Ok, some of these pictures might not blow you away and that’s because I took them. But I must show you this one first, because this could have been the end of my trip to Paris.
You see this “little” church in Paris is in the Montmartre district (in the 18th arrondissement on the Right Bank if you want to get technical) and this is a very, very hilly area of Paris and I’m very, very clumsy. Fast forward to a little afternoon stop at a cafe in said district, a few glasses of wine, and killer heels not meant for hills, cobblestone streets, nor steep downward stairs to the bathroom and you’ve got to know where this is going… Let’s just say when my friend heard the thump, she knew it was me. And it was. One very twisted, sprained, strained ankle later and you have this.
You should see the video.
I don’t mean any disrespect, but this is a one way ticket to the The Mona Lisa up close and personal. There was no standing behind the ropes. There wasn’t much standing at all for me at the Louvre. My best friend and husband were kind enough to push me around, however they demanded I not hobble up stairs. No, they were not being kind. They insisted if they had to push my clumsy butt through the Louvre I was going to have to sit and take the slow, very noisy ramp up the 2 to 3 steps of stairs that are everywhere in this museum. However, we did get to push buttons and disappear behind walls in many museums in Paris. Never a dull moment when I’m around…
I just love the lighting in this picture.
Dessert at Jules Verne.
This, my friends, is the only way to experience the Eiffel Tower.
Especially if you’re having trouble walking, you’ve seen The Mona Lisa without having to wait your turn, the back rooms of the Louvre and your life flash before your eyes as your tumbling face first down tile steps. I would assume these are not your typical memories of Paris, but they are mine. I have the stair ramp video to prove it.
My husband who I’ve mentioned here and also a little here, has been extremely lucky. Not only has he been lucky with his choice of spouse (jackpot!) but also in his choice of profession. He’s had the opportunity to travel the world, while I’ve been left at home to take care of the children and eat bon-bons – no, I’m not bitter in the least. Why would I be bitter, as you can see in the following pictures it was probably too much for anyone to bear…
Rio de Janeiro
I told him if he went to Venice or Paris without me — we were done.
Last Straw. Rough draft of divorce papers were written. I almost felt pity because he did have to take a gondola ride with a bunch of guys. Almost.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was going on the next trip. So where did I begin? Well, Peru seemed the likely choice. So off I went with 3 kids to meet up with my husband and begin our own adventure.
Luckily this was before our credit cards were labeled, “We are too big to fail, but because you are so tiny we insist you will.” Due to a complicated second passport issue we were unable to reach Machu Picchu; but it was beautiful and awesome nonetheless. Plus it gave my family hysterical “bathroom” stories about Lima. Hey, no one said we were couth.
Paragliding in Lima, the white one is attached to my teenage son.
I shredded the divorce papers, all was as it should be.
Next up — Pairree, or Paris if you want to be that way…
Maybe I shouldn’t start a post with such a mundane subject. But read on and you will see this subject is neither mundane nor trivial. Plus, I promised in the beginning I could do a whole post on socks.
First, if there is a hell, mine will certainly involve socks. I have 3 males in my house and although they are of varying ages they have all been blessed with large feet (so even though they are all over the age spectrum – their shoe size is almost the same). I often quote that “I am in tube sock hell”. Except due to the weather, fashion trends or what have you, I’m actually in black “no show” sock hell. And. NONE. of. them. match.
Matchin' ain't happenin'
Second, you would not believe the dirty, no crunchy, socks that litter every crevice of my home. It is, I believe, part of the male anatomy to shed their socks every couple of hours. It is also a necessary evil to continue to purchase black no see-um socks every couple of weeks because none of my children can find clean socks.
My bathroom -- wait, why are they in here?
Third, I won’t even delve into my youngest female child and her massive issues with socks. I talked it about here. Yes, this is another form of hell which we regularly participate in first thing in the morning. (At least her socks are not black.)
The Dining Room -- ewww and please forgive the dirt on the floor. The house cleaner is on sabbatical.
Take that preachers, priests, priestesses and the like: the way to true fire and brimstone begins with SOCKS.
My mother’s been in town for a little while and we’ve done some marvelous things to my house. She left this morning 😦 and as I raced around returning some things so my credit card statement wouldn’t knock me into a wall and grab my throat while sucking my will to live; I thought a lot about money and all its glory.
Unless you’ve been under a rock or you so stinking rich it doesn’t matter, you’ve probably been affected by our economy. The fear it brings out in people is understandable, the hate, not so much. I guess someone or something has to be the outlet for all this anger and loathing. The targets people choose are quite interesting, if not misdirected and disgusting, but that is another post entirely.
My relationship to money waffles between complete and total denial and the urge to call a Chapter 13 attorney, tell Bank of America where to go, and move into a teepee on a piece of land growing my own vegetables. It’s a weird and complicated object — currency. The only thing it appears to buy is freedom and piece of mind. But does it really? The more stuff we have the more we have to worry about losing. It never seems to be enough. I mean, I’m sure the Bill Gates and Warren Buffet’s in this world don’t worry about putting food on the table — but I’m sure their minds can’t be completely at ease. That amount of money must come with its own share of worry. “Dammit honey, some dude in Mexico is now number 1.” Personally, I would be fearful for my children. But who knows…I guess that is something I probably won’t or don’t need to worry about. Whew.
I need to start playing the lottery so I understand how the “other side” stresses, plus I would love to be too big to fail. Coming back to reality, I always think of the one thing that pretty much sums up my relationship with the green stuff. It’s Bernadette Peter’s line in The Jerk; “I don’t care about losing all the money. It’s losing all the stuuufffff.”