I was on Fire Island a few weeks ago with some classmates from philosophy. The day was one long eat and drink fest, a day of splashing in the ocean and napping on the sand. In the evening, sitting on couches, sipping on wine, a classmate of mine talked a little bit about his nineteen year old daughter. Their difficult relationship, the challenges, the struggle.

He asked me point blank how my father did it.

“Did what?” I asked.

“Did anything,” he replied. “The way you talk about your father…”

There was a short pause as he attempted to articulate his thoughts.

“It’s very obvious how much you love him, by how highly you speak of him. And I just…I can’t imagine my daughter ever saying things like that about me and I just…I want to know…if it’s possible…for me to be that kind of dad…”

My heart broke for him and I don’t think in the moment that I offered any sage advice. I think I said that nineteen is nineteen and when I was nineteen, I wandered into the counseling center at my university in tears, begging for help, needing to talk to someone. And when I was in the thick of that therapy and the therapy I went back into at age 23, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t speaking highly or lovingly of my parents at all, my dad included.

I told my classmate that you do the best you can and eventually, hopefully, your daughter finds the place that I found. That amazingly peaceful place where you understand your parents and the role they played and the anger and the hurts sort of just dissolve. Not because they didn’t exist. Or because they weren’t valid. But because you let them go, because they don’t matter, because you learn how to grow and define yourself without your past.

I told him that it probably doesn’t happen for everyone.

But it happened for me.

And obviously, it helped that my parents, for all their faults, have always been incredibly supportive of me. And have bent over backwards to give me my very beautiful awesome life. It also helped that my dad is a freaking ridiculous person with a freaking ridiculous Brooklyn accent and a heart the size of China. So, there’s that too.

(With hard work, both the accent and the large heart can be acquired.)

There was so much I didn’t say to my classmate. So much I didn’t know how to say. Sure, I bet I can sit down with my dad and write an instruction manual for How To Parent Like A Crazy Polack (With Guaranteed Results!). But so much of my childhood, like everyone’s, was a result of circumstance. I suppose instead, my dad and I should write a book called “The Stuff That Happened and How We Dealt With It”.

I bet that book would never end.

And I bet every chapter would conclude with my dad saying “BUT DAT STILL WASN’T AS BAD AS THE TIME I FELL DOWN AND BROKE MY HIP.”

…

 

I went home on Sunday to visit my dad and oddly enough, ended up spending most of my time with my mother. My sister was house sitting a beautiful house on the Long Island Sound with the most gorgeous pool in the backyard and she had asked if my mother and I could go over and let the dogs out while she hung with some friends. My mother could spend her whole life swimming and so could I so we headed over to the house and jumped in the pool.

It was just me and my mom for the first time in…I don’t know how long.

We swam and we lay in the sun in our bathing suits. I asked her lots of questions about growing up in the 60’s and 70’s. I loved hearing about riding her bike to the community pool and getting a ride home from swim team. I pictured my mom, long straight hair blowing as she rode her bicycle with her girlfriends, possibly a Jackson 5 album playing over and over in the background, like a movie.

My dad was a wonderful dad because he had my mom as a partner. My mother encouraged and allowed him to be the silly, goofy, brainiac dad that he was if only because she stepped in and did everything he couldn’t. She was more aware of the day to day aspects of our lives, our feelings, our decisions, our schoolwork, our friends. My mom took control and created things my father was not capable of creating on his own. She noticed things he did not notice because as fantastic as he is, he can be a little bit of an absent-minded professor sometimes.

There was an aspect to my childhood that my philosophy classmate’s daughter did not have - a team of loving parents who did things together. So much of what makes my parents work is their ability to balance each other out. They made their family a priority but they put their marriage first. I always respected that bond and knew that ultimately, no matter what, my mom and dad had each other’s backs.

After a few hours, we hauled ourselves out of the pool and back home to ready the house for a barbecue. My mom was having kids from her youth group over for dinner and a meeting and she needed help cleaning up. I did the dishes and the laundry, helped my dad get around, cleaned the bathroom, got chairs up from the basement for the kids to sit on.

When the teens arrived, I settled into the background. I ate dinner and chatted but mostly just watched them interact and laugh with my mom. Burgers and hot dogs in the backyard, a breezy Long Island evening. Tipped my head back against my chair, hair still smelling of chlorine, skin dry from the pool. Summer.

The teens and adults sat in the family room later eating smores and discussing a restructuring of the youth group. I silently rinsed off plates, put leftover food in Tupperware, tried to tiptoe around the house so as not to disturb. I started laughing to myself when I realized how I felt eleven years old again. Growing up, once a week, my father taught my older brother’s religion class and for an hour, the kids would come over and sit in the family room and I had to be quiet.

It was such a specific memory and it came flooding back with such force as I wiped down the counters. I could hear my dad’s voice teaching my brother and his friends (AND WHAT DO YA THINK GAWD WAS TELLIN’ US IN DAT BIBLE VERSE?), could remember carefully writing out a homework assignment and then looking up to stare out the front windows and watch the cars pull into the cul-de-sac in front of our house, one by one, headlights lined up waiting for their kids.

Growing up with my parents.

My life was like that.

A lot of God, a lot of love, laughter as my dad cracked a joke, other people and their children constantly coming over to spend time, spaghetti sauce on the stove, four siblings cleaning up after dinner, loading the dishwasher, smacking each other with the sponge.

I got an e-mail from my dad yesterday.

“Just wanted to thank you for helping your mom clean up for the barbecue. It meant a lot to us.”

And a phone call from my mom today.

“Thank you so much for your help cleaning, Laura. It really was so great to spend that time with you.”

Two people letting me know how much I meant to them. It doesn’t happen every time. Just…most of the time. Thanking me for cleaning up, something I did gladly, without thinking about it. Because that’s how they raised me to be - helpful, supportive, contributing. No need to thank me at all. But they do.

And I just want to know if it’s possible…to be that kind of dad…

It is possible to be that kind of dad.

And it is possible to be that kind of mom.

And sometimes when the stars align in such a way, that kind of dad and that kind of mom happen upon each other and create a family.

And through the job loss and the financial stress and the breaking of hips, there are summer afternoons at the pool and the laughter of teenagers in the freshly painted family room and gooey marshmallow smores for dessert.

I think that’s what it’s about.

No.

I don’t think.

I know.

(c) sprocket87

You guys.

Do I want an iPhone?

I don’t have AT&T so everything I hear about them dropping calls every five seconds is pure speculation. Well, in New York, anyway. I do know for a fact that AT&T sucks in Los Angeles. I know this because Tom has an iPhone and every time he calls me, he has to call me back about four times and I feel like I’m back in 2003 when all cell phones used to do that all the time.

(Tom! It’s 2003! See you at Fiddler On The Roof rehearsals! SUNRISE, SUNSET…)

Do people in NYC have the same problem? (With dropped calls, not Fiddler rehearsals.)

I’m going to tell you that my current phone is a Blackberry and that my provider is Sprint and that my contract is up in October which means I could easily change over to someone else at that time.

I didn’t realize Sprint was the ghetto internet provider until I had the following conversation a few weeks ago:

My friend: Why don’t you just get an iPhone?

Me: I don’t want to change providers.

My friend: Ohhhh, you’re with Verizon?

Me: No. Sprint.

PAUSE.

My friend: Is that…a joke?

Um. Why do people hate on Sprint? I’m curious.

So, I have some questions for you guys because you guys have cell phones, right? (Come on! You must! MY DAD has a cell phone! And he USES IT! But he doesn’t know how to check his messages so don’t leave him a voicemail.) You’ll be honest with me, right? While still taking care of my precious feelings?

Do I:

1. Switch to AT&T and get an iPhone because iPhones rock and the dropped calls are worth it

2. Stick with Sprint and just upgrade the phone - try out one of those new fangled Droid things.

3. Switch to Verizon and upgrade to one of those new fangled Droid things. That way, I get out of ghetto Sprint and if the iPhone ever becomes compatible with Verizon, I can upgrade.

4. Stick with Sprint and my Blackberry because…why not? STOP BEING SPOILED.

Give me your opinions, dudes. Let’s talk about something else.

Like zucchini bread.

I made vegan chocolate chip zucchini bread at my parents’ house last night. It was my second attempt of the day to be proactive about saving my money. My first attempt was to hit up the grocery store and snag some ingredients for weekday lunches. I also purchased some decaf ground coffee. I needed to hit the reset button on Being Aware of Where My Money Goes.

I was dropping too much cash on iced coffees and muffins to go with the coffee and then lunch because I was too lazy to make my own and…hm. It took me awhile to get settled after Italy, you know? I kept thinking I was still on vacation and could continue to drop money on anything I felt like.

Guess what?

I cannot.

So, hey. Here’s what I ate today. Everything made at home. Thought you might be interested because I finally stopped talking about Sprint.

BREAKFAST:

Smoothie

1 banana
frozen strawberries
3/4 c. unsweetened soy milk
2 Tbsp. dark chocolate hemp protein powder
2 Tbsp. flax seed

RESULT: Not enough frozen strawberries. Smoothie was not ice cold. Just sort of…not warm. Tweeted about this smoothie after I made it and the company that made the hemp protein powder reached out to me and they are now totally following me on Twitter. Social media is weird, y’all.

MID MORNING SLUMP:

decaf iced coffee (Whole Foods brand?)
unsweetened soy milk from home
poured into reusable plastic coffee cup with super cute straw that I bought at Bed Bath and Beyond for $7 OMG YOU GUYZ! SPARKLES!

Result: My body is not tricked by the decaf. Too much soy in my body after that smoothie. Reusable plastic coffee cup got compliments from other co-workers in the kitchen. Hot Guy was not in there to make conversation. WHAT A WASTE.

LUNCH

Salad!

1/2 c. cooked red quinoa (cooked in vegetable broth)
2 c. arugula (local!)
1/2 cucumber (local!)
1 heirloom tomato (local!)
1/3 avocado (local! JUST KIDDING. Please someone, tell me how to grow an avocado in NYC.)
kalamata olives
2 pieces Golden Sesame Tofu
1 Tbsp. Annie’s balsamic vinaigrette dressing

RESULT: Ehhhhhh. It sounds good in theory but there wasn’t enough dressing and I cut the vegetables up into pieces that were too large so it was sort of chunky and I wish I was eating pasta instead but I’m trying to lower the gluten and it didn’t fill me up for very long which brings me to my afternoon snack.

VEGAN CHOCOLATE CHIP ZUCCHINI BREAD

I would give you the recipe but I got it out of my mom’s 1970’s cookbook from La Leche League called something hippie like WHOLE FOODS TO FEED YOUR FAMILY. (I fully expected breast milk to be a main ingredient in every recipe but surprisingly? IT WASN’T. Thanks a lot, La Leche League. I was so looking forward to Breast Milk Zucchini Bread.)

I made some modifications to make it healthier - replaced most of the vegetable oil with applesauce, replaced the eggs with flaxseed/water combination. These were of course negated by the fact that I threw in a cup of chocolate chips and some chopped walnuts. WOOPS??

RESULT: HOLY FREAKING AWESOME!!!! Too many chocolate chips. BUT HOLY FREAKING AWESOME!!!!

So far today, I have spent zero dollars.

And I have eaten some delicious food.

And yet, that salad was not wholly satisfying.

What are your go to lunches during the week? Do you bring leftovers from dinner? Do you make a sandwich? I’m curious because while trying to live healthfully and cheaply, I don’t always make a lunch that fills me up or tastes very good. I feel like I’m either shoving lettuce into my mouth and wishing I wasn’t and/or I end up starving after about 30 minutes which leads me to believe I’m not getting enough protein and/or fiber.

Who has got some ideas? WHO WHO WHO?

Do I need to make burritos?

I love burritos.

Burritos leave me satisfied.

And I think I just answered my own question.

But I still need your help about that iPhone thing.

WHO CAN HELP A SISTER OUT!???????

Well. Nearly all the pictures from Italy have been uploaded to flickr.

You would probably have clicked to see a few had the flickr sidebar been fixed on my blog.

But it hasn’t.

Can you call my brother and bug him about that? My incessant e-mails and whinings are not working.

Anyhow.

The pictures taken with my DARK MARK camera have all been photoshopped. (Luckily, I realized there was a dark mark on each photo after I took approximately 180 pictures. HA HA. The hours I spent photoshopping it out of each picture…man. That’s an afternoon I can’t get back.)

But they look so PRETTY!

The rest of the pictures were taken with my little Canon point and shoot which did a decent job (but I’m still bitter the Nikon was ruined after only 2 days of traveling) and my Sony Bloggie video camera which took GREAT still photos unless a slight breeze happened to be blowing or Tom was taking your picture because OH! that camera is way sensitive to movement and most of the pics came out blurry.

BOOOOOO.

The video on the camera is great. And when your hand is steady, the photos are too. But I wouldn’t use it as your primary camera. AND THAT IS MY REVIEW. Zzzzzzzzz…

I have broken down the pictures into sets so you can view each city. I also created a set just for food in case that’s the only thing you want to see pictures of. (It’s the only thing I want to see pictures of, let’s be honest.)

Anyway. No pressure. If you’re bored at work, say, you can enjoy some pictures. Tom looked through them and e-mailed me the following:

“YOU LOOK AMAZEBALLS IN THESE PICTURES.

I…

LOOK INSANE.”

Yes. Yes, you do. Because every single time I took a picture of you, you chose to put a crazy gleam in your eye or stuff food in your mouth or imitate those tourists we saw who posed for pictures by looking off into the distance dramatically.

THAT’S ON YOU, TOM. THAT IS ON YOU. (And me who enabled you in these endeavors.)

And I haven’t even begun to upload or edit the videos yet.

YOU JUST WAIT.

For now, enjoy some photos.

FOOD PORN!

Geneva!

Genoa!

Pisa!

Florence!

Rome!

I went home on Sunday to visit my dad (he’s doing great!) and discovered our family room in complete disarray. (Do you call it a family room? A den? It’s the big room where we sit on couches and read and there’s a fireplace and my dad watches Everybody Loves Raymond in his recliner. We always referred to it as the FAMILY ROOM for this reason, I guess. Cozy fire, cup of tea, Patricia Heaton screeching at Ray Romano, etc.)

THE PAINTERS ARE COMING TOMORROW! my mom exclaimed, running around getting ready for work. AND I NEED YOUR HELP!

She had pulled most of the books off the bookshelves creating separate piles for garbage and recycling and donating and keeping. She needed me and my sister to go through the stacks, make sure we didn’t want to keep any of the garbage and then move every item into the dining room so the painters could come in and start priming the walls.

We won’t get into the fact that my mom decided early in the summer to have every room in the house painted. (”Because your dad’s in a wheelchair and he won’t get in the way!”)

Okay, fine. We will get into that fact right now.

She asked me for my sage painting advice which is Funny Thing About My Mom #0971254. She trusts me and often thinks I have good ideas because I’m young and hip and know what’s going on (BWA HA?) but then when I suggest something, like paint colors or a skirt she should buy, she gets scared that it will suck so she ultimately ignores what I say and sticks with her original idea.

I chose to ignore that I knew this, so I carefully selected (with the help of my sister) the most perfect paint colors in the entire universe. Paint colors that would illuminate our house with warmth and graciousness and sophistication. And naturally, my mother said YES GREAT BEAUTIFUL and then ripped up all our ideas and flushed them down the toilet.

My mother, you see, likes all things COLOR. BRIGHT BRIGHT COLOR! Rita likes PASTELS! And she loves glitter on Hallmark cards! She likes prisms! And rainbows! And anything that sparkles! Which is great! Except when you’re painting the rooms of a house. Back in the 90’s, she painted our living room a bright pink and she was so proud of it until our dear friend Father Donald walked in and said he couldn’t decide if he felt like he was at a tacky funeral parlor or if he felt like he was just standing inside someone’s mouth.

(The pink was later replaced.)

So naturally, even after doling out suggestions, my mom went ahead and chose her own colors anyway. Oh! You wanted to paint the upstairs bathroom gray? GRAY IS DEPRESSING. PERIWINKLE IT IS! A deep eggplant for the guest room? YUCK! TOO DARK! I painted it LAVENDAR! It looks just like EASTER!

I guess my taste in paint is less I Live In Perpetual Springtime With All The Saints in Glory and more Melancholic Brooding While I Sit On The Couch and Read Hemingway.

The point of this story is that the painters were coming to finish the final room, our family room, which I had initially wanted to paint a lovely deep navy blue. It’s not going to happen as my parents are fearful of dark colors and good taste so we finally settled on a lighter blue gray which I actually like though I have no expectation when I go home next week that that’s what will be on the walls. I actually fully expect to walk into the family room and find that my mother discounted the blue altogether and had the walls painted like this:

ANYWAY.

We had to go through her books.

And the rest of the crap on the bookshelves.

And let me tell you, we have not really gone through these bookshelves or the literature stacked on them in about twenty years. Maybe longer. My sister and I found a book of baby names published in 1956 and even better, the names that were circled in pencil included “Sheba”, “Clifford” and “Gerard.”

We found the usual stuff - beautifully leather bound classics that no one has ever read, the entire Chronicles of Narnia, a few Nicholas Sparks books my sister reads with a box of tissues. But nothing prepared us for the amount of religious books and pamphlets and journals from various retreats and weekend talks and study. I mean, my mom is into it, we know this. But I had no idea just how much she had accumulated and how AMAZING some of the stuff we found was.

She wasn’t home at the time and I imagine she would’ve been screaming STOP BEING BLASPHEMOUS from the kitchen as I pulled book after book off the shelf with some variation of God in the title.

She wasn’t there though.

So my sister and my dad and I were left to revel in the amazingness of my mom’s family room bookshelf.

I reached a point where I couldn’t quite keep it to myself anymore so I asked The Cripple (my dad) to make himself useful and start scanning.

He complied.

And told me to feel free to take whatever I wanted back to the city for some light subway reading.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I now present to you:

STUFF I FOUND ON MY MOM’S BOOKSHELF.
by Laura Elizabeth, age 27.2

This was the cover of a small pamphlet, not an entire book. But it’s still gold. I was not aware that God had a fingerprint. Turns out? He does. When He touches you, He leaves a mark. This is helpful to know in case God ever commits a crime.

I’m not a wife but I’m going to take this knowledge with me into the future should I ever marry. ALL YOU ENGAGED GIRLS OUT THERE - PLEASE TAKE NOTE because I’ve been missing the point the entire time. The point is: bring a man with feathered hair flowers on a hammock. HOW COULD I HAVE MISSED THIS?? I also enjoy the asterisk in the title.

This title is my favorite. Just because. Come on, A Rose For Nana? I don’t even know what to think about this. Especially because I’ve never called either of my grandmothers “Nana” so this strikes me as particularly hilarious. But if I had a Nana, I would bring her a rose. THERE. I SAID IT.

Another pamphlet cover. And this is a valid question. Thing is…I just find it awfully specific. A general “after you die” is sort of open-ended and is definitely something to ponder. Do we go to heaven? Do we go to purgatory? Are we reincarnated? These are life/death questions to sit with.

But…5 minutes after I die? That is so intense that it’s making the Straight A Student in me panic. FIVE MINUTES? IS THIS SOME KIND OF TEST? I DON’T KNOW THE ANSWER. I’m freaking out over here. NO ONE TOLD ME THIS INFORMATION! And even worse, when I finally get the answer, I’LL ALREADY BE DEAD so I can’t even BLOG ABOUT IT.

When my mom came home from work, I was all OH DID WE FIND SOME GOODIES WHILE YOU WERE GONE. The Cripple even scanned them for me!

And she threw up her hands and said OH NO. ARE YOU GOING TO PUT THIS ON THE INTERNET?

And I said, Mom, it is my DUTY to put this stuff on the internet and you can’t be mad at me because I spent the afternoon cleaning out the entire family room AND YOU HAVE A LOT OF CRAP. Nobody needs 1,000 copies of old Prevention magazines.

She started sifting through the bags of recycling and garbage and accused me of throwing out stuff she actually wanted. I said that absolutely wasn’t possible, there is no way she needs to keep the books I put in the garbage pile. I saved the baby name book because I feel like Gerard could really come in handy one day. But other than that, the rest of the stuff is super old and outdated and even though she says she will, she is never going to read them again.

“THAT IS NOT TRUE!” she protested, clutching a copy of “Born Again Catholic” to her chest. “I NEED THIS STUFF.”

Which brings me to the final book in this series, a book that was on her shelf but perhaps she has not read yet.

MOM, WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU. LET US BE YOUR SUPPORT SYSTEM. THE FIRST STEP IS ADMITTING YOU HAVE A PROBLEM. FATHER LEO BOOTH SAYS SO.

My little sister is three years younger than me and a good six inches shorter. Debbie doesn’t weigh enough to donate blood and when standing barefoot, does not reach five feet tall. So you may be wondering why, right before she left to go to Italy with me, my mother turned to her and said, “AND REMEMBER, WHILE YOU’RE AWAY, TRY NOT TO BE MEAN TO YOUR SISTER.”

…

Deb and I had a pretty typical sisterly relationship growing up. We got along most of the time but were not immune from bickering when tensions ran high. We were very different people though and while we enjoyed each other, we didn’t necessarily like to do the same things and spent lots of time apart with our separate friends. I know that I annoyed the crap out of her most of the time, just by being myself. (Read: sitting at the piano singing showtunes for hours, taping Broadway show advertisements cut out from the NY Times on our bedroom closet doors, getting straight A’s without even trying and then gloating about it, etc.)

When I look back on our childhood and I put myself in my sister’s shoes, I am filled with empathy and the uncomfortable understanding that most of the time, the world seemed to revolve around Me and My Shows and my need for attention until I left the house and the family could breathe a little bit without me around. I wonder what that must have felt like and I am certain that it more than a little bit contributed to my sister’s very sincere need to not be in my shadow and to do her own thing and to make it known, thank you very much, that her name is Debra, not Laura and she is Different.

 

Traveling with someone can be very intense but I wasn’t really worried about packing up and hanging out with Debbie for twelve days in some foreign countries. My sister and I lived under the same roof for most of our lives so I knew pretty much how it would play out. In fact, the issues surrounding my dad’s health have brought us closer in recent months and I rightly guessed that it would make things go even more smoothly.

Most of the time, everything was easy. One of my favorite aspects of the trip was watching my sister discover the world on her own. I remember traveling for the first time to Greece when I was 20 and how I felt the world unraveling before me, how it seemed so much bigger than I thought but also so much smaller. There were so many times in Italy when I just stood and watched her enjoy it, her food, her picture taking, her smile. I couldn’t help but smile myself.

But I was also not immune to being the Same Old Big Sister and she naturally stepped in and played her role as well which was Snap At Laura To Remind Her I’m Not An Idiot. (Which is why my mother was all BE NICE TO YOUR SISTER. Deb often has a razor sharp tongue and can be quite brutal but about 99% of the time, I deserve to be snapped at anyway. The thing is, I often erupt in tears when she does it because…well. I have no idea. You explain it to me. I’m tired.)

In Deb’s defense, she is constantly being labeled as “the moody, snippy one” while I am labeled “the sensitive one” and even though she does snap at me sometimes, she often does it when she feels cornered or overwhelmed and I am often the culprit of making her feel this way. And I saw it on the trip several times. And I hated it.

The horrifying thing I realized was that I could almost watch myself about to say something that I knew would piss her off and then I would say it anyway. I knew, I just KNEW, the reaction I would get and yet when I was tired or hot or hungry or feeling provocative, I just didn’t care. Why on earth do I do stuff like this? It seems so ridiculous and mean.

Prime example: Debbie’s face wash is sitting on the bathroom counter in our apartment in Rome. It happens to be one of those exfoliating fash washes with the little scrubby beads. I see it. And it immediately pisses me off because every time I go home to visit my parents, this is the only face wash in the shower and I have to keep using it day after day while I’m there and I feel like I’m rubbing my SKIN OFF and I know for a fact, because I’m smarter than everyone, that you’re only supposed to exfoliate ONCE A WEEK and you know what? Now would be a GREAT FREAKING TIME to let Debbie know that she’s living her life INCORRECTLY.

Me: (in condescending tone) You don’t use that every day, do you?

My Higher Self: SHUT THE F*CK UP.

Deb: Um. Yeah.

Me: (even more snotty) Well. You’re only supposed to exfoliate once a day. You should find a more gentle cleanser.

My Higher Self: ARE YOU FOR REAL RIGHT NOW?

Deb: Uh. Well I like it. It makes my face feel clean. And shut up.

Me: WELL I’M JUST SAYING IT’S NOT GOOD FOR YOU.

My Higher Self: SHE’S RIGHT SHE’S RIGHT SHUT UP SHUT UP

Deb: Well it’s my face wash AND I LIKE IT.

Me: (calling out of the room) Tom, aren’t you only supposed to exfoliate once a week?

My Higher Self: GOING TO SOMEONE ELSE TO PROVE YOUR POINT!? ARE YOU SOME KIND OF MANIAC? STOP BEING SUCH AN ASSHOLE.

But I couldn’t. You see? I just couldn’t. Because I had to tell her. I had to make sure my sister knew she was WRONG because she wasn’t like ME and after it happened, I went in my room and had to meditate because I was so ashamed of myself. I mean, ridiculously, horrendously ashamed of myself because SHUT UP ABOUT THE EXFOLIATING, SHE’S ALMOST 24 YEARS OLD, SHE CAN WASH HER FACE WITH DIRT IF IT MAKES HER HAPPY.

And here is something that is an interesting pattern from childhood - criticizing someone else, not because they exhibited harmful or dangerous behavior but simply because they aren’t like you. And that automatically makes them wrong.

Well, *I* would never use that face wash…

Differences should be celebrated in families (and elsewhere, obviously.) But I can see how it can be hard because wouldn’t it just be easier if we were all the same? Then we wouldn’t fight and we wouldn’t have conflicting opinions and we’d all use a gentle face wash and life would be easy.

But differences are what make life interesting and what make my sister a truly remarkable person. So much of what I love about her is that she is not like me in the slightest. It was so hurtful for me (and her I’m sure) to fall back on some learned behavior that everyone should be the same and that when you aren’t the same as me, this makes you less than me.

Talk about ouch.

Luckily for both of us, the face wash incidents were few and far between. It’s been hard for me to let them go, though. Really hard for me to accept that I still treat her like a baby sometimes. Like I know better. Like she’s doing it wrong.

My God, Debra. You are doing everything so right.

I mean, even in this picture. You were the one, out of four of us, who happened to choose the best gelato flavors in the whole gelateria. And we were all envious of you and your cone of perfection. ALL OF US. And you even let us have a bite. Or five.

Anyway. I’m clinging to the majority of the trip, the rest of the trip, where I wasn’t such a jerk about face wash. Where I tried to shut the hell up about how much I knew and what I’d already seen and how I could do it better. There were so many moments, for me, when I just stopped talking. Stopped trying. And I just enjoyed. And let her enjoy. And we laughed until we cried and we ate a lot of pasta and pizza and we tried to throw Deb into the river whenever possible because she’s small and it was easy.

My sister has been living at home while going to grad school so when my dad got sick, she was the default sibling for round-the-clock care when he was getting an antibiotic through his PICC line every eight hours. Deb and my mother would take turns and set the alarm clock and haul out of bed at all hours of the morning to give him his medicine. She sat with him when he cried, she called 911 when he yelled and she was dependable, cheerful, uncomplaining.

All the time.

I was so happy she pinched her pennies and came to Italy because my God, the girl needed a break.

And I needed to see her happy.

Jumping into the sea, slurping gelato off a cone, dancing and singing her face off at a crazy Italian wedding.

My little sister, in the literal sense - shorter, tinier, younger. But my big sister in a lot of ways, pushing me to be a better person, to be stronger, to appreciate the things that make us different. That I can sing my showtunes and you can cook a delicious dinner. That I can make you laugh and you can speak your mind.

We can love each other not in spite of being different but because we are.

And remember, try not to be mean to your sister.

I’ll try not to. My God, I’ll keep trying.

She’s the only one I’ve got.

My dad has a huge scar on his thigh from his multiple operations and when his final surgery takes place, he’s going to get a brand new one close to the original. For now, he’s just got the one huge gash that sort of looks like it’s smiling back up at him. LIFE IS CRUEL.

He’s been joking with us that everyone at the beach next year is gonna be SO jealous when he shows up in his thong and shows off his battle wounds and we’re all YOU KNOW IT, DAD.

So naturally, when he spotted this comic in the Sunday paper a few weeks ago, he couldn’t resist cutting it out, adding his own artwork, scanning it and e-mailing to all of us.

That’s about right, dad. You’re gonna look just as fierce.

 

 

I mean, I guess the trip was alright.

I’m due to get on a plane in less than 12 hours.

Can’t promise that I will be on that flight.

Highly considering not coming back.

You’ve been warned.

Managed to upload this video of me from Genoa. Tom and I are at a cafe and it was the first time I was allowed coffee. (Tom is keeping me on a tight leash. UGH.) It’s cute though and it’s typical of how we’ve been spending our time.

Genoa from The Spectrum on Vimeo.

On the way here, we stopped in Pisa to take ridiculous pictures of ourselves holding up the Leaning Tower. We also climbed its 294 steps. In 93 degree heat. I don’t recommend this. But I also don’t regret it. That Leaning Tower LEANS, y’all.

Also, I have the most incredible video of Tom while he climbs up the steps inside the tower. At one point, he is singing “Annie” out one of the windows (MAYBE FAR AWAYYYY OR MAYBE REAL NEARBYYYY) and then he does Mission Impossible, hiding among the marble, then he tells Harry Potter that Professor Snape is just head, HURRY ‘ARRY! And he finishes off with a lovely rendition of “God Help The Outcasts” from the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

My life, you guys. This is my life.

Stopping in Pisa was a brilliant idea but stopping in Pisa without a place to dump our backpacks (except the AMAZINGLY FREE Leaning Tower baggage check) was a BAD IDEA. After about 10 minutes of stomping through the blazing sun with all our luggage, Tom and I were all STOP THIS TRAIN and sat ourselves at the nearest air conditioned restaurant for a two-course lunch. We split a bottle of white wine, had salads, pasta and dessert and then declared ourselves perfectly fine to continue our journey to the train station.

Sometimes all you need is a ridiculously extravagant Pisan lunch that only costs you 50 Euros. YOU FEEL ME?

Also, I have to call RIDICULOUS on all those people that told me that Pisa was sort of a waste of time, that we didn’t need to spend more than an afternoon there because the Leaning Tower is all there is and blah dee blah.

Um. What? Who ARE you people and why are you trying to ruin my life?

I found Pisa to be the cutest little town with lots of fun shopping, delicious food and tons and tons of super hot Italian guys who attend the local university. Next time, I plan on spending months of my life in Pisa so I can hold up the Leaning Tower every day and so I can find a husband.

ANYWAY.

Italy is hot in the summer, you guys. And Florence is a mad house of tourists, something that I never had to deal with when I came here two years ago in May. AND OH DID I MENTION HOW HOT IT IS? The sun is an intense angry ball of flames and for some reason, feels way more intense than the sun in New York City, particularly around 5 pm when it should be getting cooler. Italy’s sun just gets more and more angry as the day goes on so by 6:00 you’re on your knees in a piazza begging God to forgive your sins. And before you point out that it’s the SAME SUN in New York and Italy, I just want to tell you that you’re wrong. It’s different.

The food I’ve been eating makes up for all the sweating I’ve been doing. Tom and I just cannot stop eating and I feel like that’s okay. My vegetarian self has been doing very well here (I actually found cannellini bean hummus last night. WHAT THE MAGICAL MAGIC IS GOING ON?) but I have indulged in seafood twice so far with no regrets. I cannot bring myself to try the meat, not even in Genoa though Tom did and talked about his salami sandwich for approximately three days until I was all SHUT UP THERE ARE OTHER THINGS TO TALK ABOUT.

And he’s all, No, there’s not.

And he’s right. So without further ado:

Food I’ve had thus far
by Laura Elizabeth, age 27.3

Gnocchi al pesto
Rigatoni with eggplant, olives, cherry tomatoes
Cannellini Bean hummus
Chickpea, olive, pecorino cheese salad
Pizza with artichokes
Pizza with arugula
Pizza with olives
bread, bread, bread
Croissants
Warm croissants with ricotta cheese in the middle and chocolate on top
Dairy-free chocolate gelato
Dairy-filled white chocolate gelato
Lots and lots of watermelon
One iced espresso that made me believe in God

Stuff Tom Has Eaten:
Everything above because he can’t keep his hands off my food

Plus:

A steak salad with arugula
Authentic salami sandwich in Genoa
Tagiatelle with rabbit
Ten times more gelato than me

Someone explain to me why my cousin weighs about 100 pounds. HE EATS LIKE A SUMO WRESTLER. Then again, so do I. We tell ourselves it’s okay because we walk everywhere! We’re walking! Right? EXERCISE! Plus we keep sweating! Sweating out those calories! YEAH!

Sigh.

And now we are in Florence.

I came to an internet cafe to attempt to call home but then realized it’s 6 am in New York. I’m sure my mom would love hear from me. But not at 6 am. So I am blogging while Tom and my sister hit up the Santa Croce church where Michelangelo is buried along with Galileo, Machiavelli, etc. It’s pretty awesome so I pushed them into going while I snuck away to wander the streets of Florence alone.

And then blogged.

??

God, I’m lame.

Okay! That’s the update! We have another two days in Florence and then on to Rome for a crazy Roman wedding extravaganza. Should be good freaking times.

And now it’s about noon which means it’s time for gelato. And then lunch. And then wine. And then a lovely passegiata around the Ufizzi Gallery. Alayna and I were there two years ago and I’ve been dreaming of those Botticelli paintings ever since so I plan on spending the blazing hot afternoon hours just gazing at the beauty.

BEST DAY OF MAH LIFE.

Now if only Tom would stop eating all my food.

HANDS OFF, JERK.