The Bible, the Torah, and the Qur’an Tell Me So

We took Laura to see Shrek the Third last weekend. One of the trailers was for Evan Almighty. In Evan Almighty, God (played by Morgan Freeman) contacts Evan (played by Steve Carell) and tells him to build an ark, fill it with two of every species of animal, and prepare for . . . you may have already guessed . . . an imminent flood. In one scene, pairs of animals follow Evan onto the ark, the point at which Laura turned to me and said, “Mommy, this movie is based on a true story.”

Mike and Alyssa Are Making Me Hot

So I might have mentioned that I’m working out with a trainer, a hot trainer. His name is Mike. I do things like run, lift weights, work on my balance, strengthen my core, and lunges. I don’t even mind doing any of these things when I’m with Mike. Well, I’m not being totally honest about the not-minding-the-lunges part; however, although I may whine just a little along the way, I still do the lunges because I have the hots for Mike and I want him to like me. Mike has soulful eyes, a gorgeous smile, rock-hard biceps (I’ve copped a feel), and he watches Oprah. While I work out, we discuss things like what Dr. Oz said about neti pots or the show about The Secret. Tom doesn’t mind that I love Mike because Mike loves Other Mike. Other Mike is Mike’s partner who also happens to be named Mike, so I call him Other Mike.

One day a week I work out with a different trainer, Alyssa. Alyssa is beautiful, funny, and strong in spirit and body. With Alyssa I do things like circuit train, lift weights, work on my balance, strengthen my core, and lunges, which lunges I mind doing, but I do them anyway because it wouldn’t be fair if I did lunges for Mike and not her. We have lots to discuss while we work out such as, why men can’t replace toilet paper rolls, politics, religion, socioeconomic issues, and who should have gone out in what order on American Idol. Working out with Alyssa is like hanging out with a girlfriend, except that you get sweaty and have to do lunges. She’s the kind of gal you’d spontaneously invite to go out for sashimi last week with me and Laura and Trish and Henry. And she's still cool even though she didn’t come. Alyssa, you have a rain check on the sashimi.

Now in conjunction with the workouts, I’ve embarked upon a healthy eating plan which I’ve gotten from Deana, a miracle-working nutritionist, so I’ve been getting into much better shape over here. In fact, some might even say that I’m getting hot. I actually have evidence of this. You see, one day last week Tom and I traded cars, my SUV for his coupe, so that he could pick up Courtney at the airport and have room for the surfeit of suitcases that she brought back from London. Typically, I don’t turn many heads while driving around in a mom-mobile with a kid in a booster seat in the back, that’s for sure. But since I’ve been working out and eating healthy, I’ve been feeling downright effervescent, and it must have been showing that day. Plus, my hair looked good and I was wearing makeup as I was driving down the road in Tom’s car. I happened to glance over at the car next to me as I came to a stop on a busy street. Lo and behold, the handsome man with sandy blonde hair in the sporty BMW who glanced over at me did a double take, smiled, and raised his eyebrows in what was most certainly a flirtatious manner. I was momentarily taken aback (it has been a while), and then I realized that my heart was beating with delight. I reached for my cell phone.

Cheri: “Tom, I’m very excited! I have excellent news and you’re the first person to get to hear it because I love you!”

Tom: “What happened?”

Cheri: “This never happens in my car, or maybe it’s just because I look so darned cute today, but a handsome guy about our age in a sporty Beemer totally did a double take, smiled at me, and then moved his eyebrows up and down! I got flirted with! Honey, I’m excited!”

Tom (laughs): “Yeah, I have a great car.”

!!! So I called Mike. And Mike said all the right things. Next week, I’m going to do my lunges without whining.

Dorothy’s Ruby Slippers Got Nothin’ on These Babies

I'm extremely excited about my new shoes. In fact, at the point of purchase, my excitement measured a ten on the Richter scale. And I already know that my new shoes pass the cool test because when I took them out of the box to show Laura, she told me that her teacher (who is twenty-one years younger than me) has a similar pair! The heel on my shoes measures four inches precisely. Uh huh, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

I’m certain these shoes will look smokin’ hot when I wear them on the dance floor at a Bar Mitzvah celebration that we’re attending next weekend.


I’m hoping to find out how these babies will look against the ceiling later tonight.

Where in the World is Courtney Sandiego?

Does anyone remember the computer game "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?"


Let's play "Where in the World is Courtney Sandiego?"


In the last five months, Courtney has been to the following places:

England
France
Italy
Spain
Scotland
Holland
and
Belgium

Can you guess* where Courtney Sandiego is now?

*HINT: The clues abound within this very post!

Go Left, Young Girl

They say that when you raise a child, you never know what you’re getting or how they’ll turn out. My first two children turned out to be liberal activists, and I am proud and pleased, to say the least. However, I’m not sure where I’ve gone wrong with Laura. Apparently I’ve been in denial, because I was shocked to learn that Laura may have started leaning to the right, perhaps even embracing Reaganomics and the trickle-down theory.

Laura (reading signs posted along the road on the way to school): “Mommy, why can’t people buy gas on May 15th?”

Cheri: “Well, the idea is that if nobody buys gas that day, and the oil companies have to go one whole day without any money, they will get the message that they shouldn’t be raising the price of gas. Do you think it will work?”

Laura: “I don’t see why oil companies shouldn’t raise the price of gas. Why isn’t it okay for them to make more money?”

Cheri: “Well, it is one thing for companies to make money, but it is another thing for companies to be unfair when they are selling something that people depend on.”

Laura: “How are they unfair?”

Cheri: “In this case, unfair might be if the oil companies have all the gas and then make a lot of extra money by selling it at really high prices to people who don’t have extra money to pay those prices, especially people who might not earn enough money to buy the gas they need to get to work.”

Laura: “But if the oil companies make a lot of extra money, then they can give money to poor people.”

Cheri: “What if they don’t? What if they keep the extra money for themselves?”

Laura: "We could make our own gas!"

Cheri: "Good idea. But to make the kind of gas our cars use, we'd first need our own crude oil and a way to turn it into gas. Long story short, only the oil companies can do that."

Laura: “Then I think we should have cars that don’t use gas.”

Cheri: “Now you’re talking. But right now most cars do use gas, so if we don’t want the oil companies to have our extra money for themselves, do you think that not buying gas on May 15th will work?”

Laura (pauses to think): “No.”

Cheri: “Why not?”

Laura: “Everyone who needs gas will just buy it on May 14th.”

Perhaps there is hope for her yet.

Happy 21st Birthday Courtney!

Courtney

Smart
Daughter
Funny
Beautiful
Spunky
Adventurous
Volleyballs
Activist
Surfboards
Reader
Loving
Sister
Brave
Big Green Spectacles
Giddy
Athletic
Energetic
Instructor
Liberal
Self-Sufficient
Friend
Writer
Giggly
Low-Maintenance
Basketballs
Passionate
Swimsuits
Photographer
Inclusive
Leader
Blue Eyes
Coach

Courtney: A Retrospective in Photographs

Courtney was a classically beautiful baby with milky skin, blue eyes, and a sweet nature. Her perfectly shaped head had only soft blonde peach fuzz for the longest time.
Eventually that fuzz turned into a gorgeous mane.
Courtney at age one:

Courtney was a smart little dude. She always did her homework without being asked, and studied very hard.
She was self-sufficient and sweet.
Courtney in first grade:

Courtney's zany personality really
began to take shape about this time.
Courtney in third grade:

Courtney was a sensitive girl; she had begun developing clear ideas about her social and political views, and she was very articulate. During middle school, she was selected by her principal to write a regular column for the school in a local paper.
Courtney graduating from middle school:

In high school Courtney became an activist. She participated in protests, founded student organizations,
and raised money for various causes.
Courtney at her senior prom:

In high school, Courtney also played volleyball, basketball, water polo and did track & field. She was a peer counselor, and was voted Sophomore Class Homecoming Princess.
Courtney's senior picture:

Bella! Bella! in Roma!

We will keep the birthday candles lit for you!

Courtney

On the day you were born,
the world became a better place.

When in Rome

Veni, Vidi, Vici!

Following our week-long jolly holiday with the whole family in London, Courtney and I went to Rome for five days while Tom and Laura headed home. I had never been away from any of my children for that long until Kristen and Courtney went to college, and they only got away because faculty members from their respective universities pried them from my Kung Fu grip at freshman orientation. So why did I go? I was invited. Courtney asked me if I would stay a few extra days, and could we go someplace together? I must admit that I was pleased that Courtney wanted to spend time with me, and I’m sure it wasn’t just that the trip would be my treat. Only too soon will Courtney graduate from college, get a job, go to graduate school, get married, and have children (in that order), and so I knew that this just might be that once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something like this with her. Still, my knee-jerk reaction was to think about all of the reasons that it would be “impossible” to go, but after consulting with the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and with Tom’s sincere assurances that he and Laura would look at it as an adventure during which they could bond and spend quality time together, I booked our flights to, and hotel in, Roma. (Now that I’ve been, I can say Roma.)

Before we left for London, I worried and stewed and planned and prepared. I packed Laura’s snacks for the week and labeled them. I made sure everyone had plenty of clean undies in their dressers. I taught Tom how to scramble an egg. I made lists and instruction sheets. I photographed Laura, took her fingerprints, and collected DNA samples. Tom stood by patiently as I busied myself with this flurry of arrangements. And he lovingly provided all the right answers when I’d spring a pop quiz on him. “What is the name of Laura’s pediatrician?” “What time do you need to pick her up from her piano lesson?” “What is Laura’s blood type?” “Do you still love me?” Long story short, upon my return I was greeted by a happy husband and a cheerful child. Nobody was suffering any signs of malnutrition. Laura was bathed and her nails had been professionally manicured. I have said this many times, and it bears repeating here: If every girl had a man like Tom for a father, the world would be a better place. Women would only pick great men like their fathers to marry, and that way jerks couldn’t breed. It would be evolution at its finest.

Back to Rome. It was a relatively short flight from Heathrow to Fiumicino, with a breathtaking passage over the Swiss Alps. There is no smoking indoors in Italy, and after a week of getting Black Lung in London, I was quickly reminded How Great Thou Art O Smoke-Free Environment when we entered the airport terminal in Rome. However, we came to find out that here and there Italianos break the rules, and when I pointed out that someone was surreptitiously doing just that in the airport, Courtney dubbed me the “Fumare Police.” I remained steadfast in my duty to sniff out offenders during our stay. Instead of grabbing a taxi, we daringly decided to take a train from the airport to Termini, and even managed to obtain two tickets and get on the correct train. Someone was smoking on the train. ;) The scenery along the way was at turns both charming and distinctive. We took a taxi from Termini to our hotel on Via Veneto to spare us the Metro ride and walk to the hotel with our luggage in tow. Our taxi driver spoke no English, but he understood the name of our hotel and got us there for less than ten euro.

We arrived at our hotel ready for hot showers and real Italian food. It was the night before Easter and we wanted to go to St. Peter’s Square the next day for the noon blessing by the Pope, so we stopped by the concierge’s desk on the way to our room to get a suggestion for dining that night, and for instructions on getting to the Holy See in time for the Papal blessing. The concierge did us one better. Maybe it was Courtney’s long blonde hair, the hair that invoked many calls of “Bella! Bella!” from passersby during our stay in Rome. We were offered two tickets to the candlelit Easter Vigil Mass in St. Peter's Basilica, which would be presided over by Pope Benedict XVI that night. Tickets to any mass led by the Pope are free to the public, but very hard to come by for the average mortal, particularly during Holy Week. The Easter Vigil is the most important mass of the liturgical year in the Roman Catholic Church. Score for the Protestants. After we showered and had a “resto” in our "elegante" room that was twice the size and half the price of our London digs, we went off for our first of many fabulous meals. This one was comprised of fresh mozzarella with just a smidgeon of herb-infused olive oil, homemade pizza with fresh rosemary, linguine and clams, gnocchi in tomato sauce, and Chianti. After we had our fill, it was off to the Vatican. We waited in a long line of ticket holders, while others approached us and begged or offered money for our tickets. After twenty minutes or so, first going through an airport-esque security check, we were admitted to St. Peter’s Basilica.

We gazed in wonder at the rich interior chock full of paintings and sculpture. Every inch of the place is gilded or polished wood or carved in precious stone. It is breathtaking. The Papal Altar is the highlight with the baldacchino of bronze rising above it. The baldacchino, a canopy that is almost 100 feet tall, is Bernini’s masterpiece, which he began in 1624 and took nine years to complete. We were in awe. And just when I was thinking that it couldn’t get any better, in walks the Pope carrying the tall, white Paschal candle. Courtney and I were sitting approximately fifty feet from the Papal Altar, on the right-hand side, with nothing between us and the Holy Father except a lot of people, one of whom was the tallest man in the world. Working our way around Lurch (or Lurchio in Rome?), Courtney and I began shooting pictures, lots and lots of them, every time the Pope did so much as turn his head, hoping against hope that at least one of them would turn out. We were the Pope-arazzi. I was cursing myself for not bringing my Canon Digital Rebel XTi, but I’d decided to travel light. Who knew I’d end up sitting in the Vatican within XTi range of the Pope. I tried not to obsess over taking photographs and soak in the experience. I’m pretty sure my Presbyterian was showing, but I tried to follow along as we stood, sat, knelt, sat, knelt, stood, sat, responded, stood, sat, responded, and stood up again. During the mass, the Pope would go back and forth between the white beanie cap (I’m guessing that cap has an official name, but I don’t know it) and the gold, pointed mitre. I’m not sure why the mitre is repeatedly donned and removed, but it was cause for a lot of picture-taking on our parts nonetheless. The other thing that struck me was that during the service, the occasional cell phone would ring. In St. Peter’s Basilica. During mass. While the Pope was speaking. People’s cell phones would ring. Just like at the movies.




As it turned out, the mass lasted three and a half hours, and was mostly in Latin. Counting that we’d arrived an hour earlier, it was a long night. I made two critical errors that evening. The first was that I didn’t bring a water bottle. I got so thirsty that I considered swiping the water bottle that I spotted in the backpack of a little girl seated one row in front of us. However, considering the fact that the Pope himself might catch me stealing from a child, a Catholic child no less, it seemed like a very bad idea. My second error began to dawn on me as the mass was drawing to a conclusion. I thought about leaving ahead of the crowd since I couldn’t imagine that there would be enough taxis to go around without a very long wait, but the mass was just so darned compelling. The Pope baptized eight people, and gave them their first Holy Communion. There were responsive readings. Candles were lit. There was singing. Holy Communion was given to the congregation (well, the Catholic ones anyway). The Pope blessed everyone. We were glad we stayed. And when mass was over, thousands of my closest Catholic friends and I all wanted the same two cabs that were waiting in St. Peter’s Square. It was 1:30 AM. During Holy Week. Oops.

I had the bright idea that perhaps we’d be better off leaving the immediate area and finding a nearby taxi stand or bus stop. Then we wouldn’t be competing with the restless crowd in St. Peter’s Square. We stayed on well-lit streets and at first followed some nuns leading a group of school children. The nearby taxi stands were full of like-minded people and there were no taxis but the occasional one already occupied. I knew we were about seven miles from our hotel, but I had no idea what direction it was and no desire to walk there late at night. At one point we teamed up with two other women to try to share a taxi, and when one pulled over he offered to take them to their destination for twenty euro and us to our destination for another twenty euro. I readily agreed, but when one of the other ladies began to question whether that was fair, the taxi driver waved his fist and drove away. We decided to lose those two broads immediately. I thought if we could find a night bus (the tourist books said there were some), we could take it to Termini where we could then get a taxi. Finding a night bus to Termini would mean finding the right bus stop. The map we had was in Italian, and we could barely figure out where we were much less where the nearest bus stop might be. And would there even be a night bus on Easter? We had passed a hospital at one point, and I thought we might go back and feign ill to try to get a bed for the night. But I feared one of us might wake up trussed or covered in pecorino because the only Italian words I know come from menus, so we pressed on.

Taxis in Rome typically do not stop unless you are waiting at a cab stand, but desperate times called for desperate measures. We moved to a well-lit main street and then distanced ourselves somewhat from other people, hoping to get the advantage on any passing taxis while staying within earshot of others for safety. I concealed myself behind a parked car on the sidewalk and sent Courtney with her long, blonde hair to the curb to try to wave down a taxi. We watched as one couple a block up got a cab, so we felt there might be hope. We were wrong. All Courtney got was another “Bella! Bella!” By 2:30 AM, I was tired, severely dehydrated, and worried about the safety of Courtney since I’m old and the likelihood of an assailant picking me over her was slim. I kept my chin up, held my shoulders back, and tried to look strong and confident. I wanted my body language would send the message to any lurking criminals that I was not an easy mark and could protect my daughter. I’m guessing the white knuckles clutching my backpack would have given me away. Finally, I saw a police car, a glorious police car, and I waved it down. Well, I pretty much stepped in front of the moving vehicle and forced him to brake, but I got him to stop. One of the two officers even spoke English. I told him we were having trouble getting a taxi. He offered to give us the number of a taxi company. I asked if he’d wait there while we called. He said not to worry, we’d be safe. I told him we didn’t feel safe, we were lost, and I was worried for my daughter who was attracting some attention evidenced by the “Bella! Bella!” calls she’d been getting. He smiled and assured me that a taxi would come. I told him they do come, but they don’t stop. As luck because I’m dumb, or divine intervention because we stayed for the whole mass, or karma because I didn’t steal the little girl’s water, would have it, a taxi came by. The officer honked and waved. The taxi sped by. I said to the officer, “See what I mean? This has been happening to us all night.” I leaned into the police car and continued to talk in an effort to stall them until another taxi came by. Miraculously one pulled up to the red light and the officer honked, waved at the driver, and motioned for him to pick us up. We ran to the taxi and gratefully got inside. The taxi driver whisked us safely to our hotel, for ten euro, which included a generous tip. The driver told us that he had been done for the night and was on his way home, but only stopped because the officer had asked it of him. Whew! I was so glad to be back at our hotel that I could have kissed the doorman, except that it was 3 AM and he’d gone home. When we were snug in our room I told Courtney that it had been a close call, and it had not been in my plans for her to meet the Pope and God all on the same night.

Since we’d already been up close and personal with the Holy Father on Easter, for three and a half hours, we felt no need to deal with the crowds at St. Peter’s Square later that day. We felt that we’d been sufficiently blessed. The rest of our trip was eventful, but in a good way. I put up some of my pictures from Rome over at flickrthismom. We took a walking tour of the Coliseum, which was way cool. We saw the Arches of Constantine and Titus, the Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and the Spanish Steps. We walked in Villa Borghese and Villa Medici. We shopped along Via Condotti and the surrounding area. Courtney ate gelato and I drank Prosecco every day. We visited the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel. Courtney has the distinction of being the person to make the loudest noise in history while falling down the steps leading into the Sistine Chapel. But that’s how Courtney rolls, no pun intended. I would have liked to have taken better pictures in the Sistine Chapel, but we were packed in like sardines and while being jostled about trying to shoot pictures of the ceiling without getting our bags picked. Courtney and I understood the reasons for the no flash rule, and we followed that rule even though not a one of the other 9000 people with us in the Sistine Chapel did the same.

On the first day, I could not get over the fabulous architecture on virtually every building, and was intrigued by the fact that any window you’d look into had something more interesting in the reflection, so I took pictures and put them up at flickrthismom in their own photoset, Reflections di Roma. In some respects, we readily adapted according to local custom. We did not mind rising late for coffee, walking everywhere, stopping in at a café for a salad and Prosecco, walking some more, resting at our hotel, and then going out to dinner at nine o’clock at night. One thing that was hard for us to adapt to was how everyone in Rome strolls everywhere. And by stroll, I do not mean walk, I mean stroll as in mosey. In California, everyone buzzes around in cars at turbo speed to go one block. In London, everyone walks at turbo speed; you have to move it or lose it. In Rome, everything is done at a much slower pace, with a carefree demeanor. I began to adjust. Slowly. I began to enjoy the stroll. I brought that attitude home with me. And I held onto it for four days. Change can be good. Each time Courtney and I would experience something new, delightful or not, we’d say “When in Rome!” And we never got tired of the saying. Never. Well . . . that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

My time in Rome with my precious middle child indeed left me with memories to savor for the rest of my life. And I was reminded that Courtney is at once funny, energetic, adventurous, low-maintenance, self-sufficient and grateful. One could not ask for a more perfect traveling companion. On our last night in Rome, we were nestled into our beds trying to fall asleep. Our flight back to Heathrow was scheduled to depart early in the morning, but Courtney and I were having a hard time drifting off. I heard Courtney’s voice in the dark.

Courtney: “Mom, I had a really fun time. I’m going to miss you”

Mom: “Me too. Coco, I’m really going to miss you too.”

Courtney: “I know. When you get home, who will you have to drink wine and be giddy with?”

Mom (sighs): “I have Trish.”

Courtney: “But can Trish lick her elbows?”

Mom (giggles): “I don’t know. I’d have to ask her.”

Courtney: “Well, if she can, I’ll throw in the towel.”

Whilst in London

As all nine Blog This Mom! readers know, Courtney is doing a semester abroad in London. Over spring break this year, the rest of the family crossed the pond to join Courtney for a rather jolly holiday. We did the things that Yanks tend to do in London. We saw the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. We toured Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, and Kensington Palace. We rode in black cabs, tubes, double-decker buses, and on the London Eye. We shopped at Harrods and all around Picadilly and Knightsbridge. We visited the National Gallery. We sat in Trafalgar Square. We saw Mary Poppins on stage at the Prince Edward Theatre, which was practically perfect in every way. We had afternoon tea at The Four Seasons. We played at Hyde Park, Green Park, and Kensington Gardens. We dined on fish and chips in pubs and had lamb chops and martinis at Fifteen. Photos from London are up at flickrthismom.

Whilst in London, I learned that in the US and UK we share many of the same words; however, they often have rather different meanings.

In the UK, this is a trainer:

In the US, this is a trainer:
(mine is way hotter than this guy, for the record)

In the UK, this is a chip:

In the US, this is a chip:

In the UK, this is a jumper:

In the US, this is a jumper:

In the UK, this is a flat:

In the US, this is a flat:

In the UK, this is a dummy:

In the US, this is a dummy: