I haven't posted for a while, but I have a really good excuse. I was out of the country.
(How I love saying that! As someone who didn't make it across the pond until I was 25, it has been a source of adult delight that I'm fortunate enough to visit other countries from time to time. And particularly wonderful that I'm able to take my teenage daughter.)
Two years ago, my daughter and I went to London for the amazing bat mitzvah of my best friend from high school's oldest daughter. Ten days ago, we headed back for the equally amazing (yet utterly different) bat mitzvah of the girl's younger sister.
Although the celebrations were unique, we experienced some distinct similarities. In both cases, we had only about 36 hours between the end of school and the start of our trip.
Can you say ... "Stress!"
It would have been bad enough to face two finals Wednesday prior to a flight on Thursday, right? Wrong. My daughter had to add a concert in Boston (One Republic with The Script — two of your favorites, right? Mine too. Not.) and a trip to the stable. There was no way she could actually fly across the Atlantic Ocean for two weeks without saying a sentimental good-bye to her trusty steed. In between all of her commitments, I needed to do laundry, wrap up some client projects, write an essay about the 4th of July, and pick up my sister who was coming in from New York to housesit.
"British Air, take me away!"
Everything was more or less under control, when I heard my daughter pull into our driveway. She immediately called up the stairs with what sounded like worry — no, it was more like panic — in her voice. She realized as she was walking into the house that she had grabbed another girl's riding helmet instead of her own. No big deal?
No. Big deal! Big, big deal.
After our bat mitzvah weekend in London, my daughter was scheduled to fly to Barcelona, where she would be riding with our friend (and recent exchange student) at one of Spain's premier dressage centers. There was no way she was going without a helmet and, sadly, there was no way she could simply borrow the one she had inadvertently borrowed. It didn't fit.
Of course, my daughter needed a shower and hadn't even begun to pack. And, we were getting precariously close to our departure time. So, ever the quick-thinker, I put my sister in charge of the duffel bag and drove to the stable myself with the purloined helmet in hand. Thirty minutes there, thirty minutes back. (Sixty minutes total that I really didn't have.) Crisis averted.
I'd warned my sister that they needed to work efficiently, but also think through everything carefully. My daughter's agenda included four dress-up bat mitzvah events (two nice dinners, services, and a wild party at a Camden Town club, complete with DJs, dancing girls, smoke machines and lasers), comfortable shorts and tops for sightseeing, riding clothes and gear, and beachwear. (We've had some packing issues in the past. Too many of this, too few of that. Most recently, it was an ensemble for an evening at the theatre: heels, a dressy top and trendy belt all meant to go with a particular skirt that somehow hadn't made it into the suitcase.)
But, I was pleasantly surprised. I arrived home (expecting chaos) and found a number of well-organized piles ready for inspection. Everything fit (including two tubs of frozen cookie dough for our Spanish friend — don't ask) and we weren't even over our weight limit. Within the hour, our driver arrived and we headed to Logan airport.
We had somehow pulled it off (yet again).
Or so we thought ...
Next post: "Footwear Follies" or "The Battle of the Boots."
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
My teenage daughter has a special guest here for the next two weeks. The young lady is from Barcelona, and they have been Facebook friends for a couple of years. That's the cyberland equivalent of pen-pals, I guess.
I briefly had a pen pal from Norway when I was in junior high. Her name was Veronika and I think we corresponded a few times before it fizzled out. I had high hopes at the beginning however. Having been only as far away as Missouri for visits to my grandmother, the allure of international friends (and travel!) was very strong.
These days, our kids — at least those from wired middle-class homes — are growing up in a global village, connected to like-minded teens all over the world. Let's face it, Facebook is way cooler than writing a letter. And a lot faster. And a lot easier to use. Just post a picture or quick message; no messy stamps (or proofreading, apparently) required.
My daughter and her temporary housemate dreamed this visit up many months ago. They were encouraged by our visitor's English teacher, a dear old friend of mine from elementary school. Plans include a couple of horse shows (like my daughter, our young guest is an equestrienne), and four days in New York City. With several beaches and pools nearby, we figured we could easily fill any other time.
What we didn't figure was that a nearly four-week heat wave would be followed by 60-degree days and freezing rain.
Uh-oh.
Quick! Suddenly, I have to find some fun indoor things to do in and around Boston. We're going to visit Harvard, go shopping (the international language of teen), and take a Duck Tour. We'll see a Broadway show in New York, but I thought some local theatre would also be fun. I landed on Blue Man Group. It's a spectacular and innovative work of performance art, and most of it is done without any dialogue or soundtrack. (I figured our guest might enjoy an evening that didn't require so much English — although, I have to say that she speaks our language beautifully. Us, hers? Not so much. "Bienvenido" and "Mi casa es su casa" was pretty much the extent of it.)
Blue Man Group it was.
Which brings me to the point of this post. Ever since I visited Blue Man's website, I'm being cyber-stalked. Constantly. Everywhere I go. No matter what website I visit, I'm being served up ads for Blue Man Group.
It's my own fault. I searched Blue Man Group on Google. I visited the Blue Man Group Boston website. Then (sneaky me), I found discounted tickets elsewhere. The thing is, the official Blue Man marketers only know that I researched and abandoned — they don't know I've already purchased. So, my cyber world now belongs to Blue Man.
Of course, this happens all the time (and, in my day job as a direct and digital marketer, I understand the how's and why's of "cookies"). But, somehow, this feels different, spooky. The ads I'm seeing aren't for shoes or bathing suits or a new printer (all of which I've been served up lately, based on my browsing activity). No matter what website I'm visiting or what search engine I'm using, there he is ... the Blue Man. (I read somewhere that even when there's three of them, it's politically correct to refer to them as a single "man.") There's his shiny head. There are his piercing eyes. It's a little un-nerving actually.
I've seen the show three times (twice here and once in New York). And, I highly highly recommend it. Take your husband. Take your kids. We're looking forward to taking our new Spanish friend.
Just don't spend too much time searching for Blue Man online. Or you may have the blues too.
