Mambo Italiano

We recently got back from spending two weeks in Italy. To summarize, here is everything I learned how to say: " Un gelato per favore. Grazie." That was all that was necessary. I have never eaten so much gelato in my life, which is why I chose to bring my skirt with the expandible waistband, instead of jeans.

Traveling that far was quite the experience, especially with an 18 month old. Thank you, United Airlines, for all the delays. I didn't think 15 hours on a plane was enough, so I appreciate the additional 7 you threw my way for free. My rambuctious child would like to thank you too.

Here are some things I learned while in Italy:
(1) They put Nutella in literally everything.

(2) You will get yelled at if you don't wear protective gloves while picking out fruit at the grocery store. Apparently I look like I have Hepatitis.

(3) Their streets were made for bicycles, not cars. We had a very scary Griswold European Vacation moment when we almost managed to wedge our car down one street. Thank God for moveable side mirrors.

(4) Their idea of a cup of coffee is smaller than a shot. How am I supposed to get energized for a day touring your ruins if you won't help me out?

(5) You have to pay for the toilet. I'm too stubborn to give in, so I spent a lot of my time in some extreme discomfort.

(6) There are no nuns over 5 feet tall.

(7) Wine is cheaper than milk.

(8) It is a criminal offense to put fruit on pizza. Potatoes, corn, zuchinni, crab, tuna, octopus, squid, and McDonalds special sauce are all viable options though.

(9) You can take your child halfway around the world, and the only thing that will hold his interest are the pigeons.

(10) If you want to get bumped to the front of the line anywhere, just show them your baby. I owe Tristan big time for all the free stuff he got me. Hope he didn't mind all the cheek pinching.

Told you they like Nutella

Even though Italy and I had our differences, it really is a beautiful place. It was a reminder of the luxuries that we as Americans take for granted. Their streets are small, their houses are smaller, and they don't need much to get by. They seem quite content with what they have. It was a good lesson for me.

Florence, Italy

Our room

The view from our room every morning

A random cat sleeping on a car

The tiniest police car I've ever seen

Sienna, Italy

The Vatican

A microscopic picture of the Pope

A much needed picture of my babe

Taking a break from sightseeing to lift weights with Grandpa

The Colosseum - you can see all the bullet holes from the war

It was a great experience, but I am so glad to be home. The language barrier and cultural differences really did make me miss home. And tv. Italy is beautiful, but they don't have Lost or Glee. This girl has some episodes to catch up on, so please excuse me while I go replace every historical fact I learned with the lyrics to "Don't Stop Believing." Priorities...it's all about priorities.

Old Joe

Boys are weird. Having grown up with four sisters, I am testosterone illerate. I do not understand the males need to conquer and dominate everything. Easter Sunday was a beautiful day. Old Joe, my in-laws horse, was grazing peacefully in the yard. And then the boys showed up...

I saw four grown men suddenly transform into 10 year old boys as they all gathered round plotting different ways to jump on Old Joe's back. The women stood by giggling and secretly praying that Joe would buck them off or kick them in a sensitive place. I know it's not nice, but it's funny.

They tried unsuccessfully a few times. They got close, and then ran back screaming. I didn't have the heart to point out that Old Joe is named OLD for a reason. He wasn't putting up much of a fight, but don't tell them that.

I've never seen my cousin more serious. How many men does it take to get on a horse? Apparently too many. What would he have done without all that moral support?

And now he's a cowboy. Old Joe literally did not move; I don't even think he knew what was going on. My other cousin squealed with delight, quickly gaining confidence after seeing that this wild and crazy horse could actually be tamed. He decided he needed to go for a ride too. And when I say "ride", I really mean "sitting on the horse proudly getting his picture taken."

Hang on tight boys! Horses are unstable and violent creatures.

Yes, everyone is watching. Yes, we are all very proud of you. Yes, you are big boy's now.

At one point, I'm pretty sure they started talking about how impressed the ladies would be if they knew these strong men had riden a wild horse. Except Old Joe's not wild, but that will be our little secret. 

Once they conquered riding the horse, they were quickly distracted by my one year old son blowing bubbles. Off to another adventure. And I still don't understand men.  

Men At Work

One rule in my house...

You make the mess...

You clean it up.

Pronto

Oh Peter

We have finally decided to sponsor a child through Compassion International. It is something we have wanted to do for so long, and yet always found a reason to put it off. I tried two years ago. Even called and gave my credit card information. And yet, somehow, it didn't work. We never were signed up.

I talk about it every now and then, but always come up with a reason not to. After reading several blogs about trips to Kenya and meeting these kids for real, it confirmed for me that this is legite. These beautiful babies suffer. My baby boy was just blessed to be born into a family that could support him. What about these amazing kids born under poverty? Into circumstances they could not have prevented? What if my precious boy had been born in to poverty? Would I not want someone who could help, to do everything possible to ensure the best life possible for him?

Matt and I prayed before sponsoring a child. We looked through all the photos, and both our hearts rested on Peter. He reminds me so much of our Tristan. We don't know anything about him, except that he is a gift from God, and a beautiful creation. I do not know him. I have never met him. He is a stranger to me. But I know he is a gift. He is blessed. And my heart already loves him.

I cannot WAIT until we can send him our first letter. I will tell him about the love of Jesus Christ and how special he is. Why have I not done this sooner?

I am excited for this blessed boy. What a beautiful, blessed boy. Peter.

Here's To You...Multitasker

A woman at the gym this morning was doing cardio, talking on her cell phone, and eating breakfast...at the same time. It made me realize that I have not been taking full advantage of my workouts. I'm thinking about bringing my laundry tomorrow...or maybe playing some Sudoku.

Meat & Potatoes Kind of Gal

Yesterday was my friend KK's birthday. I won't tell you how old she is - I do not want to die. Let's just say I have a few more years until I'll be celebrating that one. There's something about birthday's that just make me a happy camper.

I spent three hours making these chocolate cake balls on a stick. Martha Stewart I am not. I saw the picture, thought, 'that looks delicious' and decided to waste my entire afternoon burning stuff in the kitchen. What a treat. But I would do anything for a birthday celebration. So instead of giving up like I wanted to, I perserved and made the ugliest looking things I ever had the good fortune of creating. God gives us many gifts, and I need to learn that mine is not baking. Taste great, look hideous. How can you go wrong with chocolate, sugar, butter and cream cheese? Those are my four food groups.

To celebrate her big day, I carried on with a tradition started last year, and made a shirt for Tristan. Since KK was raised Jewish and I was raised Catholic, we love to ruffle eachothers "religious" feathers. I felt I needed to explain so the next sentence doesn't make me sound like a Nazi. Tristan walked in wearing a shirt that said "Roses are Red, Jews are Frugal, I Heard Your Mom, Makes a Mean Noodle Kugel". It was the only thing that rhymed, and I figured it was less threatening coming from a 15 month old. The shirt did also say "Happy Birthday". I'm exploiting my child...that can't be good.

Forgive him...he knows not what he does

They were supposed to look like flowers. Didn't quite work.

We went to a restaurant of her choice to celebrate. Last year we celebrated at a hippie organic vegetarian restaurant in Boulder. I had the pleasure of eating Yak butter, Baba Ganoush, and steamed beets. I was hoping for something different this year. Instead, she told me we were going to eat at a sketchy Indian restaurant. I couldn't wait for my mouth and stomach to turn in to lava.

Buddha was staring me in the face when we walked in, pictures of Nepal covered every square inch of wall space, and fourteen different kinds of incense threatened the stability of my stomach. It was delightful.

She used to be a vegetarian until a few months ago, so now she is being gutsy and trying anything and everything. We had all different kinds of meat hidden in colorful sauces. I. Was. Terrified. I asked someone to pass the sweet potatoes, only to get several odd looks. No potatoes here, just spare animal parts in hot orange sauce. My mistake.

The safest thing I ate was Naan. It was actually delicious, given that it was plain bread. I asked for honey to make it taste like a sopapilla, and was given three discouraging looks from the table and one under the breath remark by the waiter. I asked for coffee. He said they didn't serve it. I asked for tea. He said they didn't serve it. I asked what they do serve, and he walked away. It was not my night. I tried to be brave and sampled a few of the dishes. I spent the rest of the night regretting it. My mouth was on fire for four hours courtesy to one fiery little dish. Needless to say, I left hungry, and $60 poorer.

Thank you for the lovely evening India. It won't soon be forgotten - given that my eyes haven't stopped watering and I still can't taste anything. Let's just hope that next year we get to eat somewhere normal, or this girl is going to pack her own dinner.

Randomness

I just found out they invented a sarcastic symbol that you can now enter into your emails and texts. It's called a sarc mark and costs $2 to buy. A very wise investment (sarc mark). If you can't tell, I'm too cheap to buy it. I am in desperate need of it, but still too cheap. As someone in my life reminds me constantly, 'sarcasm is the lowest form of anger and you should stop using it so much'. Never.

I had my first date today with my son. I paid, of course. We were out and about and needed lunch. I decided we would sit down at a nice restaurant that, coincidentally, serves my favorite meal. It kind of reminded me of my first date with Matt...I told lots of jokes...and he didnt laugh. You know its bad when a 14 month old looks at you like you've lost your marbles. He better get used to it. After conditioning the carpet with a nice layer of juice, saltine crumbs, oranges and cheerios, I'm almost positive we are not invited back. Bummer.

We just got a new bed. We downsized from a California King (which is ginormous) to a Queen. My mattress is entirely too comfortable now. Instead of waking up before the alarm like I used to, I now wake up to a series of panicked questions. My alarm goes off, and I have no idea what day it is, where I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to be doing, or how long I have to do it all in. I spend at least 5 minutes staring accusingly at my alarm clock like it's trying to mess with me. I know it's not her fault, but someone needs to be blamed for this.

I saw an old man driving on the interstate smoking his pipe with a forgotten Venti Starbucks clinging for life to the top of his Cadillac. I tried to take a picture but decided one accident a year was enough for me, and I've already filled my quota.

And thats about it. I feel like this is one of those "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey" moments. Only none of my thoughts are deep right now. I'll save that for another time.