Smell the Onion

First off, appologies to my dear friend Kate Tucker, for not knowing
her maiden name.  Major it is, not Carpenter.  Carpenter,
incidentally, is my friend Ann’s maiden name.  However, I didn’t
know either of them as maidens, so I hope I can be forgiven.

Secondly, get off my husbands back, yo.  If he wants to journal
about cubing and bowling, well then, let him post on with his bad
self.  It is, after all, his very own blog universe.  I’m
sure you’d all be much more impressed if you had actually seen with
your own eyes the solving of a rubicks cube in less than 35 seconds.

Thirdly, Lilly of the Valley.  Not Lilly Pads, not Water Lillies,
not Calla Lillies, not Tiger Lillies.  Lilly of the Valley. 
They’re the best.

Onward and Upward…

So I had some high hopes for this weekend.  Saturday, we were to
go with the aforementioned Kate to an “Italian Festival” in
Independence, Louisiana.  Given the name, we thought, upon arrival
we would find, well, Italian things.  It turns out that what they
meant by “Italian Festival” is “Old musty church with pictures of
Italian Immigrants, and Carnival type thing with booths selling
candles, cyprus furniture and pampered chef.  Now, don’t get me
wrong, I love me some candles, cyprus and chefs.  But seriously,
you can’t just have a plain old fair, and then call it Italian because
you’re selling Lasagna.  Come on.

But, Maya is still the cutest ever.  So, all is well with the world.

So.  I was thinking, as it is, we’re going to have to pay for
three airline tickets, because Maya turns 2 in September.  And
each subsequent child is going to make a trip to Europe more expensive,
and more complicated. (This, of course, only counts as a deterrent when
they’re little…we very much hope to be able to cart all of our
moderately aged homeschooled lil uns about the world on a semi regular
basis)  Therefore, we have decided to do Italy as soon as
possible.  It is mighty convenient that James and Jessica are
moving there…

We’re planning on being there for 2 weeks.  Four or five days with
la famillia, a few days in good ol’ Croatia, and the last week, in a
rented apartment (unless our dear friend, the former Kate Major can
hook us up with some cheaper lodgings) in Tuscany. 

My priorities are (excluding family, because they’re not places)
Plitvicka Jezera (Croatia), Zagreb (also Croatia), Florence, Venice and
many small villas in Tuscany whos names are as yet unknown to me (the
likes of which I have been reading about in the aptly named “In
Tuscany,” by Frances Mayes). 

I’m getting pretty excited about the whole low season thing. 
Turns out things are cheaper, and we won’t be part of a large obnoxious
mass of Mickey Mouse Tourists.  Truth be told, there’s not a thing
about it that I’m not excited about.  Anyhow.  Thanks for
sharing my joy.  And of course, you can all come.  But you
have to pay your own way, man, what do you think we are, trees that
money grows on? 

Why yes, we are taking a trip you should know about.  To Italy.  Next February.
I had a lovely birthday, except for Maya being all stomach buggy.  Love to all.

Oh the things I should be doing with my solitary hours.  The babe
is asleep and my darling is bowling.  There are mounds and piles
of laundry scattered from the wash closet to the end of the hall…half
piled in baskets, wrinkly, waiting to be folded.  There is the
childrens foundation letter to be edited, there are dishes to be swiped
and loaded…the kitchen table is littered with calculator tape and
three months of bank records–70 renagade dollars hiding somewhere
among them.  There’s the tinkle stain my bare bottomed baby left
me on my recliner that needs to be scrubbed, rinsed and
vaccumend.  There are books on Tuscany and Eurorailing to be
read.  But here I sit.  I should go.