I DON’T

Kiss anyone who has a girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/husband.

Drink milk.

Leave the beauty aisle of the pharmacy after grabbing what I need. I like to smell all the shampoos.

Think it’s okay to say “I would never do that” because…how do you know?

Believe that people are owed something “just because they’re family”.

Have health insurance.

Always say the right thing.

Always dress appropriately for work.

Always use my money wisely.

Have the best taste in music.

Call people back on time.

I CAN’T

Sleep on my back.

Eat the last cookie.

Articulate what I’m feeling right away; I need some time to process.

Stop myself from obsessively checking the weather forecast.

Do a backflip.

Speak German.

Take back my mistakes.

I’M PRONE TO

Impromptu dance offs in the kitchen.

Getting stuck in my head.

Tripping over something on the sidewalk.

Singing in elevators.

Playing with people’s hair.

Doodling my name over and over on a piece of paper while talking on the phone.

Stealing the covers.

Cramps that make me puke.

Gripping the arm of the airplane seat during turbulence.

Nausea after taking my vitamins.

I TEND TO

Forget people’s names the first time I meet them.

Spend too much money on iced green teas.

Feel more comfortable around boys.

Talk more than I listen.

Leave my rainboots in the hall instead bringing them inside.

Leave the cabinets open after I get a snack.

Leave my sweatshirt on the couch, my glass of water on the table, my bag on the floor.

Say “please” and “thank you”, tip the barista and joke with the grocery store cashier.

Choose work over other more important things.

Forget that I bought those avocados until they’re in the back of the fridge, black and smushy.

Get frustrated when I don’t see enough progress.

I WON’T

Hang up without saying goodbye.

Say no to a day at the beach.

Dumb myself down, pretend I don’t get it, make myself smaller to make you more comfortable.

Stop poking fun at myself when I do something stupid.

Know when to stop but I’ll apologize when I go too far.

Wear flip flops when I can wear high heels.

Leave the house without undereye concealer.

AT 27, I THINK

People who don’t appreciate me aren’t worth my time.

Taking time for myself isn’t selfish. It’s necessary.

I could use some more friends.

I need to put the Blackberry away, far far away.

The wrinkles on my forehead deserve to die.

The fact that some people don’t like me is okay. I don’t like everyone either.

I should get some health insurance.

Eating a cupcake for breakfast sets up a most perfect Friday.

I’m doin’ alright. In every sense of the word. Aw yeah. Doin. Alright.

There was a party on the roof and beer in my blood and when the music came on, I threw up my hands in the air and danced. The Empire State Building towered over me, right across the street. I could see both rivers, fireworks in the distance, ships at the seaport, clouds misting around a full moon.

My shoes were annoying me so I abandoned them, chose to spend the night barefoot, hair sticking to the back of my neck because even as the sun went down, the air was heavy. The music played on and on and I sat on chairs and laughed so hard I nearly fell off, toppling over onto other bodies, leaning in toward others to hear their secrets, giggling and slapping their arms and NO WAY and Oh my GOD.

Pretzel sticks. I dipped them in guacamole ‘cuz I felt like it. Plum wine. I drank some because she poured me a cup full of it. Pressed my body against the edge of the building, leaned my chin into my hand and counted the taxis below. Thirteen, fourteen, one million one hundred a ton.

The city stood tall for us, showing off, all dazzling lights and glitter. People wandering forty stories below, people on rooftops across the way waving, people in apartments and working late in the office and people I couldn’t see at all.

I stared downtown as the fireworks exploded, reds and pinks and shining stars.

How could anyone live anywhere else? someone asked.

I don’t know, I said aloud because I really truly don’t.

(c) smfarnsworth

What on earth was I blogging about before my dad fell and broke his hip?

I seriously have no idea.

I think it was probably something like ARTICHOKES + THAT TIME I FELL DOWN IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. Am I right? I think?

Who knows.

The point is, I got more information on my dad for you guys. And if you’re totally over this whole DAD FELL DOWN thing (believe me, I am), then just…ignore. Go look at something else pretty on the internet. (May I suggest this adorable post with an ovary-pang-inducing picture of a baby floating happily in a pool?)

Yesterday, my mom and older brother drugged dad up, put him in the car and drove him into the city for a consult at the Hospital for Special Surgery in Manhattan. The drugs were important because car rides for my dad seem to be hell on earth and since his operation(s), he hasn’t driven in the car for long periods of time. The choice of hospital is important because it has one of the lowest rates of infection in the world.

It’s in New York City. I mean, we go big here, you know?

On top of that, my older brother the research assistant nerd found out that this particular hospital INVENTED the cement block procedure that my dad had done after his infection was found. Remember when I said that it sounded like something some jerk just made up? Um. I was right. Except this jerk was like some important hospital guy and he worked at the Hospital for Special Surgery and revolutionized medicine and BLAH BLAH I STAND BY MY ORIGINAL ASSESSMENT.

The reasons for switching hospitals and surgeons should be obvious to you by now. But in case you need a refresher course:

1. My dad got a staph infection from the first hospital/surgeon. While this is not necessarily anyone’s fault, the surgeon was the one who made the call to wait it out through the weekend before testing for it. Had my mother not ignored him and rushed my father to the ER, my father would probably be dead at this point in time (worst case) or an amputee (best case).

2. The surgeon inserted the incorrect size cement block into my dad’s hip joint. When the x-rays were pulled up at the new hospital yesterday, the new surgeon remarked, “Huh! Your left leg is three centimeters shorter than your right leg because that cement piece is too small.” FANTASTIC.

3. The original surgeon remarked to my mother after the first operation that he may or may not have damaged some nerves. This is very common when you cut into someone’s hip. (Apparently, there’s…stuff there. Like nerves. And muscles. And stuff.) However, throughout the five weeks post surgery and the subsequent two surgeries and 25 day hospital stay, as my father screamed about spasms in his knee and lower leg, the surgeon made no mention of nerve damage, no mention of anti-spasm medication, no mention that knee pain was not a common side effect from hip surgery.

After about ten minutes chatting with the new surgeon, he said the following:

a. Knee pain is not a common side effect from hip surgery and in fact, represents
b. Significant nerve damage that may or may not ever go away. Your best bet is
c. To see a neurologist as soon as possible for testing because
d. He’s never seen a patient with my dad’s problem on so many narcotics.

THERE YOU HAVE IT FOLKS!!!!!!! I am so in love with that hospital right now! The new one, of course. The other one? I want to set it on fire. (JUST KIDDING DEPT OF HOMELAND SECURITY!)

We warned my dad not to set his expectations too high before the consult with the new surgeon. I tried to tell him that this is a hospital people come to from ALL OVER and that surgeries are likely booked far in advance. My father didn’t care though and because his eight weeks on antibiotics were within a day of being finished, he had his heart set on a plan similar to that of the old surgeon.

THE OLD PLAN WAS: eight weeks on antibiotics, one week off to see if the staph was still around/would develop. After a week, a culture would be taken from inside the hip joint and tested for infection. If there wasn’t an infection, dad was cleared for a full hip replacement surgery, something that he is itching to have done because it means he can, you know, WALK again eventually.

Unfortunately, the new surgeon didn’t have the speedy news dad was so aching to hear. He explained that because he was not the original surgeon, he couldn’t take any chances with that infection. Instead of one week off antibiotics, he suggested six. And as my dad’s face deflated, he continued on to say that the earliest he could book the final surgery would be sometime in September.

Silence.

Definitely not what dad had been hoping for.

But my dad is no ordinary man.

After he had has head wrapped around the idea that his choice was either 1) wait longer for new surgeon/new hospital or B) go back to crappy old hospital and get it done sooner, it was pretty clear what needed to happen. Dad declared that he would wait forever for the new guy, that there was no option of going back, NONE AT ALL! This is what he wanted. He told my sister this morning that if he can wait eight weeks, he can wait a few more.

The new surgeon was extremely kind and told him he could bump the six weeks up to four. At the four week mark, he’ll do some blood work and a hip culture to see if the staph is still around. The reason for waiting 4-6 weeks instead of just one is because he’s unsure what is going on inside the actual hip. He’s not sure how good a job the old surgeon did (I’M SURE WE CAN ALL GUESS HOW GOOD A JOB AT THIS POINT!) and the last thing he wants is to cut dad open only to find out the infection hasn’t fully gone away.

Dad can’t even let himself think of that possibility, which is still very real. The new surgeon explained that with staph infections, there is always a 5% chance that it will come back, no matter how long you wait or who does your surgery. That sucker can always reoccur. It’s possible. But for now, we’re just going to pretend the surgeon never said that.

OKAY?

OKAY.

So, that’s the plan, kids. An appointment with a neurologist to talk about the damn nerve damage/knee problem. New hospital, new surgeon for the hip. Four more weeks in a wheelchair unable to walk, probably longer. The surgeon explained that surgeries get canceled and there’s always a chance of bumping up dad’s appointment. But for now, my father will spend the rest of the summer and possibly even part of the fall in a wheelchair with a cement hip, unable to put weight down on his left leg.

He had his last round of antibiotics today which warrants rejoicing. And now, we wait. We wait and see if that evil staph is gone. Or if it’s still hanging out, making a mess.

I’m wishing with all my might that it disappeared. And that it won’t ever ever ever come back.

But even if my father falls into that 5% and we have to go through this all over again, I know we can handle it. It will be devastating. But my father is strong. We are strong. Together, we will see him walking again, strolling down the street as he once did, humming a tune completely offkey, newspaper tucked under one arm, coffee cup in hand.

You can do this, dad. We are all behind you, next to you, surrounding you, you can lean on us until you can stand on your own.

This weekend was my older brother Paul’s birthday and also Father’s Day. There was much celebration and rejoicing all over the land because Paul is amazing and my dad is alive. YEAH!? YEAH!

But first, I babysat some crazy kids.

Owen and I were playing paddle ball in the backyard when WOOPS the ball went over the fence. It’s New York City so you don’t know your neighbors and you don’t even know which apartment building they live in so you can’t just knock on their door. I suggested he write them a note asking them to throw the ball back over and then I would tape it to their side of the fence so they could see it.

He complied.

Then we went to Union Square to climb on a huge metal sphere and dance atop it and slide down it. BEST. EVER.

Later that night, Paul and his wife came into Astoria and we ate lots of Thai food and finished it up with Greek pastries. Paul was quite sunburned from going kayaking that afternoon and the fact that he is the palest person to ever walk the planet.

This is the classic Paul & Laura Pose: Paul is all, WHAT IS HAPPENING and Laura is all, WHO CARES BITCHES WOO!

I may or may not have been wearing one of my rompers. Or, as my sister likes to call them, my “onesies”. Regardless, I was proud of it and OH MY GOD would you look at those muppet limbs? I am a cartoon. Sigh.

I spent Sunday with my dad who let me take a photo of him. And how could I not? He was wearing his Apple Pi shirt. He was having a GREAT day and doesn’t even show a hint of sickness in the photo except for his little PICC line showin’ through. WORK IT.

Deb and Jem did the usual - act insane.

And I took an amazing video of Jem getting pushed through the kitchen in the wheelchair by Paul while my dad snores peacefully in the background. JUST A TYPICAL FATHER’S DAY AROUND HERE! YOU KNOW!

In case you want a glimpse of the Dlug household after dinner circa 2010, I give you this:

Jem + Wheelchair from The Spectrum on Vimeo.

It was one of the best weekends in recent memory and I was so grateful for that. My dad was happy and in a minimal amount of pain, looking forward to a consultation he has coming up this week with a new surgeon. He’s also almost off the antibiotics which means if he watches his painkiller intake, he can have a glass of wine. He is counting down the minutes.

As always, I am humbled by the love my family shows me and by the twins I babysit for who show love for each other (and me) in a way that is pure and simple. Before leaving the park on Saturday afternoon, I told the boys they could go splash in the water fountain. They ran to it excitedly but paused when they realized bigger kids had gotten there first. Intimidated and cautious, they chose to stand aside and wait for them to leave. Instinctively, they grabbed hands and held them for quite awhile.

I sat there, awed. What a remarkable thing, family.

With this website.

The hardest part is the nighttime.

I wake up at 2 am, left leg pulsating, mouth dry. The house is silent except for the muted vibrations from the hospital bed here in the living room. The front lights are on over the stoop outside causing patches of brightness to peek in the windows and leave patterns on the wooden floor. Darkness has comfortably settled everywhere else.

I’m hit with the familiar pangs of loneliness. I don’t want to wake anyone else up, not after all they do for me every day. I feel temporarily comforted by the fact that they’re all upstairs, safely tucked in bed, not far away. And then I feel sad all over again because a flight of steps might as well be a million miles.

I think of my wife, sleeping in our bed alone. I think of how long it’s been since I slept beside her. I wonder if she still keeps to the left side even though I’m not there to take up the other half. I wonder if she’s sprawled across the whole thing, hogging sheets and pillows and the thought of it makes me smile.

I make it through the day okay. It seems there’s always someone around to distract me and when I sit at the kitchen table eating breakfast with my coffee and the newspaper, I can almost forget that I’m sitting in a wheelchair. But then it’s time to get dressed and my wife washes my hair in the sink and wipes me down with a warm washcloth and it’s clear to me once again that nothing is normal anymore.

And when the pain strikes as it always seems to, the circumstances of my reality smash over me like a wave and I helplessly go under. I’m ashamed to hear the sounds that escape my throat, not those of an adult man but of a wounded animal. My howls and my yelps and the tears that spring to my eyes. If I could swallow them back down, I would but so often I have no choice. I yell and everyone comes running which is the only good thing about it.

It seems like enough, no matter what the pain level, just to have them close by. The firmness in my wife’s voice when she tells me it hasn’t been a bad day, just a bad moment, just a temporary hiccup. One daughter coaxing small pills out of a bottle, the other rubbing my shoulder. I think of what the doctor told me, that some people in my position can’t handle the pain and choose to be sedated for eight weeks at a time. It struck me as insane when I heard it but now it sounds incredibly reasonable.

I sway and I cry as my leg seizes up, a thousand burning fires running up and down, an imaginary knife in my knee, twisting deep into the bone. It pierces over and over again until finally, I feel a slight coolness as the Valium takes over. I can feel it moving, undulating down the leg from my hip. I breathe deeply, completely exhausted from the trauma. I never realized you could feel so much. I never realized you could hurt so badly.

And yet now, in the middle of the night, the pain seems far away. I’m restless but I’m alright and it’s the emotions that exhaust me. The scary places my mind goes to - what if I hadn’t gotten to the hospital when I did? What if this never ends? What if I spend the rest of my life on this hospital bed in my living room?

I never felt old until now. I never felt so knocked down and so broken. Remarkable for a man whose life has never been easy. Has been downright hard. And yet here I am, at my lowest point. Crippled and needy, despairing and humiliated. I can’t even get to the bathroom on my own. A grown adult male who needs help to pee.

The house is quiet. I glance at my watch in the dark, listen to its tiny ticks. My swollen toes poke out from under the sheets, my thigh muscles ache, itching to be used. I can make out the outline of the piano in the darkness, I hum a little bit of a song.

In a few hours, the sun will rise. My wife will scramble some eggs, my daughter will administer some antibiotics. I’ll have my coffee and the newspaper. I’ll be distracted and surrounded by the people that I love. I will almost forget what has happened to me.

But right now, the night seems so long. And the house seems so empty. My mind wanders, my leg throbs and my heart aches, so overcome am I by this new version of myself. A version I wish I never knew.

I don’t know if this is, like, an actor in New York City thing or just a living in New York City thing. I’m betting it’s the latter. But the former definitely adds to it. Are you confused yet? HOLD UP. You don’t know what I’m talking about.

You know when you’re at a party and someone you just met is like I HAVE THIS ART EXHIBIT OPENING DOWNTOWN ON THURSDAY, YOU SHOULD COME! And you nod slowly and you’re all, Yeah yeah totally! because you’re polite and your mama raised you right. But you know, even in that moment, that you’re not going to go. I mean, why would you? You have stuff to do and your own life and you don’t know this person really well and they might be a terrible artist and it’s all the way in Hoboken and that involves a lot of train transfers.

You know what I’m talking about?

Or does this experience only happen to me?

More importantly, is my reaction common? Or do the majority of people in this world actually act on those invitations and pick up and go?

I’m seriously interested.

My gut reaction is always to say no because I’m sort of anxious by nature but more importantly, completely overscheduled on any given day.

I started realizing that my overscheduling is taking a toll and dude, it’s SUMMER and even though I am going to Italy in a few short weeks, I feel like I can make up my mind to change things before I go. I’d like to change:

1. My incessant need to fill every night of the week with something to do. (IMPROV! ITALIAN! PHILOSOPHY! ACTOR SEMINARS! YOUR MOM!)

I mean, I do have a Mondo Beyondo List that I need to work on but that doesn’t mean I need to tackle every single item AT ONCE. You know?

and

B. My initial reaction of “No thanks, not interested”.

I wonder what life would be like for me if every time someone said “I have this thing on Thursday night…” I said YEAH TOTALLY and actually went. What would happen? I might hate it. Possible. But I might also love it. POSSIBLE?

I’m going to give this a whirl.

First up is this coffee shop some guy told me about at philosophy service last night. He was all, DO YOU LIKE ICED COFFEE? and I was all YES BUT I SHOULD NEVER DRINK IT BECAUSE I GO BANANAS! and he was all THERE IS THIS MAGICAL PLACE…WHERE THEY BREW COLD-PRESSED ICED COFFEE…AND IT IS THE BEST COFFEE I HAVE EVER TASTED.

And I was all, WHAAAAAAAAAAA?

How do you brew cold-pressed coffee?

More importantly, DOES IT EVEN MATTER?!

The man said, YOU SHOULD GO!

And I was all, YEAH YEAH DEF!

But normally, I probably wouldn’t. I mean, it sounds cool. And I’d scribble it down in that notebook of “Cool Things To Do In NYC That I Should Probably Do But Probably Will Never Get To Do Because I Am Lazy and A Creature of Habit.”

But I’m going, you guys! I even e-mailed my brother who likes coffee more than anyone I know and was all CAN WE GO DRINK SOME COLD BREW COFFEE? Ad he said YES because he is awesome.

I’m going to have to set up some boundaries here because if it gets too out of hand, the over-scheduling problem is going to get worse. Also, I call magic veto powers on anyone who says “Come see my show” if I don’t know this person directly and if I’ve never heard of the show. My 27 year old self has sat through enough really terrible theater in this town. AM I RIGHT LADIES?

That being said, I’m 27.

I live in New York City.

I am probably going to be single for a super long time.

(Which, I think, is a good thing.)

So I’d like to just…GO DO MORE FUN STUFF. And not be so attached to my routine and stuff that doesn’t matter. I want to relax and meet new people and go to that flea market with that guy that makes t-shirts out of vintage bedsheets and go to brunch at that place that everyone keeps talking about and go rent a bicycle and hear some live music and sit in Central Park for a whole afternoon because I NEVER DO THAT.

And you guys?

I need to do that.

Happy Summer, y’all.

(c) zyada

Not sure what to write for my next blog post.

I’m sort of between a million projects and activities and classes and things.

So the creative juicery isn’t quite…juicing the way it should be.

But I’ll be back soon.

Got any requests? Lemme know.

In the mean time, me and my pencil will figure it out.

1. My dad isn’t screaming anymore. The trick is a tiny sliver of Valium. It’s enough to take the pain away but not too much to get him high and dopey. Instead, he gets sort of hyper but because he actually can’t physically move much, the energy manifests itself verbally and this is why I spent four hours at the kitchen table yesterday talking with my father about:

a. The oil spill and how bad my dad feels for the fisherman. (Really bad.)
b. How many weeks left until they can get him off antibiotics and he can have a glass of wine. (3)
c. How much he loved hanging out with us kids when we were little. (It was at this point that his eyes got misty and he started crying.)
d. How thankful he is that the catheter came out and he can pee on his own except he refers to peeing the way he and my mother used to refer to our baby diapers so instead of telling me he has to pee, he says he has to “go wet-wets”. (My father is 65 years old. FYI.)
e. How he thinks the worst way to live your life is in fear. (YOU CAN’T BE IN YOUR ROCKING CHAIR WHEN YOU’RE OLD, THINKING OF REGRETS. YOU GOTTA SAY “AT LEAST I TRIED”, THAT’S WHAT I ALWAYS SAY.) (He doesn’t always say this.) (But he kept repeating it yesterday.)

2. I watched the Tony Awards as has been my custom since I was 13 years old. If you would’ve told my seventh grade self that there would come a time when I didn’t count down the minutes until it started, didn’t whip out a VHS tape so I could record all the performances, wouldn’t scream at people in my living room to SHUT UP because I needed to hear the acceptance speeches, she would NOT HAVE BELIEVED YOU. But that night was last night and instead of feeling exciting because TONY AWARDS and BROADWAY and MY LIFE AS AN ARTIST, I was bored out of my mind. Holy cow. The only good part was watching it with my dad who kept dozing off and waking up and saying something completely incoherent. He wants you all to know that he thought La Cage Aux Folles seems confusing, regardless of whether or not Frasier is in it.

3. Remember when every month on my blog I did NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION BREAKDOWNS so I could keep up with my resolutions and they were all cute and adorable like “Pay down $300 on your credit card!” “Ask D to go to dinner!” AWWWWWWWWWW. IT WAS SO SWEET.

And then my dad got sick and I got busy and if I wrote a blog like that now, it would be

a. SLEEP.
b. HANG OUT WITH DAD.

Funny how that happens. Maybe I’ll get back on track this summer after I come back from Italy.

Which reminds me.

5. Do you know how much it costs to rent a car to get the hell out of Switzerland? YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE ME, IT COSTS THAT MUCH. It costs more than the zillion dollar train tickets to get the hell out of Switzerland. So, we are just going to take a train. OR we are going to climb every mountain by foot a la Julie Andrews and maybe I can hire some nun to sing while I do it. IT WILL BE AWESOME!

6. My Italian class ended about a month ago and I wasn’t able to fit the next semester into my schedule. In order to keep it fresh in my mind, I asked my teacher if she would privately tutor me until I could get back into a regular class. She said yes because she is truly amazing and instead of saying “all day long”, she translates it literally and tells me she did things “all the day.”

Um. GENIUS?

Anyway, I love learning Italian more than anything in my entire life. I am now learning to use the past tense instead of just present so I can successfully talk about things I did yesterday instead of all the things I am doing right now. This is very usefl because as you can imagine, in every day conversation, you are often talking about things you did already.

YESTERDAY, I WENT WITH ALAYNA BY FOOT ALL THE DAY. WE WALKED ON SOHO FOR TO SHOP FOR JEANS WHITE.

Perfecto. Benissimo.

7. I do not have anything to say for number seven.

8. In philosophy this semester, we are talking about “saying and doing nothing unnecessary”. So often, I feel like I’m using energy to do things that don’t need to be done. Words fly out of my mouth without awareness, I’m blabbing all the time and saying things I REALLY don’t need to say. So. I’ve been practicing that. As a result, I’ve found that I’m quieter, more centered and my e-mails are much shorter. The same can’t be said for my blog posts. AM I RIGHT LADIES?!

9. I made spring rolls for dinner last night and vegetable fried rice. FROM SCRATCH. THAT’S RIGHT.

10. The twins asked me on Saturday why we call lollipops “lollipops.”

Me: I don’t know. In different parts of the country, they call them something else. When I was in college, they called them “suckers”.

Twin #1: Ohhhhhh ‘cuz you SUCK ON THEM.

Me: Um. Yes.

Twin #2: I’m going to call them something I just made up.

Me: Okay.

Twin #2: *stares at lollopop on stick* OH I KNOW!

Me: YES?

Twin #2: I am going to call mine “BALL SUCK”.

Me: *falls over and dies*

Twin #2: WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING LAURA?

Me: NO REASON.

Remember when I’m going to Italy in a few weeks?

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

This got pushed down on my To Do list for awhile due to other things like “Make Sure Your Dad Survives A Staph Infection” and “Buy A Pair of White Jeans”.

(BTW, should I buy those white jeans? Will I look stupid? I feel like I will inevitably spill something on them and permanently stain them but maybe looking cute for those first few hours before I do that will be worth it. THOUGHTS?)

Anyway.

I am going to Italy.

I don’t know if you’ve heard.

I will be traveling with some fierce companions. Namely, Famous Cousin Tom, my sister and my sister’s boyfriend Matt who I rarely talk about here but who is hilarious and worthy of several blog posts entitled STUFF MATT SAYS.

The four of us are headed over to Europe in mid-July to attend my cousin Beth’s wedding in Rome. We decided to sort of…make a vacation out of it. (A VACATION? WHAT’S THAT?) We are flying into Geneva for the sole purpose of twirling around the mountains with braids in our hair singing songs from the Sound of Music. I’m sure that won’t be annoying or touristy at ALL.

We are currently figuring out HOW to get out of Geneva and onto our next destination. We have a tentative schedule and accommodations pretty much booked but we’re having a hell of a time figuring out how to get the hell out of Switzerland.

(Note to self: write a book entitled “How To Get The Hell Out of Switzerland”.)

We figured we would take the train from Geneva into Italy and sort of work our way down until we get to Rome in time for the wedding.

(This is a set up to one of the greatest European vacation/wedding comedies ever made. Coming to theaters near you.)

TAKE A TRAIN! OH YES! GOOD IDEA! We declared ourselves geniuses. EUROPEANS LOVE TRAINS! TRAIN TRAVEL IS EASY!

Yeah. It’s easy. Until we attempted to plug in random Italian cities and all the rail websites told us it would take nine hours to travel from Geneva to Turin and I was all…what?

Also, it would cost approximately one million dollars.

WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON YOU GUYS? The Euro is dropping and yet I still have to spend more than my weekly paycheck on a train out of Switzerland? How is that fair? Aren’t the Swiss supposed to be neutral? Why are they so opposed to making my life easy? WHY WHY WHY?

Then Tom had a brilliant idea.

“WHAT IF WE DROVE TO TURIN?”

I…what?

I Google mapped it because that’s what you do nowadays and wouldn’t you know the driving distance from Geneva to Turin?

Is only about three hours.

DO NOT ASK ME WHY THE TRAIN TAKES NINE HOURS. DON’T EVEN. I DO NOT KNOW.

(The other train option said it would take thirteen hours to travel from Geneva to Turin. I am not making this up. Those were our choices. Thanks a lot, Switzerland. FOR NOTHING.)

So we have tentatively decided to rent a car to get us (everybody now!) THE HELL OUT OF SWITZERLAND.

The challenges I foresee include:

1. DRIVING THE HELL OUT OF SWITZERLAND. IN A CAR!
because:
a. None of us have ever driven anywhere outside the USA
b. I can’t drive in America, I mean seriously, I AM A TERRIBLE DRIVER. I’m most certainly not going to be driving overseas
c. Matt can drive stick shift but no one else can
d. I do not know who to dial in an emergency and haven’t yet learned to say HELP WE ARE PLUMMETING OFF A MOUNTAIN in any language other than English.

OTHER THAN THAT?

I think it’s a fantastic idea! What could go wrong! AM I RIGHT LADIES?!

Once we get to Turin, the trains run efficiently and cheaply and we can proceed on down through the marvelous country of gelato and pizza without having to get behind the wheel of a car.

Turin is a new addition to our trip and I’m not exactly sure what we’re going to do there. I’m not so worried because when I was researching places to stay, I came upon this description on a hostel website:

“Forehead of the building, there is a long and beautiful walk where to make jogging, biking or walking along the river Po.”

Naturally, I booked a room for us right away.

I cannot wait to make jogging at the forehead of the building along the river Po.

That is, if we ever get the hell out of Switzerland.

YOU FEEL ME?