We have been on vacation. We do it really well. Just this past weekend we went to Arizona, to watch my son's school (and husband's alma mater) lose abysmally to Ohio State in the Fiesta Bowl. The game was a bit of a drag, especially after Jaylon Smith got hurt (He blew out his knee. He was expected to be a top-ten NFL draft pick. He also is a graduate of my Catholic high school's cross-town Catholic rival, and he lived in the same dorm as my son. So I kind of felt I knew him, though we never met.), but the rest of the trip was fabulous. We hiked in the desert and went to see Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West (it turns out FLW was really odd). I couldn't live in a desert full time--tough country for horses--but it was interesting to be in it for awhile.
Yesterday my husband got up at 5:30 and toddled off to do important and life-changing eye surgery. I planned to get up in time for the 8:30 yoga class--but instead slept until 10:20. Which meant I still got up before my children. It's turned cold in Bristol--it was 70 here on Christmas Day, then 70 in Arizona, and last night was 15--but my daughter and I went out riding anyhow, me muttering my winter mantra ("there is no bad weather, there are only inappropriate clothing choices") through clenched teeth. Then I went to a late yoga class, and cooked a nice dinner, and stared at the tree in the living room, still decorated but starting to look a little tattered. My husband, who after restoring sight to the blind tried to teach a bunch of fifth graders to play better basketball--your guess as to which task is harder--no, I'll tell you, it's basketball--sighed and suggested we start taking it down, but I'd gotten a new Felix Francis (that's Dick Francis's son, not as good as his father but reminiscent enough to be worth reading) novel from the library and I suggested we leave the tree alone.
Our son leaves tomorrow for a semester in London. I've prepared him by sharing my TunnelBear subscription and buying him a large jar of peanut butter. Not kidding. TunnelBear makes your computer look like it's in a different country, which is how I've seen all of Season 6 of Downton Abbey already (itv in Britain shows replays on line, to British computers only); my son will use it to access our DirecTV subscription and watch important American sports. As for the peanut butter, someone from the study abroad office actually advised the London students to take peanut butter with them, as British peanut butter is noticeably inferior. When my son asked if I thought this was true, I told him that when my dear childhood friends the Magliochettis moved to London, Mrs. Mag packed a case of peanut butter and a case of her favorite brand of tampons. So yeah, it made sense to me.
I went to England when I was thirteen, to visit the Magliochettis. The War That Saved My Life is dedicated to Mrs. Mag.
Anyway, the party's over. It's 7:25 am and I'm writing. From where I sit, it's all good.
Yesterday my husband got up at 5:30 and toddled off to do important and life-changing eye surgery. I planned to get up in time for the 8:30 yoga class--but instead slept until 10:20. Which meant I still got up before my children. It's turned cold in Bristol--it was 70 here on Christmas Day, then 70 in Arizona, and last night was 15--but my daughter and I went out riding anyhow, me muttering my winter mantra ("there is no bad weather, there are only inappropriate clothing choices") through clenched teeth. Then I went to a late yoga class, and cooked a nice dinner, and stared at the tree in the living room, still decorated but starting to look a little tattered. My husband, who after restoring sight to the blind tried to teach a bunch of fifth graders to play better basketball--your guess as to which task is harder--no, I'll tell you, it's basketball--sighed and suggested we start taking it down, but I'd gotten a new Felix Francis (that's Dick Francis's son, not as good as his father but reminiscent enough to be worth reading) novel from the library and I suggested we leave the tree alone.
Our son leaves tomorrow for a semester in London. I've prepared him by sharing my TunnelBear subscription and buying him a large jar of peanut butter. Not kidding. TunnelBear makes your computer look like it's in a different country, which is how I've seen all of Season 6 of Downton Abbey already (itv in Britain shows replays on line, to British computers only); my son will use it to access our DirecTV subscription and watch important American sports. As for the peanut butter, someone from the study abroad office actually advised the London students to take peanut butter with them, as British peanut butter is noticeably inferior. When my son asked if I thought this was true, I told him that when my dear childhood friends the Magliochettis moved to London, Mrs. Mag packed a case of peanut butter and a case of her favorite brand of tampons. So yeah, it made sense to me.
I went to England when I was thirteen, to visit the Magliochettis. The War That Saved My Life is dedicated to Mrs. Mag.
Anyway, the party's over. It's 7:25 am and I'm writing. From where I sit, it's all good.
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