I'm not listening! la la la la la la la

As you know I've been hustling through the stages of PVBD (post vacation boredom and depression) so I can get geared up for the stages of PVSA (pre-vacation stress and anxiety).  

I was going to skip the depression and linger in the boredom stage, but last night after watching the History Channel I am not only depressed, but also disillusioned, disgruntled and a teensy bit disgusted. 

The History Channel can't keep a friggin'  secret.  They are the TMZ of yesteryear.  Last night's HC gossip was all about politics and passion.   

Cover your ears children (and LoW) because if America had a gigantic fortune cookie it would say, "History will be made in the White House (IN BED)".  

Get it?  

In other words, history is made in the White House bedroom, peeps!  And that's a direct quote from the HC TMZ!

I wasn't going to say anything because I know some of you enjoy your ignorant bliss, but misery loves company so here goes:

Did you know that Kennedy once said if he didn't have a new woman every 3 days he got a headache. Eww! Someone break out the extra strength Tylenol.  For goodness sake, the dude had an affair with an East German spy during the Cold War!  Come on, Jack!  Our future was in your hands while they were exploring East Germany? 

tsk. tsk. 

Did you know that J. Edgar Hoover kept his job as head of the FBI for 50 years--through 10 presidents!  Not because he was good, but because he blackmailed every single one of them.  He documented all of their dirty-rotten secrets.  And their secrets were both dirty and rotten. 

If it were up to me I would have washed all of their mouths out with soap.  Including J. Edgar.  

Did you know that Jefferson wasn't the only one who fathered a baby with his slave mistress. Our own George Washington had a 16 year old slave assigned to the job of giving him comfort.  

In case you're wondering, comfort is where babies come from.  

Eww!

Did you know that Honest Abe had a few skeletons in the closet, so to speak, if you get my drift, comprende? 

Elenor Roosevelt also kept a few skeletons in her closet.  Two skeletons exactly, Franklin not included.  In fact Franklin suggested the frolicking threesome build a cottage retreat together so they could have their linens monogramed with their initials.  And they did.

Oh my goodness!  Oh my goodness!  I am so out of the lesbian loop. 

And don't even get me started with Benjamin Franklin.  The guy should have his eyes poked out.  We all knew he was a dirty old man, but seriously, he was like the Hugh Heffner of the 18th Century.  The lightbulb wasn't the only thing getting turned on, do you follow?  No wonder he was always falling asleep in congress. 

I'm actually shocked he was never struck by lightening.  

Are you okay?  

Do you need a moment?  

Deep breaths!  Inhale.  Exhale.  

May I proceed? 

Did you know all the founding fathers were drunk as doorknobs and stoned out of their gord when they filed for divorce from England?  And they were so plastered while they were writing the constitution that they just plagiarized it from the Free Masons.  

And the DaVinci Code is fo' real, peeps.  And so are vampires. 

Next they will try and say Brigham Young was a polygamist. 

Ahhhhh!  I'm not listening.  La la la la la la la la la 

Keanu Reeves was so right when he said life is just a big matrix.

If you need I'll be curled up on my couch eating ice cream and watching the Disney Channel.  

The Talking Mirror

Thirteen years ago today I was induced at Bethpage Hospital on Long Island, New York.  I was watching Oprah when my water broke and I began my labor of love by chanting the spiritual mantra.  "Call the anesthesiologist!  CALL the anesthesiologist!  CALL THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST!" 

"NOW!"

A week later we hooked up a U-Haul to our Ford Escort, duct taped our twenty month old daughter into her car seat, and with a bag of sunflower seeds and a bladder infection we drove our new baby across the country, where I would spank my daughter for the first time and repeatedly shout at my hub for his aversion to hotels and water bottles.

Having a thirteen year old son is not much different than having a twelve year old son. For those of you who haven't yet tried it, it's like living with a talking mirror. 

"Look at MOM!" he laughs and points as he imitates how stinkin' funny I look while cooking dinner or while reading or while killing a centipede with a machete.  

So here's what it's like trying to throw my thirteen year old a surprise party--keep in mind this is a kid who declared "LIAR! There is no Santa Claus!" the Christmas after we left the Toys R Us price tag on his new bike. 

Okay, so picture a gazillion party guests crammed into our house last night, ducking under the table and behind the couch, in the closets and around doorways.  

Picture my hub pulling into the driveway with my son and his two best friends after taking them to a movie.

Picture us all waiting to spring.  

And waiting.

And shifting.

And waiting.

Picture the phone ringing and me whispering "DON'T ANSWER IT!"  at the top of my lungs. 

Picture a cackling coming from the window behind us. 

Picture a bazillion crouching, shifting, party guests all doing a double take at the same instant. 

Just in time to see my son at the window pointing and laughing and shouting, "SURPRISE!"


But I so got him back this morning while he was getting ready for church.

SURPRISE! 

Take that SON!  Who's the talking mirror NOW!

Are we done talking about the King of Pop yet?

I'm moving rapidly through the seven stages of PVBD (Post Vacation Boredom and Depression). 

First I was in shock and denial.  I refused to give into my exhaustion and in a desperate attempt to avoid the blues I began an illicit romance with the ordinary. 

We all know how that turned out.  

I quickly moved from denial to guilt.     

First I became addicted to food porn, which of course I felt guilty about.  Then I memorized the T.V. guide, which of course I felt guilty about.  Then I started watching movies instead of making dinner, which of course I felt guilty about.  

Then I cheated in solitaire, which only stoked my fire of burning guilt.   

And then Michael Jackson died.   

This catapulted me into the anger stage.   I used to be in love with the guy back when he was a black man, but are you kidding me?  Did he SERIOUSLY up and die just as I was becoming a couch potato?  

How many times can a dummy watch MJ prance around in a sparkly gold teddy grabbing at his . . . phallyic symbol before she bounces the remote off his head? 

Does anyone else think this MJ worship is disturbing?  

Let's just pretend he wasn't in more debt than the federal government.  And let's pretend he never went to court in PJ's.  Never mind about Neverland.  I can turn a blind eye to Peter Pan pedophiles and profuse plastic surgery, but the guy has a throne!  

And a crown!!!  

And he named his kids Prince Michael I, Prince Michael II and Paris Michael Katherine!!!!  

Someone needs to GET OVER HIMSELF!

Move over Michael Jackson and let me get freaked out by Iran in peace.

Was that rude?

Okay, I'm back in the guilt stage.

The Romance is Dead!

My honeymoon with the ordinary is over.   

I tried.  I really really tried.  

I dare YOU to appreciate the simple sensory pleasures of sticky rice between your toes while walking across the kitchen floor in the middle of the night. 

I dare YOU to serenade your flat screen T.V. and XBOX 360 when they start flashing and beeping and sparking. 

You wanna know what you'll learn about romance, peeps!?  Singing sweetly gets you NO WHERE!   Especially when YOU are the only one committed to making it work. 

I should have saved all my chocolates and roses and diamonds for the dryer repair guy because he still hasn't showed up.  

And to make things worse, Michael Jackson is dead!  

I can't tell you how many times I roller skated to the public library to check out record albums of Michael Jackson. 

And I was there for the gasp heard round the world the first time he walked on the moon. 

And I remember exactly where I was the first time his nose changed shape--and the second time and the third time and the fourth time.  

But COME ONE, is he seriously going to upstage Farrah?  The one who inspired me to feather my hair and wear an orange one piece bathing suit in 6th grade.     

The inner tween in me requires a moment of silence. 

(In all seriousness,  I watched the Farrah documentary last month and I have nothing but the highest respect for how gracefully she fought her battle against cancer.   God bless her and her loved ones!)

So now that the romance is dead, I am turning to porn.  

Food porn.  Not actual food, but thoughts of food . . . memories of food . . . dreams of food.

I'm fantasizing about Cosi's in New York.  Barbaloot was right!  It's yum-o!  Best raspberry mojito lemonade ever! Thanks Barb.  

And if you guys are ever in the D.C. area go to FIVE GUYS!  mmmmm.  Now that's food porn! XXX French fries galore, with spuds straight from Driggs Ideeho.   And rated R baskets of peanuts you can break and eat to your heart's content.  If you're in Maryland you can toss the shells right onto the floor like a shameless animal, but when in Virginia, do as the Virginians do and keep it tidy.  (People are much more civilized in Virginia.)

I heard Tamn saying she's flying back to SLC for a Cafe Rio fix, but NO NEED Tamners, go to Chipotles.  It's just as finger lickin' good! 

Okay, dim the lights and cue the music . . .

I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love, even more than I usually do . . . 

And although I know it's a long road back, I promise you . . .  

I'LL BE HOME FOR BREADSTICKS!  

That's right.  I'm talking about OLIVE GARDEN!  July 11th.  In my home town of P.R.O.V.O.  

Can't wait to meet you guys!  It's gonna be soooooo weird.

BTW, the above is an actual photograph taken by moi at The Olive Garden in Times Square.  

To understand my obsession with The Olive Garden, you need to know THERE IS NO OLIVE GARDEN in Hawaii.  We only get the mouth watering commercials.  We have no way of satisfying our $7-all-you-can-eat-soup-salad-and-breadstick cravings here. 

So it stands to reason that the first place we parked our empty bellies in New York City was THE OLIVE GARDEN! 


This is me BEFORE I got this:

And this is me AFTER.

Not only does The Olive Garden have the best breadsticks on Broadway, it also has the best view!

The early bird gets the corner table. 

So peeps, The Olive Garden opens at 11 a.m. sharp.  Be there or be . . .  sitting at your own table!  

And bring your son's backwards baseball cap.

(P.S.  I totally looked like a muppet in that BEFORE shot, don't you think?)

Romancing the Ordinary

I absolutely refuse to suffer from PVBD (post vacation boredom and depression).

I will NOT give into the blues.

Is it monotonous and mundane to cook and clean again? YES!

Did I throw the remote control at the TV when Jon and Kate anounced their divorce? YES!

Would I rather be stalking Broadway and watching the Jonas Brothers on Regis and Kelly? YES! YES! YES!

But life stinks! The sooner we harden our hearts and embrace our eternal misery, the better.

One of my friends suggested a book that is helping me transition into the harsh reality and responsiblity of domestic bliss. It's called Romancing the Ordinary by Sarah Ban Breathnach.

Miss Sarah says that life is a great romance. She quotes Elizabeth Millar about the love affair we must develop with life:

An intimate relationship with living awaits every woman who in her wisdom chooses to fill her heart with the multitude of wonders unfolding in the stillness of a moment.

Doesn't it sound lovely?

Miss Sarah encourages all women to use their senses to excite and engage the ordinary tasks of daily living, and she points out that when we are in the throes of great romance our sensory perceptions soar!

If romance can enchant a mundane love, why not a mundane life? I figured it was worth a try and you know what . . . it really works.

First I put on my black leather teddy to scrub the kitchen floor. I was invigorated as I scrubbed and scrubbed with my whole heart and I could feel the vinegar and bleach tingling against my fingertips like little jolts of electricity.

I read Pablo Neruda poetry to my toilet after it backed up and spilled generously out upon the bathroom floor. I couldn't help but inhale deeply and give thanks for the bountiful blessings of smell.

I sweet talked my dryer when it stopped blowing hot air. My mom was right. Inanimate objects need love and appreciation too.

I gave my broken computer a box of chocolates and my loose fan belt a dozen roses. I sent a diamond necklace in with my over due phone bill payment and I texted love notes to my clogged garbage disposal.

Ordinary life can truly be extraordinary if one only makes an effort to keep the spark alive.

And best of all . . . the magic quilt is almost done. YAY! YAY! YAY! (That's three cheers for Kritta 22.) Check it out here.

Sleeping Beauty (and The Other Woman)

On Saturday morning we put on our ruby red slippers, clicked out heels together and repeated, There's no place like home! three times.  It worked! Only sixteen hours and four airports later we were pulling up to our very own driveway. 

A word of advice:  When you pay only $400 to fly from Hawaii to New York/D.C. and back, don't celebrate and brag to your friends and family.  The airlines will find ways to stick it to you.  They have an evil mad scientist laboratory where they concoct the most brilliant ways to inconvenience the Cheap Ticket travelers.  

Oh lookie here, this lady only paid $4oo and she made her own seating assignments so her little family could be together forever.  How precious.  Let's split the family up so they can't sit by each other.  Muhahaha.  

Better yet, let's split them up and then stick them each in a middle seat.   

MuuuuhahhhahhahhaHA!  

Let's put one of them in between two oversized travelers and one in between two crying babies. Oh, and let's put one of them next to the hacking lady with the Swine Flu and another next to that cuddler who turns into Darth Vadar when he takes Ambian.   

And let's give them 4 layovers with tight connections.  MUHAHA.

And on their return trip let's delay the plane 2 hours and put them on the back row next to the bathroom where the seats don't recline and where they'll have to exit the plane last with only eight minutes to make their next flight.  MUUUUHHHHAAAAHAA!    

As Gad as my witness, someday I'm going to be rich and relaxed. 

But I showed them.  I slept through the whole thing.  

As soon as we sat down at Dulles airport I fell asleep for the first time in two weeks.   

I slept on the plane from D.C. to L.A.  

I slept through the 8 minutes we sprinted to catch our flight to Kona.  

I slept from L.A. to Kona and from Kona to Oahu. 

I slept in the car all the way home.  

I slept and slept and slept until 7 a.m. when I arose and made French toast, wished my hub a happy Father's Day and went back to bed.  

I slept through church and awoke only to break the Sabbath by celebrating Father's Day with Pizza Bob. 

I went to bed at 4 p.m. and slept for twelve straight hours. 

Then SUDDENLY my mind's eye popped wide open.  

Now here I am, lying in the dark at 4 a.m., listening to the wind whip through the trees outside my window and watching my curtains dance. 

And of course I'm thinking about the trip.

And all the things I will miss. 

And all the things I won't miss, like hearing my kids say I'm HUNGRY! and Are we THERE yet? and But Mom, you just went to the bathroom.

And the other woman.  I won't miss the other woman.

My hub fell in lub with another woman while we were in D.C.  She's the GPS lady on his phone. I have a sneaking suspicion that my hub would marry that GPS lady if he could.

"Now there's a woman who knows where she's going," he says. "She doesn't just blink and shrug and say I dunno in her cutest voice when you ask her directions."

"Yes, but she doesn't use prepositions correctly," I told him. "You don't turn left TO Adelphi road. You drive TO Adelphi road and then turn left ON Adelphi road. Everyone knows that."

"And she can't spell Dulles airport," I continued. "If she's so smart, why does she spell it with a B?  It's not Bulles airport."

I blame myself for his intrigue with the GPS lady. I am the one who suggested slash insisted we rent a car and a hotel for the last few days of our trip. My hub has an aversion to renting cars and hotels. In his world there is no need for such superfluous things. Just as there is no need for jackets or umbrellas or irons or water bottles.

Me, I like to be prepared for every possibility. What if I get chilly? What if it rains? What if my clothes get wrinkled? What if my mouth gets dry?

What if we have to lug all of our bags of costumes and props through the crowded streets of a busy city, uphill both ways, and then down escalators and onto congested subways and city buses?

What if I start crying and need a hot bath?  The possibilities are endless when you're traveling.

My hub folded to my extreme peer pressure and threats of divorce and that's how he became infatuated with the GPS lady.  I take full responsibility.  

If I have to share my hub's affections I guess the GPS lady isn't the worst choice. After all, she did warn me about the congestion up ahead on I-495. I immediately pulled out my Allegra and my Nasonex. 

If it hadn't been for her I would have been stuffed up for miles.

Well, it's almost 5 a.m.  I better go back to bed so I will be well rested for my upcoming PVBD (post vacation boredom and depression).

Drumroll Please . . .

Yesterday morning we filed into the Cole Field House at the University of Maryland. This is what we saw.

I immediately choked up.   This was the culminating moment after months and months and months of History Day.   All the long hours my kids have exerted into researching and planning and practicing and preparing were being celebrated as they paraded around with all the other state winners. 

After two hours of awards the moment finally arrived. Junior group performance.

My stomach did a belly flop. They announced 3rd place.

Then they announced 2nd place. All I heard was "And from HON . . . " and then screams behind me and above me and all around me.

The next thing I knew my son and his two best friends were running down to the stage. And I was running after them with my camera.




They won 2nd place in the nation!!!! 

AAAAHHHHHHH!!!

It was amazing.

And to make it even more sweet, my daughter got her judging sheets back.  She came in 3rd place in her room (Each state sends two performances and then divides them into seven rooms for the first round of judging.  Then they pick the top two performances).   

THIRD PLACE in her room!  She was this close!  

Her group got all superior marks and two of the judges wrote them letters on the back of the judging sheets telling them how hard the decision was and how close they were and how proud they should be of their project.  

So we are all crazy happy happy happy! 

And crazy tired tired tired!

The Atlas of Independence

That's the name of my daughter's History Day performance on John Adams.

Here she is this morning as the Atlas of Independence himself.  Her group nailed their performance.  It was incredible.  I couldn't have been a prouder peacock. 

Six months ago her group was laboring over their script.  They argued, they debated, they became frustrated.  John Adams is a MOST complex character in a MOST complex position at a MOST complex period of time.   They changed their thesis at least 15 times and completely re-wrote their script after the school competition.

They came THIS close to throwing in the towel after their Social Studies teacher embarrassed them when they performed it for their class.   She told them they didn't know what they were doing and that they wouldn't make it to the District competition.  She told them that even if they did make it to the Districts they would need her approval and she wouldn't give it UNLESS they showed sufficient progress.  

This did not instill confidence in my daughter's group as they floundered around trying to grab a hold of John Adams enormous legacy.

I guess you all know this made me want to Kung Fu Panda kick her across the universe.  

But they did make it on and on and on all the way to the National History Day competition in Washington D.C.. 

But there will be no happy feet tap dancing on my daughter's social studies teacher's face tonight.  And we have not been blessed with the opportunity to shave her head.  

In fact, she is probably saying "I TOLD THEM SO!" right now because my daughter's group did not make it into the finals. 

Sniff. 

No, I'm not disappointed, (SNIFF) even though I did all that ironing.  Ironing is so good for the soul, after all (SNIFF).

Mariko, for the record, my daughter mentioned her English teacher in her interview today as the person who kept them going despite the adversity.  

MAHALO MARIKO!  If only all teachers could be so encouraging.   

I'm so proud of my daughter and her group.  They rocked the house today.  

And I am proud of my son who also rocked the house in the final competition.  

The results come out on Thursday. 

Hope is an Action

That's the name of my twelve year old son's History Day project on the legacy of Father Damien. 

His project that just made it into the finals!

WAHOOOOOO!

But don't be jealous!  History Day Mom's have it rough.  We are required to donate one tenth of our time, $$$, and energy to support our children's History Day habits and addictions. 

And we have to donate one tenth of our courage too. You have to be brave to stay in the dorms at the University of Maryland. They may look like St. Elmo's fire on the outside, but have you ever heard of Brick Oven?  It's so hot that if you sprinkled a little cheese and tomato sauce on us we'd make a nice Hawaiian pizza.    

That's not meant to be funny.  

In fact there's nothing funny about History Day, or the fact that we have to stay in the Brick Oven dorms and shower in public bathrooms with a bunch of  tweenagers who don't give a rip if you saw the Jonas brothers in person.  

It's not funny that my hub has to shower in the women's bathroom and I have to shower in the men's bathroom. 

And it's not funny that getting the right configurations of hot and cold water in the shower is like cracking the DaVinci code.  Not to mention that the configurations are in a state of constant flux as people flush the toilet.  I have been both severely scalded and turned into a human pizza popsicle all in one shower.  

Luckily my hub and I got to be roomates so we pushed our coated crib mattresses together, spread our starchy sheet out across the crunchy plastic and went to bed.  

My hub, who tries to look on the bright side of life said, "Let's pretend we're in a Sauna."

We've already lost 5 lbs pretending we're in a sauna. 

So that's what I've been doing, pretending I'm in a sauna.  Oh, and I've also been ironing, which makes pretending you're in a sauna that much more authentic.  But that's why History Day mom's do. They iron.  And when you have 2 kids doing group performances you iron and you iron and your iron.  

So my son competes against the top 14 in the junior division tomorrow night.  

My daughter begins her senior division competition tomorrow morning (which means more ironing).

Please send all of your positive vibes to her via the universe that she might be blessed with the opportunity to do a happy dance on her social studies teacher's face.

If she wins first place, I promise I'll shave her social studies teacher's head.  

(Insert evil mad scientist laugh here)

  

My Famous People Post

To my commenters:

LOL to T, who thinks she is the last Wicked virgin.  I think that's the best oxymoron ever! Someone should send her a box of Caramacs.

To April, who asked how Wicked was on Broadway.  It really wasn't all that, April (WICKED AWESOME!) You didn't miss much. (WICKED COOL!) And it's expensive (BUT WICKED WORTH IT!)  If you've seen Wicked on Broadway once, you've seen it a hundred times (BUT YOU COULD SEE IT A HUNDRED MORE). It's totally over-rated (BUT IT WILL MAKE YOU THINK AND FEEL AND MARVEL). 

Can I just add that Shrek the Musical is WICKED AWESOME TOO!  The set is so creative and dynamic.  The characters are so spot-on funny.  The new lines and songs are so fantastic. 

 There was one song that made me laugh myself silly,  I cried too (out of compassion). Twice.  

To the rest of you who are giving me stink eye in my comment box, GET OVER IT!  

I mean, I am sorry that my trip to NYC is making you green with envy because if I've learned anything at all since I've been on Broadway it's that it's not easy being green. 

But if you were turning green yesterday, then my post today will make you positively chartreuse.  

If you are fourteen years old or younger, look away.  If you love The Office or the top of Fergie's head or the double decker bus brochure or naked cowboys, LOOK AWAY!  NOW!  

Famous people ahead.  You've been warned. 

Here I am with the double decker bus guy. It's his face you will see on the double decker bus tour brochure. Every year millions of tourists have this brochure thrust in their faces in Times Square by annoying double decker bus drivers. 


And here's the Naked Cowboy.  Every year millions of tourists have this cowboy's arse thrust in their faces in Times Square.

And about the Black Eyed Peas . . . I slept in.  Instead of waking up at 4:30 a.m., I awoke at 6:00 a.m. so this was our view.  


If you look closely you can see the top of Fergie's head. She looks like a ring on that guy with that view finder's finger.

Now look closely and you can see all the Black Eyed Peas jumping up and down and saying they had a feeling that tonight's gonna be a good night. And they were right. It was a good night. I took a 3 hour nap while my hub took the kids to a Yankee game.

Okay, now look closely. Who do you think this is?


That's right all you Office fans. It's Jim.



This is what Jim looks like when you're running towards him and screaming OMGOSH!!!! I LOVE YOU JIM!!!!!

You don't believe me?

It really was him. And he's suuuuuper cute in 3-D.

Okay, here's a riddle for you. What photos could I post that would make your 14 year old daughters hate me but my 14 year old daughter love me (because I got up at 4:30 and stood in line in the 60 degree rain trying to get into Regis and Kelly?)


Nope, not Regis walking to work with his security guard carrying his briefcase.





Nope, not Regis and Kelly.


Nope, not Gelman.



Nope, not Denzel.



That's right. The freakin' Jonas Brothers!!!!


Wait! Is one of those Jonas boys checking me out?





I have about a hundred more of these photos if anyone wants to buy some from me. I'm pretty sure Kristina P. will get in on it.

Broadway Wisdom

I could write a week worth of posts today. 

If I could prop my eyeballs open.  

As it stands it's 1 a.m. and I'll be popping out of bed at 4:30 to go see Black Eyed Peas on The Morning Show.   Boom Boom Pow, baby! 

Thats what I'm talkin' about. 

I think I'm  taking that-city-that-doesn't-sleep thing too literally, which is super fun when you're in the moment, but when you're out of the moment it just makes you more vulnerable to bursting into tears when your hub suggests you get a drink out of the bathroom sink rather than buy a water bottle.   

So you know how I love famous people?   huh? huh? huh?  Well today was a stinkin' star studded, but I'll write my stinkin' star studded post tomorrow.   

Tonight I'm going to post about something else I love.  Movie wisdom.  Only I'm going to make it Broadway wisdom.  

Tonight we did something pop-U-lar! 

(BTW, New England Alyson wasn't able to come (sniff sniff) so I have no photographic evidence of her existence.) 

After two broadway musicals in a row--Shrek and Wicked--I realize the universe is trying to send me a top five list of Broadway wisdom to pass on to you: 

1.  It's not easy being green.  

2.  Sometimes being beautiful isn't pretty. 

3.  Fairy tales need to be updated. 

4.  Happiness isn't always what happens when all your dreams come true.  

5.  A lie is just the truth from another perspective. 

All things that make you go hmmmmmm . . . 

That's it.  That's all I got for ya.  

Buh bye now.

   

NEW YORK CITY: Day 1

When you're in New York City things that would normally drive you crazy, say in California or Illinois, don't bother you at all.  

Like when your waitress curtly tells you that there is a $10 minimum order per person.  

And then she gives herself an 18% tip without your consent.  

And then you end up paying $58 for a handful of French fries and some grenadine.  

And then the grenadine doesn't even make you tipsy because, DUH! grenadine is non-alcoholic pomegranate juice.  

And then you pay $5 for an all-you-can-eat buffet, only to find out at the that it's $5 per lb. You can eat all you want in New York City for $5 a lb.  

And then the toilet at Toys R Us flushes every thirty seconds, ready or not--plus they post a graphic picture in every stall of how to flush.

If you were in New Mexico or Colorado and Toys R Us was showing you how to flush the toilet and then flushing it for you every thirty seconds, you'd be ticked.

But it's New York City, so WHO CARES!

New York City makes it up to you.

In New York City Elmo may charge your daughter $1 to get a photo with him.


But the ducks are free.


And what other city provides lawn chairs in the middle of the road so you can relax in Times Square?


And what other city will make your dreams of taking your kids to a Broadway play come true?

I'm a total Shrekie! A Shrekie through and through. And Shrek the Musical DOES NOT DISAPPOINT, Peeps! I laughed so hard I cried. And I cried so hard I laughed.

And where else can you not sleep in a city that doesn't sleep? 

Who has time to sleep? 

I'm just saying. 

BTW, Anjeny!  I get to see your daughter sing tomorrow at ground zero. I'm going to give her a hug from YOU!  

LY everyone!  Wish you were here!  

Seriously!