A couple of months ago, Dave informed me somewhat delicately that he would likely be sent to London to do something-or-other-complicated-stuff-that-I’m-too-stupid-to-get, and after my initial temper tantrum, he asked me for some advice on what to do while there.
You see, Internet, you didn’t know your Aunt Becky was a Continental World Traveller, did you (unless you read my 100 things about me page, which might have boasted my worldliness)? That’s right, *I* have been to Europe. Twice!
I was only 13 or 14 when I went, so the advice I could give Dave was probably not as current as anything I might want to do, oh I don’t know, say NOW. I wasn’t old enough to do anything hipster or funky-fresh. I ate where my orchestra told me to eat. I got stuck wearing neon-yellow sweatshirts with my name on the arm.
See, Aunt Becky circa 1995, age 14. Wanna make out?
(I should note that this picture was in an album, and the picture DIRECTLY above it is a picture of the large asses of two of the chaperones. It’s labeled: “Bitches and their fat asses.” Some things, I see, just don’t change)
I wracked my swiss cheesy memory to tell Dave something, anything about London. I remember all the other parts of England we visited with much more clarity. Like Bath. And the Lake District. All that I could remember about London proper was getting stalked by a group of men as we walked through a park. This was not the first time in Europe that I was followed around by creepy molesty-type Uncle Pervy’s.
Perhaps they liked my rockin’ sweatshirt.
All I could say to Dave who was going on and on and on about the Sushi restaurant in his hotel was that I wouldn’t eat sushi there. When hard pressed to explain myself, I couldn’t really save for that I remember the food over there being…different. Dave, the ever-quantifier, wanted to know what “different” meant as apparently I was not the only person who warned him about the food.
It took me until last night, as I was spraying my roses with pesticide (the rose-pesticide part is completely unrelated) to pin it down. Dave sat there outside with me, Amelia on his lap and it dawned on me how to put it in his terms.
“Okay, I got it,” I boasted. “The English? EAT MARMITE. Voluntarily.”
We shuddered in unison.
(Ben is half-Australian and was born loving the horror that is Vegemite. All I can say is that HE’S WELCOME TO ALL OF OUR PORTIONS because obviously. I don’t trust the judgement of anyone who eschews ice cream but loves something that tastes like vitamins. Also: BLECH)
Dave left this morning, promising to bring me back something “cool” from London. The last thing, I told him, that I’d bought from London was Use Your Illusion II (dude. Rad), so I was sure he could come up with something as cool. Like the entire Burberry store.
I have a feeling that I’ll end up with a tin of Altoids, purchased at O’Hare under the guise of being for me, but already half-eaten. Because, he’ll explain, he knows I don’t like them anyway. But I won’t care. I’ll be too happy that he’s home again.
Further proof that my eldest is the.best.kid.ever. He BEGS to change diapers. No, seriously you canNOT borrow him.
Amelia is now big enough to go into the Exersaucer. Say it with me now: What.The.Fuck?
Alex being, well, Alex. Aside from a nasty case of antibiotic-induced diarrhea, he’s feeling tip-top.
I’m lonely already, Internet. Will you be my husband?