Where I answer nearly all your questions and survive house guests

A couple of things:

I am not dead. I am blogging for Baby Center four times a week and getting ready to take a red-eye to the east coast for a little family vacation. And those two things, along with the twins, are about all I can handle. More than I can handle, actually, if today's parenting techniques (mostly yelling with the occasional vacant stare into space) are any indication.

Oh, plus we had house guests. I forgot about the house guests.

I promised I would link to my Baby Center posts and so here I go. You can gorge yourself. You can live vicariously through me for hundreds and hundreds of words. Or you can buy things. Every Friday I write about cute things on Etsy. Your choice.

Read about:

My kids being total jerks in public

Why I was a jerk to the Mister (hint: I had a good reason)

How I keep from turning into the Wicked Witch of the West

All the other stuff I write about is here.

Feel free to write comments over there. It makes me look good.

Oh, and wish me luck on that red-eye. Maggie has a cold and I have a bad attitude, so it's not looking good. But we will discuss later. At length.

Please stand by

We are in the mountains, accomplishing (a little late) number 13 on the list of things to do before my 40th birthday. (Yes, we are still going to review the list together to see how I measure up to my ambitions). I've never quite seen anything so harmonious as Maggie + Ollie + snow. It's a match made in heaven. And the sledding! Oh, the sledding.

While the view is spellbinding, the Internet connection is patchy at best.

Tavis McNally, where for art thou?

While we are away, please amuse yourself with my 1988 prom picture. Be sure to appreciate the crimped hair; it took more than three hours to accomplish. This is part of an ongoing series I'm starting called "Cleaning out the Garage." I think you will enjoy it.

Mexico redux: ailments, injuries, and issues

I believe I promised you gringos falling into holes:

In addition to all the fun and sun in Mexico, there seemed to be quite a few ailments, injuries, and issues in our group. Some of the usual stuff: upset stomachs, hangovers, bug bites. But also a few more dramatic problems like painful relationship woes, major road rash, and one nasty case of what is either Dengue or Typhoid Fever.

It all started when my sort-of sister, Jenny, fell into a giant hole in the cement while walking home in the dark. One minute she is striding confidently across a little pier/deck thingy over the lagoon, the next second, she is up to her hip in a hole booby trapped with rusty pieces of rebar, all of which miraculously missed tearing her open in any life-threatening way. Still, I've never seen such impressively multi-hued bruises or a rawer, oozier-looking wound.

If I had been the one to fall in the hole, you can bet your last peso that I would have been able to speak of nothing else for the entire week. I would have had people waiting on me hand and foot. I would have demanded gauze and pain pills and constant, fluttering attention from all parties. But after some initial crying, Jenny bounced back like nobody's business. Only to be felled the next evening by all-night vomiting. From which she also bounced back with gusto. They don't breed no sissies in rural Vermont, apparently.

Oh sure. I look tough.

In between Jenny's accident and Mark's case of tropical fever, Maggie was stung by her very first bee, I had stinging jellyfish larvae stuck in my bathing suit, the sun broiled the tops of my brother's feet, I barfed in the sink, Donna whacked the s-h-i-t out of her shin climbing out of a boat, and, as if that all wasn't bad enough, there was one day when the pie ladies ran out of pie before we could get to them. The horror.

And now, to Sayulita:

We arrived on Sayulita Day. There were 15 marching bands

playing simultaneously and dancing horses in the streets.

Sayulita is a dusty surfing town about an hour north of Puerto Vallarta. It is also, suddenly, like the hottest, most talked about place in Mexico. Daily Candy just wrote about it. I have a piece on it in this month's Travel & Leisure. Every young hipster with a henna tattoo and Frida Kahlo beach bag is suddenly smitten with the place.

I've been there only once before, six or seven years ago, but because it gets so much hype, I've wondered lately if maybe I've been missing something. Maybe, I thought, we should start spending our vacations there. Maybe we were fading away like last year's papel picado in Yelapa. Maybe Sayulita was the place to be.

from HERE

So we went. Just the Mister and me. For a little romantic getaway, sans twins. Mark and Chelsea were already there.

As I said, dancing horses in the streets

And this is what I say: "Eh," shrugging my shoulders in the universal Jewish gesture meaning I could take it or leave it. It has its charms: taco stands, palm trees, good coffee, nice boutiques, a very reliable surf break. But its beach is a sea of sizzling flesh and pushy vendors. The beach-front restaurants charge you $15 a day to sit in their beach chairs, even if you are eating there. The town is crawling with the aforementioned hipsters, swarms of young parents wrestling their Bob strollers over the cobblestones, and boomers in Guatemalan vests and baggy shorts. Plus, it has that I'm-more-local-than-you vibe that tourist towns get thrumming through it like a pulse.

Don't get me wrong. It's a perfectly fine town, and our hotel was charming, indeed. But the fuss? The cache? I don't get it. Which means we can stick with Yelapa. Whew.

Chelsea and I follow directions by lounging in

our hotel's rooftop lounge, my favorite place in Sayulita

This brings me very nicely to the problems with travel writing I wanted to discuss. But I think I'll save that for another day. Along with news of my spray-on tan. Please stay tuned. There is audio of my Literary Death Match appearance coming soon as well. It's going to be a big week. Promise.

Turning 40 in Yelapa. Ole!

Last time we met I was off to Mexico and promising in my haste to discuss a million important things (such as the success or failure of my spray-on tan) upon my return. Well, I'm returned. The larder has been restocked. The laundry is in various states of washing and drying and waiting to be folded. The junk mail has been tossed, the checks endorsed. The sunscreen and bug spray have been put away. Let me just pour myself a glass of wine, and we'll settle in for a nice long chat.

We have so much to go over, so many adventures and mis-, that we're going to need a real working week to get through it all. Plus, as regular readers of this blog will attest, I've been a bit slack of late. And what better way to get back into the frenzied American pace than to commit to five full days of writing? I will picture you all as cranky overworked editors in soup-stained ties impatiently slapping the backs of your hands against your palms, demanding I file my next missive.

It was the Mister and Mark taking the kids up dangerous rocks

Let's start with Yelapa, Mexico, where I went with 17 family members and friends to celebrate turning 40. How was the trip, you ask? Well, it was so many things.

It was watching the chubasco from our open-air apartment

It was sunshine and blue sky, and it was unseasonable pelting drops of rain. It was hanging out with my dear friends, and it was fighting with my mom. It was our kids eating only white food for ten days. It was a pod of eight whales putting on a show, and it was a kidney-damaging boat ride on the pounding waves. It was heaven-sent piña coladas and a little touch of the Mexican revenge. It was bug bites, bee stings, and tetanus shots.

It was the invention of beach cereal

It was eating pie on the beach everyday. (That's right, I wrote "pie on the beach." And then I wrote, "every day.") It was turning 40. It was a shower of birthday Haikus recited in an outdoor disco. It was me feeling slightly anxious about making sure 17 people, ranging in age from 3 to 67 were having a good time. It was 17 people having a pretty great time in one of my favorite places on Earth.

It was customized birthday match boxes

It was Maggie forsaking her dinner for a lollipop

It was Julie reciting her Haiku a little tipsy on mango margaritas

It was me looking ridiculously drunk while Jono and

my dad discussed grant writing (I was sober)

Tomorrow's missive: Sayulita, boutique hotels, and why I regret ever becoming a travel writer. Plus, gringoes falling in cement holes prickling with rusty rebar, and, finally, the verdict on my spray-on tan.

Happy Birthday to Me

It's a long story, but let me just start by saying that today is the last day of my thirties and tomorrow, I will turn 40 and fly with my family to Mexico. And by my family I mean my husband and our two kids, the same ones who have been vomiting uncontrollably all day. I also mean my mom, my dad, my brother, one ex-step-mother, a former half-sister (it's a long story), and 8 friends.

We will be converging on Yelapa like a huge pile of buoyant, white flesh. We will eat so much fish and drink so much beer. We will have so much fun.

But we will not be blogging.

Because we will be remote. And having said fun.

But I will come back in 10 days and then I will tell you all about how my spray-tan worked out. And together we will revisit this list to see how it went. We will discuss my appearance on Friday at Literary Death Match (preview: it was fun. KFOG liked me).

In the meantime, enjoy the Olympics. Wish us well. Be nice.

I am woman, hear me dither endlessly

I just had my 80-minute Healing Hiker's massage (nyam, nyam) and although I do hate to leave my Four Seasons suite, I miss my family and am looking forward to a little three-year-old action. Plus, this desert air is murder on my lips; they feel like bark.

Flying over the Grand Canyon

Flying over the Grand Canyon

While I was off hiking the Grand Canyon and kayaking the Salt River and climbing the Praying Monk and dining on seared scallops with butternut squash ravioli, my kids were kind of missing me. Maggie especially.

The Mister told me this morning that she woke up at 1am last night crying and saying, "I need someone to talk to. I miss mommy." I know. The heart. It hurts.

I've always been a firm believer in taking a break. Being away from the kids for a few days always felt like a good thing, a much-needed refueling for me. But as my friend Vida pointed out to me long ago, your kids don't care about your success or your career or whether or not you need to refuel. They don't even care if you ever publish a novel. They just want you to be soft and loving and available.

This is the rub of motherhood, I suppose, the place where your sense of who you want to be and your sense of who you should be stand across from one another glaring and whispering cruelly. One says, "You cannot make anyone else happy unless you yourself are happy and fulfilled." The other one says, "Shut up you selfish twat and make me a pie."

It's a place where I feel particularly judged. I get a lot of raised eyebrows and disapproving comments disguised at declarative sentences. Things like, "Wow, you are so lucky. I could never leave my kids for five days." Or, "I just feel like I've lost a limb when I'm away from my little darlings." Comments that simultaneously fill me with guilt and murderous rage (I'm not even going to discuss the sexist double-standard here. Fathers, as we know, are pretty much free to come and go as they please).

I don't know what the solution is. I miss my kids and it pains me to know that they miss me. But I doubt very much that the next time someone offers me a free trip to, well, anywhere, I am likely to turn it down. Traveling is one of the great joys of my life. Free traveling is one of the great bargains of my life.

I am almost certain I am not doing my children any permanent damage by leaving them with their loving and capable father for a few days here and there. What that bilious combination of guilt, freedom, joy, sadness and self-recrimination is doing to my own psyche, however, I cannot say.

I could say this picture is about being on the edge

of something, but really I just want to show you again what a badass I can be

I did this today

Be the only girl in the group who makes it to the top of the Praying Monk? Check.

Happy weekend. May you summit a few things.

Why you should always put on a little lipgloss before getting on a plane

This photo has nearly nothing to do with the post.

I'm just fascinated by its origins.

Who bought him that shirt? Creepy Uncle Orlan?

There I was, minding my own business with the latest Us Weekly (Angelina is such a bitch!) when someone two seats away from me perks up and says, "Samantha?" And who should be seated with me in row 17 on US Airways flight 14 from SFO to Phoenix, but Heath H., the boy I thought I would surely die of love for at age of 14. He was the first boy my age to get a hairy chest.

Poor Heath. There was a time in 9th grade when I called his house every evening. Every evening. I could practically hear his sister rolling her eyes as she shouted, "Heeath." Not that I cared what she thought; my love trumped all other impulses, like dignity and self-restraint, for example.

Once he got on the phone I would open with "Hi." Then I would sit there silently all tied up with desire and self-consciousness, totally unable to think of anything else to say.

But he was so nice to me. He never asked me to stop calling. He never said one mean thing to me. Instead he sat on the other end of the phone trying his best to make conversation and get the hell on with his life without hurting my feelings.

Once, he invited me over to dinner and made me frozen pizza and a salad with large hunks of carrot that crunched excruciatingly as I chewed. I was almost too nervous to breathe. It was our first and last date.

When I saw him today he was still so nice. And I was still so awkward and twitchy. I think I have residual embarrassment about my extreme lack of cool back in the day. It's been 24 years since I masticated those excruciating carrot hunks in the presence of Heath H. and yet it doesn't take more than a second to transform me back into that horribly self-conscious girl neurotically wiping her nose of phantom boogers and robotically repeating "that's cool" like it were some sort of mantra.

Hello, 1984. It's been a while.

Random Observations on DC

I promised a little more about DC, so here it goes, random observations.

1. The Newseum makes most other museums feel pretty Podunk. It's pretty much six floors of awesomeness, especially if you are sort of a First Amendment junkie, uber-nerd (my favorite kind of people). The Pulitzer Prize photography room alone is worth the pricey admission. But bring your hankie because no one wins a Pulitzer for taking pictures of healthy, well-adjusted children feeling joyful.

Photo from here.

2. DC is a very black city (54.4%). San Francisco is not (6.5%). In DC, white people and black people are together a lot, doing business, hanging out, going to school, conversing. In San Francisco, they are not. In DC there are black people across the socioeconomic spectrum (hello, Mr. President). In San Francisco there are also middle class African Americans, but the majority of black San Franciscans live in poorer, marginalized neighborhoods. I guess what I am trying to say is that race relations felt much more relaxed in DC than in supposedly super-liberal, groovy SF. Here, it feels like a bunch of stiff white people trying to be PC about the black people they don't actually know. There, it just felt like a completely natural mix of people doing their thing. Which is what my dad always said about Southern cities: that despite a reputation for and history of racism, there was actually a lot more regular, day-to-day interaction between races. And that completes my portion of the national conversation on race. Now watch this mazing video.

3. In DC it seemed as if there was a larger percentage of young women who dressed as if they were on Gossip Girls. They were all so blond and shiny and barely clad and slutty looking. We saw lots of Daisy Dukes and stilettos. Where, I ask you, were the dowdy policy wonks in sweater sets? I know, I'm so totally old and prudish now.

Vermont is my primary excuse

The view from my dad's deck 

My goodness!  It's been an age, hasn't it?  Way out here in the Northeast Kingdom (or, as my father calls it, Vermont's Appalachia) where there is no wifi and the days slip by in a blur of emerald green and endless porch sitting, one tends to forget ones blogging responsibilities. I have lots of excuses: friends up from Boston for the weekend, the fact that I have to walk to an entirely different building to access the Internet, vacation inertia so severe that going into town for ice cream constitutes drive and ambition.

But enough with my excuses. As Hilary's Italian boyfriend once screamed to his slow contractor: I rinse my balls with your excuses! Oh Italy, where everything bad effects the balls ("how balls" they lament when you tell them your woes) and everything good comes from the vagina (when Hilary was looking particularly foxy, another boyfriend called her a "super-baked-pussy," a compliment that, sadly, doesn't translate well). 

I digress. I'm here, really, just to let you know that we are in Vermont, having a lovely, lazy time.  Watching thunderstorms and fireflies.  Eating too much. Drinking for too long.  Letting our kids stay up until 9. Living the vida loca. And to inform you that because of the long, arduous walk across the driveway to my dad's office that I am required to make to access my blogger account, I will be out of touch for the next three days.  I'm sorry, really.  But there are only so many sacrifices I can make for the good of the Internet. So I'll be back on Friday morning.  Stay tuned.  It's going to be good.

In the meantime, think of us here in the lost corner of New England:

 

Fun for the whole family!

Bethany Beach, Delaware might just be

paradise on Earth for three-years olds.

There are the aforementioned parades...

...fireworks and sparklers

There's picking blueberries with grandma

and then eating so many your poop turns violet.

There's Fun Land and with your cousins.

There's also walking into town for ice cream, going to the beach, water slides, a Care Bears tricycle that plays music while you pedal, and a grandmother who makes roll 'em up pancakes with powdered sugar every morning for breakfast.

And although I could do without the Care Bears song, it's a pretty good place for gown-ups too (we add booze, blue crabs, board games, and sleeping in while grandma makes breakfast).

Tomorrow we head out on the next stop of our great East Coast adventure: road trip to Vermont! Swimming in lakes, catching fireflies, and eating maple syrup to follow.

Happy B-day, America

It's the Fourth of July and that means two things:

1. The Bethany Beach, Delaware parade, complete with marching bands, candy thrown from fire engines, and about a million kids on bikes. Maggie and Ollie got to ride on their first float (it won first place!), and double-fist lollipops thrown at them by strangers.

2. My mother-in-law's Blueberry Yum Yum. It takes just about everything I've got not to eat the whole pan. Here's the recipe. You can thank me later, as we are waddling down the street in our stretch pants and mu-mus.

Blueberry Yum Yum

recipe originally from McCabe's Blueberry Farm, Selbyville, DE

(serves 15)

2 c. blueberries

1/4 c water

2 c. sugar--divided*

1/4 c. cornstarch

3 tbsp. water

1 c flour

1/2 softened butter

1 c. finely chopped pecans

1-8oz. package of cream cheese (softened)

1 pint heavy whipping cream

* I use about half the sugar called for.

Combine blueberries, 1 c. sugar and 1/4 water in a saucepan, cook over low heat until berries are soft. Combine cornstarch and 3 tbsp. water in a small bowl, stir well. Add mixture to blueberries, cook stirring constantly until thickened. Set aside to cool. Combine flour, butter, and pecans in a bowl, mix well to make dough. Press dough evenly into a 9x13 inch pan. Bake at 350 for 20 minutes, let cool. Combine cream cheese and 1 c. sugar, beat until smooth. Whip cream until stiff, fold into cream cheese mixture (I add a teaspoon of grated lemon zest to this mixture). Spread topping evenly over cooled crust. Pour blueberry mixture evenly over topping and refrigerate. Cut into squares and serve.

Portraits of Venice

A few of my Venetian friends. They look a little stiff, but they're great once you get to know them.