming from the forest and it getting so dark none of us could see and using Liberty's phone as a flashlight and all thinking to ourselves if a kidnapper or a rapist or a wild animal came out from the trees I'd stay and fight it so the rest of you could run away and get help and be safe?

Remember getting back just fine and seeing them read to the babies in the main room? Remember knocking on the window and then hiding just to scare them and then almost deciding to go skinny-dipping? Remember all the stars?

Postcards from the Everglades

 

So many pretty birdies.

 

Willa calls them "dirdies!"

And gets very, VERY excited to see them.

'Gator faces.

...and 'Gators!

Song To a Fair Young Lady Going Out of Town in the Spring

Ask not the cause why sullen spring

So long delays her flow'rs to bear;

Why warbling birds forget to sing,

And winter storms invert the year?

Willa is gone; and Fate provides

To make it spring where she resides.

*I hope John Dryden forgives me for taking the slightest bit of liberty with his charming ditty. I don't know Chloris, to whom he originally penned the poem, but it's certain that Willa's been hogging good weather lately. Sincerest apologies to those she's left behind in the Polar Vortex!

The Book Barn

This morning I went on a delightful little birthday outing with a few delightful friends. We ventured out from the familiar (if not exactly safe) embrace of New Haven up to The Book Barn in Niantic. It was like a happy dream -- thousands of old books organized into different little stalls and carts across a block or so of property (crime novels in this shanty, classics across the way on that wagon, etc.), interspersed with benches for reading and cats for petting. Can you imagine anything better? (If you can, then maybe we can't be really good friends.)

I picked up quite a few dollar tomes I've been meaning to read but haven't had on hand, as well as some other books I hadn't known I'd been meaning to read but now realize I definitely had to have been. If you find yourself in the proximate neighborhood of the Connecticut coast, I can't recommend this little bibliophile's paradise highly enough. To fully optimize your experience, I would suggest going on a crisp yet sunny autumn afternoon while wearing a scratchy wool sweater and sipping from a thermos full of hot cider.

Beauty Hurts or What To Do When Your Face Become Furry Like A Little Rodent

One of the side effects of an old medication led to my face becoming furry like a baby rodent. It was kind of awful. It was too big of a task for plucking and I was worried about my skin if my whole face was waxed. I'd heard of threading: a less painful South East Asian import. It was supposedly better for your skin and many women used it on their entire face.

Threading salons were all over New York. So one day after a meeting, I happened upon one. The price was right. It looked clean and tidy, so I decided to go. There were a few girls there getting their brows done. As the Indian girl with incredible hair and brows rolled her thread up and down her client's face, it seemed almost hypnotic. The client's eyes were closed and they both appeared to be in a zen-like state of hairlessness. I was excited.  I lay my head back, ready for this amazing, transcendent excavation of face fur. A young woman with thick, black hair began to wind a white thread, twisting it between her fingers a half dozen times. She approached my face and began to roll the miniature rope across my cheeck. I screamed. Loud. Back and forth the little threads went, ripping my baby hairs out, 10 or 12 at a time.

I've had my freaking chest cut open twice but this was certainly some of the most pain I have ever been subjected to. And I was doing it voluntarily.

I felt entirely deceived. Those girls who made it look so effortless -- dare I say -- meditative. How dare they!? It was a violation of a common bond of sisterhood. They should have warned me. They owed it to me. This must be against the law, I thought. Outlawed by some international convention or treaties having to do with cruel and unusual punishment. I think I asked if it was.

The next thirty minutes seemed like hours -- days, ever. I screamed, squirmed and yelped in pain. The other women who worked in the salon gathered around. I think they found my cries for help rather entertaining. Clients would come in and out, giggling and giving me sympathetic glances. What can I say? I've never been particularly good at keeping my feelings in.  When I was finally done, my face looked like I had had a chemical peel or something. -- I was pretty sure the top few layers of skin had been removed. But my cheeks were smooth as a naked baby's bottom.

I'm going back to New York for Rosh Hashanna and while I no longer need the full face, I might just get threaded tomorrow. If you need it, it is true: it does work very well. It is supposedly better for your skin. It hurts like the Devil. And it makes me wonder, what goshawful painful routines do men engage in to stay beautiful? On that note, have a beautiful, hairless new year this Rosh Hashana. 

Aprovechar el Dia!

The other night, Dave and I were sitting up late, reflecting on how Summer had slipped through our fingers. Dave's crazy work schedule meant a lot of travel but not a single day of real family vacation.  The next day, my hardworking husband got word that his two main client contacts were going on vacation themselves as soon as Dave's group delivered their next report. It seemed like a sign, and within an hour we'd booked tickets and made plans for the whole family to spend two weeks road tripping through the Yucatan Peninsula. We spent the next week or so wondering how on earth we'd been so crazy, and I'll admit I felt more than my normal sense of pre-trip excitement when we hugged Charity goodbye at the airport. Now that we're here, we're feeling pretty happy about our fit of rash spontaneity.

Here's the thing about growing up in Northwest Denver, and then visiting Mexico for the very first time at age 33: it feels an awful lot like home. Home, plus idyllic beaches, Mayan ruins, Spanish Colonial charm, wild flamingos and the best ceviche of my life. I'm a little bit in love. 

We took the slow ferry to Isla Mujeres

I don't always love the beach, but this was pretty much perfect.

Hettie loves boat rides.

Especially this fast little boat we took to the lagoon at Rio Logartos

Where we saw SO many wild flamingos!

The kids liked this baby Chihuahua maybe even more than the wildlife. Her name is Mia.

Willa likes to linger over breakfast.

One of seven Colonial churches in Valladolid

Chichen Itza really is awesome.

Our hotel near the ruins was kind of amazing. Jackie O. and Princess Grace stayed here back in the 60's, and I kept expecting them to show up in the corridor. They never did, (but there was a peacock)...

One of many golden facades at Izamal.