My hobbies

Because I am very talented, I have managed to squeeze in a couple of hobbies in between all the carpools that I do. One of these you may have already figured out. It is called Starbucks. This is a very good hobby. Here's why: you can do it alone, with friends, and with children. You can do it on the rare Friday when your Big Shot Husband is working at home and he is nice enough to make you a quesadilla to take and eat it with your coffee. Like a date. You can do it while you're working (or blogging, like I am doing as I type), reading, staring at the people around you wondering why they don't have jobs or filling out school forms. If you build model airplanes as a hobby, for example, you can't do any of these things surrounding the hobby. I feel I have chosen well.

I also enjoy the dog-eat-dog aspect of getting a table at particularly crowded Starbucks where lots of people go to "work." This happened just yesterday. I ended up at the only available table, the one with the wheelchair sign on it. Though I felt a little guilty, there was nobody there who needed it.  And since I was doing actual PAID work yesterday, I felt especially justified in grabbing the table because I had lots and lots of articles on diabetes that I was busy summarizing (yes, it is extremely fascinating work, yawn).

OK, so total oops when a couple who were extremely disabled appeared on the scene. The lady looked at me accusingly (yes, she was right), and I jumped up and said, "Ma'am, would you like this table?" "Well, yes,"she said, looking down at her canes (doh!). Of course it took me a million hours to gather the 57 articles I was summarizing, my lunch, my coffee, my computer, my mouse pad and my purse and skedaddle to another table. Cringe. But it was the most exciting thing that happened to me yesterday. Well, almost. Because that brings me to my second hobby: Yiddish!

Every time anyone learns about my passion for the language (which I started learning a year and a half ago now), they invariably ask, "Why?" And look at me as if I am from another planet. They are right. But I also have a theory as to where my Yiddish love stems from. I believe that in the 19th century, I was a lovely shtetl-living girl named Rivka. That's my Hebrew name in real life. My nom de plume is Honeycake, my nom de Jew is Rivka.

Anyway, Rivka lived on a shtetl and was married to a fun-loving Rebbe who loved her for her sharp mind and not-too-shabby looks (work with me, people). He gave her ten children (K"H) and she worked tirelessly to keep their dwelling clean, put good food on the table, educate her children, and tend to the chickens. She was a ba'alas chesed and well-respected in her shtetl. And she spoke tons of Yiddish, duh.

Now, obviously some of Rivka's traits have morphed over the centuries, but the Yiddish loving part is still 100% there. And I firmly believe that because little Rivka worked her fingers to the bone in the shtetl, today this Rivka likes to relax (I mean work) at Starbucks.

So yesterday I trekked back to the JCC for another start of another semester of Yiddish at the JCC!! It was so much fun. This session, we have a new boy in class. His name is Rudy and he's from Brooklyn. And he's in his 70s. Like everyone else in the class. That's right, it's an early-bird special crowd in Intermediate Yiddish, but those are my peeps.

We started off the class with the teacher (who's not that old, maybe 50s), speaking only in Yiddish. Pure heaven. He asked us all to introduce ourselves. Here's what I said:
"Ich heis Lekach. Ich voyn in a shtetl. Ich bin a mame. Un a schreiber!" (My name is Honeycake. I live in a small community with lots of other Orthodox Jews. I am a mother. And a writer). So zayde number 1 asks, "Du bist a schreiber?" (You are a writer?) So I said, "Ich hob a blog.!" Right?! I am plugging Honeycake613 any way I can.

Anyway, here's why I really love Yiddish. It's the only language that is impossible to teach with language tapes (there aren't any), television shows (none), movies (few available), immersion (difficult to impossible--there are no cultural exchange programs with New Square or Mea Shearim). It is a language that is taught with linguistics, history, songs, jokes, and Jewish religion. For example, last night we learned the origins of Slavic words and sounds in Yiddish. That was most of the class. The highlight of the class for me, though, was when our teacher said about a particular imperative, "That's the word you use when you point." Have you ever taken a language class where that sentence was uttered? As the DEFINITION of a word? Awesome.

Lucky for you, I have carpool now because I could go on and on about Yiddish. I will sign off with the following lyrics from a famous Yiddish tune (one of my faves) that I was just thinking about:

A bisl zun a bisl regn
A ruig ort dem kop tzu legn
Abi gezunt ken men gliklakh zayn

A little sun, a little rain [actually a lot of rain today]
A quiet place where things are mellow (or I can lay my head) [I can't believe they wrote about Starbucks back then]
As long as you have your health, you can be happy!

I'll keep reminding myself of that as I slog through traffic to pick up my kids. One thing you can say about the shtetl: no minivans allowed.

YouTube is my parenting tool

Since I am the proud mother of a 10-year-old boy (Pes), I have begun to learn a few things about boys in general. I grew up in a house with a sister, and have almost exclusively girl cousins, so I just didn't grow up with boys. Having friends and schoolmates who are boys is one thing, living with them is quite another. One thing I have learned is: they are not big on discussing feelings. If, for example, I were to ask Zsa Zsa or Eva to elucidate the finer points of emotion stratification vis-a-vis friendship disappointment, school stress, or an unsuccessful shopping expedition, we would be here for days. Boys, not so.

There are other differences as well. Pes would be happy if I were not so cognizant of his personal hygiene. We had a discussion on the topic this summer and he said, "Oh, I don't need that (meaning, hygiene). I'm going to be one of those guys who sits on the couch all day eating cheese puffs. I'll be a cheesepuffologist like Rat (see Pearls Before Swine)." OK, then.

Lately, in honor of the upcoming Rosh Hashana holiday, I have been taking stock of my life and trying to institute some improvements. I'm sure you can guess that one of these is to (ding ding ding you guessed it) be a better mother. This evening, I parlayed my resolution into an activity I thought we could all enjoy--It's called watching stuff on YouTube.

It started when I noticed that Zsa Zsa and Pes had begun some sort of synchronized hand clapping/dance thingamajig and what's the first thing I thought of? Of course, Ross and Monica's dance routine, Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve, first aired Thurs, Dec 16, 1999. Friends. The TV Show. Keep up, Mother.

So I ran to the computer and was like, "Kids, gather 'round, you have to see this it is SOOO funny!" Any chance to run to the computer and watch something at my house is like feeding raw meat to lions and within seconds, we were all whooping it up with Ross and Monica. They laughed, I laughed, it was great. Then, Pes reminded me that as we were viewing another YouTube video on Rosh Hashana the day before (yes, I know), I got him hooked on "Charlie bit my finger." For those of you who haven't seen this, it is the funniest 56 seconds you will ever see. And it has over 370 MILLION hits so if you haven't seen it yet, I'll give you a second to go do that now.

Good job. We had all had a great laugh, and everyone took turns feeling the scar tissue on my leg. I somberly recounted the war story in which I earned that scar; a two-year-old Gorby biting my leg right through my jean skirt causing a near-fainting episode from the pain. Incidentally, it was Gorby who laughed the absolute hardest at "Charlie bit my finger." Then, it was off to bed.

Around 9 o'clock, Pes came downstairs to say goodnight and since Big Shot Husband was not home yet, I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to gauge how I'm doing as a mother. One thing I always fear is that my kids don't feel loved enough because I can sometimes, once in a while, be a little tad bit critical of them. Knowing that my subject was a 10-year-old boy who wasn't about to give me a lengthy discourse on his psyche, I came up with a clever multiple choice test.

"So, Pes," I said, "Do you feel like I love you?"
"Duh, Mommy, of course," said Pes.
"So, like, if you're at school and you're really upset about something, do you think to yourself:
a) I wish Mommy were here;
b) I can't wait until I can hug Mommy later;
c) I know Mommy loves me; or
d) Charlie Bit My Finger."

Gales of laughter erupted. He shook his head, indicating, I guess, e) None of the above.
"But Mommy," he said, "Today on our field trip when we were doing the pulley thingy when I had to go really high up in the air, I thought to myself, 'My mom would be really proud of me.'" That's all I needed to know.

Zsa Zsa gets braces

So last week, my Zsa Zsa got braces. This is a good thing since she has some weird things happening in her little mouth. Let's just say that her teeth look she is the progeny of two first cousins marrying. Luckily, she's pretty smart, so the inbreeding didn't seem to affect her intellect. Actually, there are people who have said that Big Shot Husband and I look alike. This is ludicrous. Big Shot Husband is tall, dark and handsome and I am, well, short. And pale. One person actually asked where our families were from (Russia, Poland) and smiled a see-I-knew-it smile. I mean, I'm sure they are onto something since no other Ashkenazic Jews come from those locales. Ahem.

Anyway, have you noticed that certain people are always trying to discuss how your kids resemble/act like/otherwise take after you or your husband? Like, I always get, "Your girls look just like you," or, "Perfect Eldest Son must be JUST LIKE Big Shot Husband when he was that age," or, "Gorby sure is athletic, which one of you is?" This one garners the following response: "It's a mutated recessive gene." I mean, I'm not sure if people are trying to make conversation, or are just interested in that sort of thing. But if the comment is flattering to me, I don't question it too much. Sometimes, however, it's not so flattering. To me.

I had this boss once whom I really respected. He was funny and smart and liked me and I really enjoyed working for him. To be honest, I think the reason he talked to me so often is that he was totally interested in Big Shot Husband's doings, which, at the time, were pretty darn interesting.

So even though he had eight kids of his own, I still thought he would DEFINITELY be interested in what 5- year-old Pes was up to and how smart he was. At that time, I was one of those REALLY ANNOYING parents who tells everyone how brilliant their first-born child is (N.B. to my friends who are reading this: yes, I know I still do this).

Anyway, my boss always seemed impressed with my tales of Pes's newest trick. So one day I was bragging about how Pes could recite all 43 (at the time) presidents in order. (I didn't mention that it was a big fat joke between Pes, Big Shot Husband and Mother that I had never heard of Chester A. Arthur before Pes started his studies). I went on a bit about the Presidents trick and his affinity for chess, and boss looked at me and said, "Wow, he sounds really smart. He must get that from your husband."

Back to Zsa Zsa's braces. We're at the friendly neighborhood orthodontist (yes, he's friendly and we live in the same neighborhood but of course his office is inconveniently located in the next city). I take a deep breath and ruminate on how completely crazy the day had been thus far (it was exactly noon at this point). It was pouring all day, I had done a million errands, I schlepped 25 minutes to school to collect her, then sloshed another 25 minutes in the opposite direction to the orthodontist.

As we arrived, I thought about how this was the end of the day already, as by the time we were finished, we would be heading to preschool to pick up Gorbachev, doing a quick "kill an hour" errand before getting Eva, arriving home at 4+ and doing homework, dinner blahblahblah, culminating in the prodigal son finally returning home after mishmar, basketball etc at 7PM and I know you are so bored by this your eyes are glazing over.

I have noticed of late that since some of my children are cognitively able to intereface at a semi-sophisticated level, I sometimes confide in them. This is usually a mistake. Nonetheless, as we were waiting for the appointment, hanging out in the bathroom, I confided in Zsa Zsa that this appointment really was somewhat inconvenient being right in the middle of the day and we're always rushing around and it's hard to get things done, and the day was over almost as soon as it had begun.

She said, "Mommy, how do the other mommies manage? I mean, Dr./Mrs. E has 6 kids, and Mrs. S has 7 kids, and Mrs.L has 10 kids and the so-and-so's have twelve kids, and they all seem to do it...
Don't worry, you'll get used to it." And she dried her hands and walked confidently out of the bathroom.

I looked after her and sighed. She's eight years old. How many more years of Life Lessons from Zsa Zsa will I have to endure? But of course, she's right. The mommies we know have a million kids and still seem to manage. And one day, G-d willing, she'll be a mommy and she'll complain to me about how much she has to do and how she has 57 carpools, and Shloimy has an ear infection, and Malky needs glasses and the baby was up all night and I'll just say, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

Shopping with the Gabor Sisters

So every year around this time, Mother and I take Zsa Zsa and Ava (8 and 6) to a department store to buy pretty frocks for Shabbos/Yom Tov/Simchas etc for the fall/winter season. Each girl gets around four dresses and in recent memory, they came from the 4-6x section of the store. I have been concerned, of late, that though Zsa Zsa is a mere slip of a girl at four foot one and 44 pounds, the four footers and above really do land in the realm of size 7.

The reason I have nervously approached this size 7 thing is that these days in America, dresses in the size 7-14 range are made to be as short and tight as possible. I have a teacher friend who says in her (secular) school, she sometimes walks behind girls on the staircase and tells them she can see their (thong) underwear. Um, yuck.

Anyway, we were on our way to the mall to purchase our fall/winter frocks when my phone rang.
"You're on your way to the mall, right dear?" asks Big Shot Husband.
"Yeah," I say.
"Could you please please see if you can find me a yellow tie to wear on TV tomorrow?" he sweetly requests. I grunt and hang up.

You see, when I am focused on a project, I DO NOT LIKE to veer away to another project as I usually allot a certain number of minutes to said project because I have tightly scheduled my next appointment. Yes, even on vacation. So I had allotted exactly one hour and ten minutes for the Gabor Shopping Extravaganza and did not want to go to a totally different store at a totally different part of the mall to start shopping for ties. Unfortunately, I mentioned the tie thing to Mother who is Big Shot Husband's groupie extraordinaire.

"Honeycake," she says, "we can just run into Department Store A for a few minutes to get the tie and then get the dresses at Department Store B."
"Mother," I say, "that is just not possible what with our time constraints and given that Department Store B is located at least a seven minute walk from Department Store A." (I am also excellent at estimating time and distance).
"Hm," she says thoughtfully.

We arrived at the mall and I saw Mother drive toward Department Store B (dresses) and then say, "Oh, you know what, there really isn't a lot of parking down there, I'm just going to park here, right in front of Department Store A (tie)." She is pretty smart and crafty, that mother of mine. That's why she is a medical doctor and I write blogs.

When we were safely at Department Store B, we split up. I looked for dresses with Eva in 4-6x and Mother and Zsa Zsa braved the 7-14 department. Since I had already gone online looking at the merchandise, I knew exactly which dresses I liked. Eva was pretty easy, we chose about eight dresses to try. Zsa Zsa, on the other hand, was extremely verbose and wanted to discuss each and every dress, both in the choosing stage and, later, in the try-on stage.

For example, I found a supercute dress in leopard print in size 7 and she said, "I don't really wear leopard, it's not my style." Um, what? I thought this girl was related to me and I adore animal prints. Plus, she IS a Gabor. In the dressing room, they tried on dress after dress, preening in the mirror and keeping up a running dialogue about the process.

Zsa Zsa: "They make really cute dresses these days."
Eva: "This I'm DEFINITELY getting."
Zsa Zsa: "That really brings out your eyes, Eva!"
Eva: "Wait, let me pose."
Zsa Zsa: "I have different poses for different dresses."

In the end, they each found four adorable dresses. Luckily, Zsa Zsa can still wear some 6x's but one of Zsa Zsa's dresses is a size 10(!) because the 7 was so tight and so short. And it fits her fine. We are in trouble next year. But we were done with fifteen minutes to spare. Oh, think of that! Mother could pick out ties for Big Shot Husband on our way out. She's pretty wily.

Meanwhile, I was proud of my daughters, with their tznius (modest) values, never asking for anything short or tight. Still dressing like adorable little girls (not trashy teenagers) since they are, after all, adorable little girls. I congratulated myself for the fact that they have never watched those deplorable shows on Nickelodeon so therefore don't know how "tweens" dress (that is the dumbest word ever, by the way). I thought of the values they learn at school and how their dress code teaches them that even when away from school they should wear long skirts, knee socks and long sleeves. Even in summer. And, by the way, this dress code provides excellent sun protection!

The next day, I was sitting outside on my parents' deck, content with the world. And then I saw them. Zsa Zsa and Eva were playing dress-up. They took their regulation frum girl ankle length black skirts, hiked them up to their chests to approximate short dresses, tied cardigans around their necks to look like scarves, and put their hair in buns. I almost had a stroke. I thought of that Robert Palmer video circa 1986 ("Addicted to Love"). I looked at them again. Yep, dead ringers. I thought about how sweet, innocent, and modest they are. And how all the values I and their school have instilled can so quickly fly right out the window. But by an hour later, they were all buttoned up again. For now.

Swim Lessons

This past spring, I woke up in a cold sweat one morning. I was panicking. I didn't know where to turn. That's right, I realized that MY KIDS DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO SWIM!! OK, Perfect Eldest Son (Pes) swims OK and Zsa Zsa and Eva. . .well, let's just say that as of the beginning of summer, they were happy to buy many super cute bathing suits ("Oh, Zsa Zsa, look at this one!!! Isn't it sooooo cute??!!) but REALLY couldn't swim. And Gorby was what Big Shot Husband calls a "barnacle" in the pool. No explanation required (I hope).

You see, I was not able to think clearly about how to proceed because I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after sending my three older kids to swim lessons at the local county pool almost two years prior (no I don't get over things quickly). Dragging three tired children after school (ages 4, 6, and 8) to the pool at 5PM, is never fun in any circumstance. But Zsa Zsa and Eva were particularly unlucky in the teacher they were given. Let's call him Meaniehead.

Every day after lessons (which we were not allowed to watch), I was regaled with tales of misbehavior of then-four-year-old Eva. And he would continually threaten to, "Kick her out," of the class. Seriously, what kind of teacher for the 4-6 year old crowd uses the words, "Kick her out." I mean, it's not like she was smoking in the bathroom, right?

I was finally asked to come and watch so I could see her misbehavior myself. I did notice that Eva tried to have fun and laugh a little more than the other children. But I didn't see anything that would warrant such admonitions. So I concluded that he just didn't like her. Even my mother-in-law agreed with me when I called her all huffy about the injustice and stuff. And she is really smart about these things.

But despite being constantly told how much she was misbehaving, getting timeouts on the stairs and threatened with expulsion, she was perfectly happy and felt she had done just great in swim lessons. The crowning moment was when I received her report card, which contained comments like, "Failed to complete any skills assigned. Needs basic water adjustment and should not enroll in any county class, EVER. May benefit from private instruction. But not from me." I sighed and tried to figure out how I would hide that from the Harvard admissions officers.

Then I called the pool manager and screamed and ranted and said Meaniehead was the worst swim teacher ever and he shouldn't be allowed around small children and how could he treat my precious Eva this way, and I am not a mom who usually calls about things but this was just the most egregious case of swim teacher malpractice I could ever imagine. "And," I concluded, "I am NEVER coming back to your pool." "Well," said Pool Manager, "I hear Pool X in the other part of the county has very good lessons. Good luck."

So this summer, I was finally able to take a deep breath and make a plan for how to get my three older kids swimming. Since we were planning a very extended break at the west coast home of my parents, I decided to sign Pes, Zsa Zsa and Eva up for swim lessons at the local county pool, a pool I used when I was a lass. It is beautiful and new and I was sure we would have a better experience than we had at our county program back home. The kids all spent some time in various pools before we left for our trip, and Zsa Zsa managed to learn to doggy paddle before we embarked on vacation.

So as I have sat watching lessons for the past week, I have been quite pleased. First, it is a perfect 75 degrees and sunny each day so it is pleasant to sit and watch. Second, I am allowed to sit and watch. Third, the lessons run like a German train station, with a loudspeaker announcing, "1030 lessons are beginning." Then "1100 lessons are beginning, 1030 lessons leave the pool." And lickety split, their teacher disappears from the premises. Seriously, I don't even see her leave the pool and I keep trying to find her all over the place. I think she apparates.

And, speaking of teachers, Meaniehead was nothing to look at, believe you me. He was chubby and could have used a manzier, if you know what I'm getting at. The swim teachers at the pool where we are taking lessons now in small town west coast USA are, yes, a little like commandants. But they are cute, have long legs and zero percent body fat. And somehow, Eva has managed to get hers to pay attention mostly to her though there are seven kids in the class. But in a good way. I wish I could see Meaniehead now and say, "See, she can swim. See, Miss Teen USA could teach her and be nice to her and call her, 'Sweetie.' See, you totally need a manzier." But it's not like I'm holding a grudge or anything.

The Wild West

Today is my anniversary. Coincidentally, it is also Big Shot Husband's anniversary. We got married 12 years ago. Today. For me, it's been nothing but wedded bliss. For him. . .you'll have to ask him yourself.

As a result of said anniversary, we gave my parents the gift of not only paying for the wedding 12 years ago which I believe cost A LOT of money, they are watching our children (yay) while we are taking a side trip to a hot state in the Southwest to visit friends. It is hot here. Like 100 degrees. At 10 PM. (Not yay).

So I awoke this morning, in a lovely mood just like every other morning, sat up, and immediately experienced excruciating pain in my neck. No, the irony is not lost on me. Yes, I know Big Shot Husband should have experienced the pain in HIS neck. Haha.

We decided to drive two hours to a well-known tourist destination chock full of red rocks, psychics, crystals and the like.  I was solely interested in taking an off-road Jeep tour. On our way into town, Big Shot Husband was temporarily detained by the lure of the Gap outlet where he bought himself a new wardrobe. Hm.

Finally, we got into town and ran to the nearest shopfront with a sign saying, "If you are a tourist and want a Jeep ride, come here." I squealed, "That's us, honey!" Except I didn't squeal and I didn't say "honey." The guy recommended a certain tour company which offers the "Little Rattler" tour (this is for people who don't want to do death defying Jeep rides down sheer cliffs on the "Big Scary Giant Rattlesnake" tour), and we bought tickets. Except first he asked us questions about our health: Any recent surgeries? No. Pregnant? G-d no! Back Problems? No. Neck problems? No, I said to myself, except when I woke up and couldn't move my head to either side this morning, but I have taken six Advil and the pain is at least 10% diminished now. So I just told him no.

We trotted off to the Jeep lot and ran into some of our best family friends from back home. How weird is that? Not as weird as when we met the friends for a drink later and a Chassidishe couple from Brooklyn (he with the bekishe, perfectly curled peyos and she with the black synthetic outfit, black synthetic sheitel and hat on top) asked Big Shot Husband to take a picture of them and thanked him in Yiddish.

Anyway, I digress. Here we were at the Jeep place and the lady again asked all the health questions. Back problems, pregnancy, surgery, neck problems. Nope, nope, nope, nope. Except my neck hurt like the dickens but I was determined to get that back canyon Jeep tour. So off we went.

Our tour guide, let's call him John Wayne, informed us on the way out of town that he was a great grandfather. Yes. And he was about to drive us up a really scary mountainy, cliffy, canyony thing in a totally open vehicle. But he was wearing cowboy boots, jeans, western shirt and cowboy hat so his street cred was good. Also, the arthritis in his hands didn't look too bad.

Then he informed us that lots of snakes reside up where we were headed. Rattlesnakes, apparently, are born live, like humans, and baby rattlers use all their venom when they bite because they haven't learned that biting with all their venom will leave them venomless and, hence, foodless for two weeks.

Then John Wayne proceeded to tell us that his wife was bitten by a baby one (!) and went to two hospitals and had 14 vials of anti-venom stuff and was in ICU for days and then was discharged with a $30,000 medical bill. OK.

He drove us all around, totally off-roading, and stopped periodically to show us all the ways one can get hurt and/or killed in the vast desert.

"You can survive no more than three days out here without water," said John Wayne. I looked to the right. All I saw were rocks, dirt and very sharp plants. I couldn't look to the left because my neck hurt too much. I was hoping he wouldn't leave us up there. I reminded myself to laugh very hard at his jokes.

"You do not need a license to carry, shoot or conceal a gun in the state of Arizona," said John Wayne. That sounded cool. Big Shot Husband asked if he was, "Packing heat," on our tour. I was embarrassed except that I reminded myself that as a nerdy Jewish guy who had just outfitted himself at the Gap a mere hour earlier he just couldn't help himself. John Wayne said he "only" carried his .45 up here. Oh. He advised that if we had any machloches with another driver in Arizona to just let it go because most are armed. Except he didn't say machloches.

We were also informed that you could ride any kind of crazy vehicle on the off-road dirt paths with no helmet (if you were over 16) and do any kind of crazy thing you'd want to out there in the desert period. Except all there is up there, to my understanding, are deadly animals, scary sharp plants and rocky bumpy crevices/canyons/I don't know whats. And it's a million degrees. With no shade. I was ready to go shop. But first we had to do a lot of bumpy off-roading. My neck hurt. A lot. I also held on to Big Shot Husband's arm very hard. I think he has a bruise.

Finally, we were back on the paved highway close-ish to town. John Wayne said, "It's startin' to rain. We have to try to outrun the storm." Oh, I thought, good idea. But John Wayne meant that we should drive 100 miles an hour on a 25 mph road. And not always on the right side of it. I dug my nails into Big Shot Husband's arm again. Stressful. Finally, we were going a normal speed on a normal road with no rain (go John Wayne) and were almost back to town. John Wayne told us we'd have to bring our children next time because he was, "sure they would love dirt biking down the steep cliffs up there." Yeah. My frail Ashkenazi children would totally not love that. At all.

And then we got the phone call. "Mommeeeeeee!!!" wails from Eva. "I can't believe you made me take swimming lessons at Grandma's" Sob sob sob shriek. "The teacher was sooooo strict and mean!!" You see, I signed them up for two weeks of swim lessons while visiting my family and today was the first day, when I am away in a sunny Southwestern state.

I look around and take in the beautiful sights. The rocks, the sky, the scenery, all so different from where I'd ever been. And somehow, that voice just brought me right back to reality in two seconds flat. Pes gets on and says, "The lessons are too easy, Mommy, I don't want to do them. Please don't make me." Sniff sniff. Gorby, "Hi Mommy, I played on the babysitter's phone." He didn't do lessons, guess he had fun and he is not causing any problems for five minutes.

Finally, dear Zsa Zsa gets on, but before she can speak, I say, "Zsa Zsa, come on, Mommy really can't do anything about the swimming from here. Ask Grandma," I sigh exasperatedly, "I mean, you know I can't help you, currently I am in a hot Southwestern state where it is 110 degrees in the shade." Zsa Zsa says, "Mommy, I wasn't going to complain. I liked the swimming lessons. I just wanted to say I miss you and love you soooo much." My darling Zsa Zsa. I am the Worst Mother Ever.

Air Travel

Every year we go on a Big Trip. We get on an airplane, fly 3000 miles to the opposite coast and spend several weeks at my childhood home with my parents. It is Fun. My children wait all year for this Trip, which involves vast amounts of space to run, ice cream, cool weather and extreme Grandma spoilage. And I get to relive my past, year after year. This year I even cleaned out the closet of my childhood bedroom which involved delving deep into the fashions of the 80s and 90s, including a white sequined dress I wore for some high school dance. My girls insisted I try it on and guess what? Some of you will be seeing me in it on Purim, yippee!! I will be Queen Esther. Zsa Zsa and Eva decided.

Anyway, this is about air travel so let's get to it. The past two or three years we have been flying out of Small Icky Airport instead of Big Luxe Airport due to the fact that the direct coast-to-coast flight is much cheaper from Small Icky International. And because there are many of us flying, even a cheap ticket becomes expensive when you multiply it by six. This is a principle I discovered after I had Gorby. I would go to, for example, Target and see something "cute for the kids." "Oh, it's so cute and so cheap, I should buy it for them," I would say to myself. Then I would multiply that cheap number by four and suddenly it wasn't that cheap anymore.

So the other day, we started off EARLY to get to Small Icky International. The two non-stop flights from there to here are either 8AM (which we all know means out of the house no later than 530 AM), or 9PM, which is stupid (it is a multi-hour flight--about five and a half but feels like 20). Of course, I needed coffee when I arrived at SII because I got up at 430 and was darn tired. Now, after many airplane trips from SII, I have finally cottoned on to the fact that the Starbucks in this airport is located in the terminal BEFORE you enter security. Um, what? What genius came up with that? Who gets to the airport sufficiently early to leisurely drink their Starbucks without worrying that if they wait another few minutes, they will get stuck in the security line, have all their stuff searched and/or get stuck behind a family with four kids, each with two carry ons. Or be that family.

OK, this time I was not going to stand for an early morning flight without Starbucks. We arrived somewhat sufficiently early to have a quick Starbucks (at least Big Shot Husband  and I could, do you know how expensive it is to multiply a Starbucks order by six?), and I ran to the information desk and lunged at the kindly elderly security guy. "Do you know where the Starbucks is?" I frantically asked him, pushing my children out of the way so they wouldn't interrupt my fact-finding mission. "Oh," he said, "It's somewhere around here, but you know there is a coffee shop after security, don't you?" I gave him a steely-eyed glare. "I need my Starbucks," I admonished him. He looked scared. He gestured down a hallway where we quickly ran and found ourselves behind the only four people in America who have NEVER BEEN TO A STARBUCKS.

Here's what their ordering sounded like:
"How big is the tall lah-teh?" asked the mom.
"12 oz, ma'am," said Barista (who was literally the oldest barista I had ever seen. I kind of surreptitiously backed up to look at the sign again to make sure it was Starbucks).
"What's in it?" asked mom.
"Um, espresso and foamed milk, ma'am."
Mom thinks. Then is distracted by the pictures of frappuccinos. "Jim Bob," she says, "How's about one of those in the picture? The fra-pew-kee-no." I almost stroked out. There were four of them ordering.
I busied myself by remembering that it is a big mitzvah to give people the benefit of the doubt even if their names are Darlene, Jim Bob, Dwayne and Earl.

I finally got my coffee and we shuffled off to the security line. I thought about how long the line was and how I'd have plenty of time to drink my coffee, make it through security, and onto our flight just in time. I congratulated myself on my impeccable timing, starting with the 430 wake-up call and ending right here, in the security line, Starbucks successfully in hand.

Well, apparently everyone else had had their coffee too because darn if that security line wasn't just buzzing right along. I gulped my Starbucks down fast. Luckily, I was just about finished when I got to the front. I needed it, though. I had to muster up the energy to irritate everyone behind me by helping four children through security, each with two pieces of luggage (2x4=8), two shoes (2x4=8), and a hidden sippy cup with milk (oops). But it doesn't bother me, I already had my Starbucks.