American Idol – Part 2 (The Drive)

I dropped the kids off in the late morning and was on the road by noon, headed towards Boston. My hair was bright red and I felt super cool. Every time I stopped at a rest stop, I received one of two reactions–either I got hit on and/or checked out, or I was avoided. Old ladies avoided me. It meant I didn’t have to wait in line for the bathroom, ever.

The drive wasn’t that bad–I had hoped to make it up to Boston in the typical 7-8 hour time frame, go and get my wristband/admission ticket, and just go back and chill at the hotel. I had good music, my kids were in good hands, and my husband was gone with the National Guard, but all of his team was cheering me on from… wherever they were.

On the road

How cool do I look?

Once I realized the power my awesomely red hair had, I also realized that that combined with my incessant and sometimes wild dancing in the car made me totally irresistible. This guy kept looking at me:

It’s entirely possible that he was making fun of me the whole time that he was looking at me, but he also let me in front of him in traffic, saving me five minutes or so of trying to fight my way into the post-tollbooth crunch. So, whether it was lust or pity, I had no problems.

Some pictures of one of the bridges I went over (which, of course, I am now drawing a blank as to which one and too lazy to go look it up on Google). I love taking pictures of bridges.

Welcome to New York

I managed to time it just right to hit New York City at 5:00 on a Friday. As such, although the posted speed limit promised me this:

I was stuck driving at this speed instead:

However, going so slowly through New York made me realize something I don’t think I ever had before–or maybe I’ve just never taken 95 that far north. Anyway, all along 95 are enormous apartment complexes. Including right above it–there are what amount to bridges over 95 (or tunnels under the city?) that are home to hundreds of New Yorkers.
Apartment 2
Apartment 3
Apartment 4

All I could think of while I waited to keep driving through was that I totally could have called someone in that building earlier and asked how traffic was, and they could have looked out their window and said, “Oh! It’s not moving!”… and then gone back to cooking their dinner.

I finally made it through, and the rest of the drive up to Boston was uneventful. I got my ticket and wristband and went to the hotel, which was clearly waiting for me.
Good luck!

Thank you, Holiday Inn. I appreciated it!

I had some drama getting my room–Boston is one of those rare places that actually has smoking rooms, and somehow I managed to get one. I went up to the room, and the smell was so strong that I couldn’t possibly stay there for two days and retain any semblance of a singing voice. Although the front desk had originally assured me there were no other rooms, when I explained that if they couldn’t find me a non-smoking room, I was going to have to find another hotel, suddenly a room became available. I moved my stuff into the non-smoking room and was much happier.

much happier

Five Minutes

After a day filled with
potty breaks,
potty victory celebrations,
slightly sick kids,
debating over ‘one more bite’,
stuck inside because of the rain…
I have five minutes.

Five minutes to sit back and close my eyes.

Five minutes to imagine my next knitting project (I’m currently between, which is always a tough spot to be in).

Five minutes to sit on the couch and read a few pages of Wicked, the book I’m currently reading.

Five minutes where I can take a mental vacation to New York City, and I swear I can smell the hot dogs cooking at the street vendor as I walk down the street, surrounded by people, all going about their business, all looking like they are in vastly different businesses, but all in the city that I love.

Five minutes to drink–and enjoy–some chocolate milk and say a prayer of gratitude for Nesquik and for sometimes not having to share.

Five minutes to listen to my husband bathing the children and hear them all giggling in delight.

Five minutes just for me, where I can enjoy what I have, what I am, what I have created, and what I will create.

Thank you, God, for five minutes.

Is She Comfortable?

Walking around the city, I usually carry Hazel in a moby wrap (the lilac Moby D, to be exact).  I get tons of compliments on it, and people often stop me to ask me where I got it, either because they want one themselves or they want to purchase one as a gift for a pregnant loved one.

But then today I got the oddest comment (and it wasn’t the first time someone has said this either, which in my mind goes to show the sheer lack of thinking that people do these days).  Conner and I had stopped to look at some street wares (on a quick tangent, we got a set of 600 thread count queen sized sheets for $20 today!) and a woman says, “That’s an interesting wrap.  Are you sure she’s comfortable in it?”

Uh… what do you say to that?  I mean, she hasn’t expressed her comfort directly–her current vocabulary consists of ‘ahhh’ and the regular belch.  But she does fall asleep in it, and when she got tired of being all tucked into it (one of the newborn holds), she would fuss in it.  So, I assume she’s comfortable. 

But isn’t that a weird question?  I’m tempted to respond, “Actually, I’m pretty sure she’s quite uncomfortable.  In fact, I believe that she hates it and considers it a torture device.  I continue using it, however, because of my lack of caring what my infant thinks, and my desire to selfishly carry my baby as close to me as possible.  I’m sure you can tell by her slight snores that she might indeed have some broken bones.”

I mean, really, people.  Think before you talk, or expect to get mocked.  🙂