By jinkies and holy Marco Polo, but I’m tired.
We got back from our two weeks of travel the other night, and as of today, I almost feel hydrated and centered again. Mos’ def, travels full of weddings and college reunions are hot-doggoliciously fun, but coming home from them requires a state-licensed detox program: detoxing from, yes, a progression of drinks, but even more, detox from public love, intense conversations, sleeping in a new place every night or two, and, during all that, teaching two classes online (surreal moment: answering questions about the newly-updated Modern Language Association’s research citation guidelines while sitting in a McDonald’s Playplace in New Hampton, Iowa).
Compounding my sense of “Who am I?” and “Mommy, won’t you just hug The Jocey, for she is tapped out?” these last couple of days is the fact that we came home to a deconstructed kitchen (ooh, yes, there will be photos or video to follow, as it’s amazing to see the bones of one’s house and smell the air that’s been trapped in that wood since 1913!).
Thus, even though we’re home now, the regular flow of our daily living is, quite literally, being redirected, with us doing dishes in the bathtub and cooking dinner on the front steps on a camp stove. The fridge is next to the piano for the duration of the remodel, so everytime I take out the jug of milk, I also tickle out a wee bit of “Heart and Soul” on them ivories.
Speaking of heart, soul, and things I’ve fallen in love with, I have to share one of the fifty-thwillion highlights of our trip. Our last day in St. Louis, we went to The City Museum, a place so awesome that, as one of my friends noted, “Half of this stuff is normally illegal in the United States.” Quite simply, I would say it’s a place for both kids and adults, but it is absolutely on my list of the Top Five Things I’ve Ever Dragged My Kids To.
This is me, now, holding out a beckoning finger, inviting you to save the $12 entry fee and come on inside:
Sorry if the background noise overwhelms my voice. I am generally a wilting violet, you know, the sound of whose speech barely reaches beyond her own lips, so it was difficult for me to crank up my personal decibels, lest I collapse in a waifish faint.
For me, the best thing about this little snippet is that Groomeo is holding a magic wand (the glue had yet to dry) during the whole thing. Certainly, he has always held me sway with his magic, but to see him darting in there like some Mystical Fairy hired by Butt Pushers, Inc., brings out his charm for the entire viewing public.
Ostensibly, I’m showing you the outside of the museum here. But my hidden agenda was to make you yack. Didja? Huh? Didja barf? If so, what did you clean it up with?
These questions, along with memories of museums and imagination gone wild and hugs and laughter, will sustain me as I crouch beside the bathtub tonight, scouring a skillet that I’ve lathered up with Pantene.
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