Outta Here

Well, we did it. As I write my last post for a couple of days, the freshly bathed babes lay sleeping, the laundry is laundered, the suitcases are stowed, the car gassed and full of gear for 6 for two weeks. The Intern is going to keep tabs on the everything around here--a little scary--and we are off.

In a few short hours, we will be making our first day the toughest and getting as many miles as we can toward Toronto. Then Detroit. Then St. Louis. Then some crazy plans I'll be nixing after that.

I think I did a pretty good job at packing for a change, too. Despite feeling like absolute horseshit. Besides the thing--yesterday I pretty much ensured a permanent disability. I was feeding Jessie on the couch. I looked up at a spot on the ceiling and thought I spied a leak. Which really made me groan even though we're getting a new roof in a couple of weeks. Anyway, the spot looked like a leak, until I noticed there was a similar looking spot on the adjacent wall. Couldn't be a leak in the middle of the wall, right? So I put Jessie down and grabbed a broom so I could poke at the spot with the handle. I hear that's a good thing to with leaks. Anyway, it was at the top of the apex of a 14-foot cathedral ceiling, so I had to stand on a chair. And when that wasn't tall enough, I had to stand on the back of the chair on my tiptoes.

The precarious broom handle poking yielded not a soft wet spot, but a slimy one. I thought, What the hell? and quickly yelled for Matty and the Kravitz children who of course were here, and most probably responsible.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Nothing," The spawn of Kravitz answers.

"Oh, really? I think this white slime is something, and I also don't think it got up on the ceiling by spore reproduction, so would like to tell me what this is?"

"Oh, that. (Not to be confused with the blue slime on the floor.) It's from a toy. We might have flicked it up there."

And with that explanation, I fell. A slow motion fall in which I was completely devoid of all grace and posture, and hit every single body part on the way down to the floor. In took 20 minutes. It was an old person fall. I think I broke a hip. In front of the Intern. And my kids. And the Kravitz'. So I can't even lie about all of the bruises and say that I was getting my freak on in a mosh pit or something.

So I sat there all night long groaning and watching my skin turn purple while we watched, "Vacation," and drank beer.

I'm glad to be getting into that car shortly. Glad to be heading toward a little break. And away from doctors. And toward old friends. And away from cleaning. And toward corny fun. And away from slimy things on the ceiling. And toward bruises from bumping into the room service cart instead.

And away from home. And toward home.


P.S. I'll be sending blogstcards from the road...

Elevator music should be my theme song

Waiting for a return call from the doctor.

Why? Because it is the end of the week before we go on vacation, so that's when it all falls apart again, duh.

And just when I was starting to get organized, too. I swear if I spent $60 on a roof rack we're not going to use, I'll be seriously pissed.

And I know I must be off my game as a result of this stupid thing, because Mrs. Kravitz' kid just out-smarted me...grrrr....

P.S.

Even though Elizabeth Edwards didn't exactly open a can of whoop ass on Ann Coulter--more like shook a soda of firm annoyance--I appreciated the gesture.

I hope she had to wash her stringy hair twice to get rid of it all.

Not much progress

Let's check in with how the trip preparations are coming along, shall we?

"Holiday Road," by Linsey Buckingham ("Vacation" theme song in case your pop culture memory fails you) downloaded on iPod. Check.

New shoes sans Jingle teeth marks for wedding outfit purchased. Check.

Pedicure to go with new shoes sans Jingle teeth marks. Check.

And that's basically it. I've got a lot of work to do before Sunday. But I keep getting distracted with other stuff that's way more fun than packing diapers. Like, decorating my blog like a junior high school locker. Look at the cool side bar...And arguing online with people. Someone actually said this, "I don't want to put words in Tracey's mouth..." No one has ever put words in my mouth because there is not enough room with my own in there. And then I wasted about 45 minutes this morning looking for the Intern's traffic ticket receipt. Through the trash. Turns out it was with the pizza menus. In the pizza menu drawer. And then I spent a long time contemplating why I have a whole drawer dedicated to pizza menus.

But in between all of that nonsense, I managed to get the baby's check up, write a column, pay bills and pick up Jingle shrapnel. I'll do better tomorrow. I swear.

I live

This thing is kicking my ass.

On a week I cannot afford an ass-kicking.

Despite an amazing domestic takeover by the spouse extraordinaire this weekend so I could "rest," I am still fighting this thing. (That's how I refer to it now, as the "thing," because it has taken on a life of its own--my life--and has applied for residency and a social security number.) But I have to beat it this week because the Griswolds begin our Magical Mystery Tour 2007 this weekend. The tour which only contains the mystery of what the hell are we thinking by doing this. The itinerary is so bizarre and non-sensical, the timetable impossible, and we are as unprepared as we usually are for such excursions. But yet we continue year after year just adding kids.

And can you believe I am really looking forward to it?

Because despite the crazy which we pack plenty of, we do have a great time. And I'm going to see a whole lot of people that I love and miss a lot.

And you wanna know the best part? Is that the whole thing will be filmed and posted here so that you, too, can experience it with us. You'll be able to smell the gasoline at $3.50 a gallon, the rest stop bathrooms with a potty-training toddler, and all of the Cracker Barrel toys you can shake a 6.99 rain stick at. It'll almost be like you're right there in the passenger seat eating licorice and yelling at your husband on the Crackberry while driving.

I hope the thing stays home and watches the dogs and picks up the mail.

D Day

Would I be a complete baby if I admitted to being just a teensy-weensy bit nervous today? It doesn't help that I cannot have a cup of coffee or put my contacts in, either.

So, focusing on the bright side besides the obvious. I'll get an hour of solid sleep under anesthetic. I'll get some reading done in the waiting room. I don't have to cook tonight.

Here's to a fresh start next week...

Poetry

Ode to the carpet cleaners. In Haiku.

Oh wielder of steam
Cleanse my domestic failures
Saving puppy's' lives.

Return to the land

Armed with an 11th hour doctor pass, a pharmacy of drug cocktails and a bottle of vanilla vodka; we made it to our beach vacation after all. I figured if I was going to die, it might as well be on the beach where I want my ashes scattered anyway, so it would save my family a trip.

I am going to refrain from further comment on my physical condition because it depresses me. Surgery is scheduled for Friday, and I have never been so happy for something so awful in my entire life. Nothing could be worse than this. Truly. Let's hope this is the cure, because, really--I need new material.

But back to happier subjects: vacation. We all had a great time. I have determined that there is nothing more beautiful than the Gulf of Mexico. I love living near it. I love vacationing on it. And every time I get in front of a camera or cover some retarded meeting, I do so knowing it is getting me one step closer to our beach house there.

Anyway, I wrote a column with the humorous specifics which I hope to publish before Friday along with a hundred other things, but the weather was gorgeous; the water divine. My kids are officially beach babies--even Jessie in her sun dome castle. We played from early morning to late at night, but rarely did we leave the water. I got my sunburn and hangover, but both feel pretty damned good.

Here are a few pictures until I figure out my technical issue with the others I took.

Vacation

We're packing as though we're leaving in a few hours, but that still remains to be seen. But I have blinders on. Blinders that look like Paris Hilton sunglasses because I want to be on that beach so badly...

So if the planets align with Doctor-Everything-Will-Be-All Right, then I'll be back Tuesday. With a hangover and a sunburn.

Happy Father's Day.

Elephants

I've been avoiding you.

It's not you, it's me, really. It's complicated. So I'll post as we both ignore that huge elephant in the blog. Sorry, those are the terms.

Instead of my obvious malady, I'm going to focus on the positive. Like, I bought a new dress for a wedding next month that I didn't hate. On sale. In a single-digit size. And it's not black.

Yes, I hear the elephant coughing in the corner. I'm sure it's fine. Really. Ignore it.

Oh, and how about my return to the freelance world last night? It was as entertaining as it always is after a 4 month maternity leave. And they didn't stone me. Well, they sort of did with their eyes when my favorite member of the board called me out and everyone turned to look at me. I just flashed them my hundred dollar smile and kept right on writing.

That elephant can't hurt you. He's lame. Or anemic.

And that today while someone else is cleaning the house, I will be buckled down writing said article and packing for summer trip #1 that I am surprisingly pretty prepared for. Complete with a new bathing suit that I don't hate. On sale. And it is black, but a little white, too.

A little hemorrhaging never hurt anything as strong as an elephant. You're being needlessly squeamish.

I'm sorry, did that sound a little like self-pity? It did, didn't it? Well, the only cure I know for self-pity is getting drunk on a beach for 5 days. Which is what I'll be doing starting tomorrow if the elephant doesn't pass out on me.

You don't even want to know

In ER, being teased threatened with a blood transfusion:

Sean: I think your doctor hates you.

After no transfusion but loaded up on even more hormones than before:

Me: No, he obviously hates you more.

Long weekend. For my family.

Time machine courtesy of Ortho Novum

This will be as close to discussing my innards as I will ever get.

I will not tell you the problem--only the "cure" as prescribed by my doctor.

*deep breath*

I have to take 4 pills of the hormone regulating variety a day for a few days.

4.

It is not to control my freakish fertility, so shut yer yaps. It remains to be seen if it will solve the problem, but the side effects are killing me. I feel like a 13 year old girl with all of these surging hormones. I want to hang Andy Gibb posters in my locker and put on some Bonne Belle bubble gum lip gloss. I have a sudden urge to write down the lyrics of Peter Gabriel songs. I have a craving for Funyons and Mountain Dew. And I am this close to donning on some leg warmers while lip syncing to "Xanadu." I think the only thing I haven't done is pick a fight with my mother.

Oddly, and whether or not related is unknown, but this week has been an odd culmination of time and opportunity domestically speaking. I have not only turned in all of my freelance assignments early and somehow managed to keep the visible house almost respectable, but today I cleaned the refrigerator and oven. I know, I know. Those nonpareil sprinkles that Amy spilled in the vegetable drawer and that turned into a solid sheet of rainbow shellac, is now gone. Hold your applause, please. Dinner is bubbling away on the stove, the kids are bathed, and I am one organized--although pre-pubescent--girl.

Excuse me while I go weep now over a particularly poignant episode of "Full House."

Can't we just be friends, doc?

I've self-diagnosed myself with regard to my heart.

My cardiologist has a crush on me.

Now that is not hubris, I assure you. Rather it is just simple math. I noticed today that I am his youngest patient by 100 years. I am his only patient that walks into his office on my own volition without any aids--human or otherwise. And since there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, I must be an easy $300 office visit.

We did the heart sonogram today. It "was normal...basically." So, this means what? "I see you again in 2 months." 2 months? There is no rhyme or reason to these follow-up appointments. Nothing significant cardiologically speaking has occurred in 2 years, and I went almost a year in between appointments, so why 2 months now?

It would be a whole lot cheaper and more convenient if we just met for coffee instead.

****

Pricey needless medical tests gave me an excuse for a day out, though. You would be very proud of my organizational efforts this week--closet is cleaned, vacation meals prepared, baby equipment purchased, 3 workouts so far, 1/2 of freelance assignments completed, and it is only freakin' Wednesday. I am so seriously impressed with myself, I can barely stand it. I almost feel like a bonafide grown-up as my kids ate homemade dinners in clean clothes. I might even bathe them tonight for a domestic Trifecta.

So I treated myself with a new bathing suit, which let me tell you at 8 weeks postpartum is not that much of a treat, and a delicious club sandwich for lunch on this special day.

T.S. Barry and Barry Manilow

I awoke to the melodious sounds of rain pattering down on the roof. It is melodious because it is sound we haven't heard around these parts in months, and it took me a few minutes to recall what one does on rainy days--bake cookies, make soup, clean closets, read, watch drippy old movies--all of which I would be more than happy to partake in until...ACK!

Barry.

As in Tropical Storm Barry. Which means this rain is no longer a good excuse for domestic pursuits, but rather for battening down hatches and finding batteries that work. So I will spend the entire morning racing around doing these stupid storm rituals because the Weather Channel will be evoking panic within me all day, only to have the storm pass well north of here leaving only a too full pool and muddy paw prints.

*****

Wedding last night: beautiful. And here is the compliment of the evening as rendered by a charming table mate #3: "You are the smartest wife of a sports executive I've ever met."

You are thinking that must be a shallow pool indeed, but I'll take it, people. I will take it with a handful of Jordan Almonds and a heaping scoop of Thanks.

Amphibious metaphors

Blessedly, I got a few shards of sleep last night. I may even be rested enough to do the Electric Slide at a wedding tonight...

Intern-nephew's presence here is a lot of fun. Not only is he a big help, but he does provide comic relief. And I think by the end of the summer, I should be able to improve his use of metaphors so he doesn't have to use some like these:

D: This house is so loud. I am just not used to...

Me: What? Being part of a family? Because I know you have one. I've met them.

D: No, it's just like getting plunged in...you're used to it. Like if we were frogs swimming in a hot pot of water. If your frog eased in and got used to it, he wouldn't die. And my frog just gets thrown into boiling water and it's such a shock, he dies.

Me: Ribbit.

I'm not even going to comment. Because really, what can one say when one is compared to a pot of boiling frogs?

But then this morning, when he didn't know I saw him, he kissed each one of those little toads before he left for work.

What a prince.