Click Boom: Travel Season

So... I'm totally fooling around with an OLDER MAN. That's right, while I linger decidedly in my mid-thirties for another handful of months, I'm pretty sure Andrew's recent turn for 38 qualifies him as "late thirties". Oh my!! Scandalous! Dudes don't get older, they age like fine whiskey. Which explains why I want to hold the old guy in my hands and simply drink in his essence (wary of pounding the deliciousness, because some things are just darned addictive)

They also devour birthday goodies!

For a back to back Mother-Son birthday blitz, our little family was treated to a roundtrip gallivant to San Franfabulous, where we consumed many delectable dishes, gorged on Ganache and - personal favorite - saw Hamilton.

I feel so with it now - I've caught up on the Star Wars movies on my last set of plane flights (Jedi mind sex! Shirtless Kylo Ren! Jedi Mind sex!!). Now I've actually seen a hot show.

Ok I don't really feel that with it. But impressed, anyways. It was good. So good I didn't care it was past my bedtime good.. I haven't been out past bedtime like that in a loooong time; and I haven't been rocking out, yelling out WHOOOOOOOOS over the booming of cannon fire for at least a handful of years. I may in fact still have it in me to enjoy concerts and the like. Noted. Noted.

Also noted: trying to catch a Lyft from Market street is a fool's errand. Go to a side street first so that you don't spend thirty minutes roaming in the driving rain. If your driver doesn't immediately understand who and where you are, cancel and get a new one. Trust me. 

Having seen a loosely historical hit show, I also learned a great deal of history. Namely that the founding fathers were mad lit and pretty flipping hot. DAYUM BOY!

I've subsequently downloaded a book called Historians on Hamilton which is sating my follow up desires for information on American financial policy, lack of progressiveness in any variety of actual intersectional matters, and all manner of political science. Paper money: dead sexy.

To keep the arts part alive, I've been obnoxiously belting out the catchiest snippets of Hamilton at random, which actually is something Chaya currently enjoys (mark well, teenage Chaya, you once giggled with glee it when I re-injured my foot out thrashing around to Not Gonna Miss My Shot). This means i actually have to play the songs so the ear worms are a little more contextualized. As previously said, Chaya fortunately enjoys this. She is almost always in the room where it happens. 

I found myself employing a newer reaction to travel stress and anxiety, which works ok when it kicks in and gives me faint hope. Namely a little voice in my head says "Meh, I can't be arsed," after which I stare off into space for a while and don't particularly give a shiznet about whatever minor misstep to our schedule would ordinarily have thrown me into a tizzy. It's not 100% foolproof, but it had some shining moments.

"Yep, Chaya's blown another nap and is amped up to 150 and now we're keeping her up late again AND she keeps waking up when the dog barks, so inevitably she'll be a holy underslept terror by Sunday evening and let's not even think of Monday... Meh, whatever. What else is new."

"Yeah, I'm out late and super amped up with freezing cold feet and a headache so I'll not sleep at all, and inevitably will still get up early and be totally wrecked by the time we get home with the crazy preschooler and the onset of jetlag adds up. Yep, I'll be limping around for a week which is just enough time for the next weekend wildness to accumulate. And yep, once my sleep gets thrown off it takes roughly an eon to resettle. And... what? Huh that sure is a song from Moana stuck in my head. Close enough I guess."

Forget positive thinking and CBT. Ennui and apathy seem to do the trick in a pinch. Or maybe I was just having a good time. Shrug.

But no worries: there are plenty of opportunities to see how far that goes.

This weekend is the Legendary Ski to Sea. Andrew and his team Dad Bods are still running hot, and we'll be supporting as much as the angry footsies allow.

Then... drum roll... OMG my solo escape back East is finally here.


Back to the land of twenties. Barely-twenties.

Shirt says "#1 Ex-Girlfriend, b/c when you get that title you display it proudly

Staying with a grown-up friend and his family, which is a bit of a variation on my prior "crash on nasty couches of filthy dude-houses (you'll sleep when the tv is not in use and the various roommates have officially completely their drunken home-staggering... no you probably don't need to know what's in the sink).

I'm honestly a little more anxious about the higher bar for not-being-a-terrible-guest. I mean in a certain household "helping clean up after you vomit on the couch" is considered primo high quality guest.

But Adella, you say, weren't you just a house guest last weekend?  I get family credit for the mother-of-most-adorable-child-and-wife-of-most-strapping-eldest-son to coast by on.

And she's allowed to do anything!

Otherwise... well... I fill out a boy-girl-boy-girl table arrangement as aptly as most of my gender.

No worries: I will go the extra mile and just not throw up on the couch. I know. Class act 2019 here.

I'm excited. But if my rental car evaporates and I have to bus it to Noho... well I guess I can't be arsed.