the big 3-0

So…..my birthday is Saturday. Groundhog’s Day.

I’m going to be thirty.

3-0.

THIRTY.

It still hasn’t really sunk in, yet.

Once, a long time ago, I said I wanted to be finished having kids by now.

Obviously, that didn’t happen.

I did say that I would do a lot of things before 30.

And I have.

Marathons, traveling, getting married, moving across the country, having a kid, oh my!

But, being the list-type person that I am, I think I need to make another list…a before 40 list…

Suggestions?

Also? Please send everyone you know right to this spot to tell me thirty is the new awesome.

And I really would write more, but I’m currently off celebrating in style.

More on that later…

two steps may as well be a mile

Tim, Kellan and I took a long weekend.

In the mountains.

And it was glorious.

If anyone has any ideas as to how we can make a living in a small mountain town, I’m all ears.

On Friday, we drove over to Breckenridge from our condo in Keystone (about 25 minutes) to watch the beginning of Stage 5 of the US Pro Cycling Challenge. I LOVE cycling. Admittedly, I don’t really know *that* much about it but I love watching (and I’d love to learn more). My bucket list includes going to France one day and following the Tour (de France) through each stage – mostly to see the small French towns they ride to/from. GORGEOUS. Also, the drama that ensues during the race.

This is Kellan, waiting for the cyclists he never even saw (see below):

Granted, I never actually *saw* the riders because about fifteen minutes before they came through (Tim and I had a primo spot, too), Kellan melted down. I mean MELTED. DOWN. High pitched screaming all, “GET ME OUTTA HERE. NOOOOOOW.” He had already napped once in the Ergo and we had been there for almost two hours and, understandably, he was done with all of the commotion and noise and stuff. There was A LOT of stuff going on. People. Cowbells. Dogs. Cowbells. People dressed up like grapes. Cowbells. Cars. Screaming kids. Cowbells. Loudspeakers. Cowbells. Music. Announcers. MOAR. COWBELLS.

Suffice it to say I ended up behind the scenes, behind the buildings, behind everything except a small stream that cut through the backside of the town, hanging out with Kellan, walking him back and forth, back and forth, while the cyclists rode down Main Street. I’m pretty sure one of the dudes in a black security jacket was slightly confused as to what I was doing and why because he kept staring at me funny.

The sacrifices a mother makes.

Sadface.

Tim got a few really great pictures, though.

I digress.

As much as Tim and I needed time to just get away from every day life, it wasn’t as relaxing as I thought it would be. I mean, it was relaxing and awesome to be surrounded by the mountains and the brilliant silence that comes with them, but I didn’t really get any downtime or chill out time or just lounge time. Before, when Tim and I would take mini-vacays like this, there would be LOTS of lounging. To the point I would get restless and bored and cabin feverish.

This particular trip?

Every second was consumed with something. We were driving somewhere. We were looking at something. I was literally shoveling food down my throat because I only had somuchtime before Kellan needed a change of environment. I think I told Tim that I had not actually sat down and enjoyed a meal since Kellan had been born. Whenever that day comes, someone will have to physically force me to eat at a reasonable pace because I’m in such a habit of doing it as quickly as possible because if I try to eat slowly, I probably won’t get to eat at all.

Again, I digress.

After doing “stuff” for probably a little bit too long, Kellan decided he was done and we were driving back to the condo, full on melt down mode. The crying made me flustered and frustrated. My attitude made Tim flustered and frustrated.

Kellan was crying. Screaming.

MAKE IT STOP.

I really don’t know how to explain it to anyone unless you’re a mom. And then you already understand that when your baby is crying, you do not hear anything, see anything, DO. ANYTHING. unless it is what will cease the crying. Everything is dropped, unheard, forgotten, until the crying STOPS and the needs of your child are met. There are no “extra” things you want to do, like bring something in from the car. There are no questions you want to answer. You really don’t want to do anything, nor can you focus on anything, until that screaming ends – both inside and outside of your head. Internally, your brain literally gets fuzzy because your entire being is ignoring everything and everyone, unless either are involved in what is needed to end the tears.

It makes no sense…unless, of course, you already have a child, and then you probably know exactly the buzzing, static-y feeling I’m talking about.

This whole scenario puts undue stress on one certain married couple who are trying to achieve exactly the opposite. So, it is hard to be back home, feeling refreshed, when each day there felt like any other day. I mean, minus visiting Breckenridge and some of the other neat things we did in our small blocks of time where Kellan was rested and happy. That part was fun. But there was never a total “break” from normalcy. Which, I guess, is to be expected with a baby. It’s just another adjustment we have to make…*I* have to make…because that flustered/frustrated feeling happened a lot over the weekend because Kellan was out of his comfort zone and we probably kept him out juuust long enough for him to decide that he wanted to be somewhere quiet and familiar. Both, obviously, hard to come by when you’re not home.

I’m sure this gets easier when he gets older and I am able to actually reason with him. However, there is no reasoning with a six month old. There is only a need that must be met. He doesn’t understand ‘five minutes’ or ‘almost there’ or ‘right after we [fill in the blank].’

He understands I NEED IT AND I NEED IT NOW.

It probably doesn’t help that he’s been extra (and by extra I still mean spider monkey status) clingy – to the point he doesn’t want to play on the floor by himself, like he did just a week ago, with no complaint. He wants to be held. He wants to play…but only on a bed that I AM SITTING/LAYING on. He doesn’t want you to go very far away – as in six inches may as well be the distance of an entire ocean.

I’m ok with this because I know he isn’t doing it to be spiteful. He’s doing it because there is something he needs in the comfort arena of his emotional development and I’m not going to deny him that.

Is it hard?

YES. A resounding YES.

Will it end?

Yes.

Do I miss my mostly easygoing baby from a week ago?

Not really.

This hard part means that he’s growing and developing…and you’ve got to take the easy with the hard, right?

Until the storm quiets again, there will be plenty of pictures like this where I’m trying to convince Kellan that I’m righthere and he can smile…

And instead, when I try to walk two steps away, get this:

doggie daycare f.a.i.l

I’m an anal packer.

(I’ll have you know I wrote that sentence with zero pretense and then Tim saw it and was all, “You can’t say THAT. You’re an anal packer…versus an anal (pause pause) packer.” Obviously, my annunciation on the sentence was VERY different than his. And because I’m me and who needs to edit…the sentence didn’t get the axe).

This packing, um, anally, applies to everything. Including packing up food and toys for the dogs when they are going to stay at doggie daycare for awhile.

When I say anal I mean as in every. single. food. bag is labeled with their name, the date and AM or PM.

Why? It is not that I think everyone is incompetent and forgetful.

I just know better.

everyone is incompetent and forgetful.

That or I know that caring for multiple dogs + multiple employees = people forget things.

So, to remedy this and make it as idiot proof as possible, I label and I bring folders and have instructions written on their forms and I have a special bag JUST FOR THEIR STUFF.

Apparently, none of this matters one hill of beans difference because this last time we picked them up after a weeklong stay?

They lost one of our toys (and it was one of those stuffing-less fox toys that aren’t exactly in the dollar bin at the pet store, claimed the dogs ran out of food – including BOTH extra “emergency” bags of food that I put in for EACH dog and they smelled like a giant Bernese Mountain Dog had been chewing on their heads after eating piles of poo.

I’ve yet to figure out how their toys became “community” property, I know they were either over-fed or their food was given to some hopeless Poodle because I KNOW they had enough food and we paid for them to be bathed because I didn’t want to load two dogs smelling like the sewer into my car after a week scrounging around with other mutts.

FAIL.

Suffice it to say that will be our last time there because $300+ dollars later and we didn’t even receive a phone call about our lost toy (as promised) or a reasonable explanation as to how they “ran out” of food.

Doggie daycare is ridiculously expensive and $300+ for FIVE (and a half) DAYS? This anal packer expects perfection.

PERFECTION.

Related: I LABEL THE BAGS, PEOPLE. IT ISN’T THAT COMPLICATED.

the trip of firsts…in pictures.

I seem to have ideas for what I want to write about at the most inopportune times – like at 3am or when I’m driving or in the shower. Problem is, I tell myself to remember and then by the time I finish whatever I’m doing (sleeping, driving, etc), my brain has moved onto the next task and I completely forget whatever it was I was trying to remember.

It’s a vicious cycle.

Eventually I’ll just say it out loud and ask Kellan to remember for me – isn’t that what kids are for? I mean, his brain is like a sponge and *I* remember, as a kid, I could stuff A LOT of information up there. Kids have plenty of space up in the cerebellum for mundane things, like what his mom wanted to blog about (insert eye roll).

Anyhow, our trip to Atlanta went really, really well. I was pleasantly surprised at how great Kellan handled all of the new situations and people. He hit a laundry list of firsts…first trip to the airport, first airplane, first time trying to take a bottle (we weren’t successful) (all that pumped milk for nothing), first time in a hotel, first time being left with someone other than daddy or mommy, first party where everyone wanted to hold him, first time away from home for an extended period of time, first etc, etc, etc.

Granted, we had our share of meltdowns, mostly when he was waaaaaaaay over tired and we had to get into the car to go somewhere. He wasn’t having ANY OF THAT. The car became the enemy, which was not all that great for anyone, since the car was a necessary means of transportation. One in particular, he screamed the ENTIRE TRIP and I was about to lose it myself and curl into a ball of tears…Tim all, “What do you want me to do? Turn around?” And I’d be all, “We’re almost THERE. We’re not turning AROUND.”

Because five more minutes of screaming versus another forty-five?

KEEP DRIVING.

Overall, though, the trip was definitely good for him because instead of clamming up, he became Mr. Social Butterfly. I guess it’s good the separation anxiety thing hasn’t started yet…because that would have just been a bucket of non-fun.

So, here’s a little of our week in pictures…because why not?

Early morning at the airport

Airplane bottle feeding attempt (Shannon! Look who was sporting your outfit!)

Kellan and Uncle Jeff

And my favorite: “Aw golly, Dad…I really don’t think you should order that…”

And before I go…please think good thoughts for Kellan today. He has to have a “corrective” procedure done on his little wee-wee since the OB (who I am no longer seeing…) didn’t do his circumcision correctly (no judgement, please).

Happy Friday, Friends!

*holiday throwback* from paris, sans food

**HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!**

I can’t believe it’s 2012…because 2012 is when the sprout comes!!! 

(totally need to update you all on the past weeks shenanigans)

(but first, our massive FAIL in Paris)

Tim and I decided at some point during the summer a few years ago that we were going to travel instead of eat for Thanksgiving.  This concept was completely new to both of us, as I grew up going to a big, multi-family dinner that lasted all day and he’s Italian – need I say more?

This Paris trip would mark the first time I had ever been to Europe, while Tim spent an entire semester in college gallivanting all over England and France and Italy, had gone across the pond again with family and again for work.  Basically: he knew how to get around and I was a deer in headlights.

I tried to learn *some* French with Rosetta Stone, but after getting into an argument with the CD in my car one day on the way home from work about the correct pronunciation of “cat,” I kind of fell off the Rosetta Stone French wagon.  I wasn’t too concerned though, since Tim took lots of French in school and said he still remembered most of it.

I’ll skip all the prepping part to get to Paris, kind of like how our seats – though they were in the exit row (I’m 5’10 with legs making up the bulk of my height) – they were also directly across from the double lavatory.

Exactly.  Let’s skip all that.

So, we land in Heathrow*** and I am ecstatic.  I’m IN FRANCE.  We decided that neither of us would be driving along any of the roads in Paris, namely the infamous Champs-Élysées, pretty as it may be, so we had a taxi take us to our hotel.  And once we arrived?

Heaven.

Our hotel was walking distance to the Louvre and there were beautiful French people and patisseries as far as the eye could see.  We dropped our bags in our room and set out immediately, wanting to make the most of the four-day mini-vacation.

We traversed the multi-dimensional levels of the Louvre, we walked through the nearby Tuileries Garden, we took the metro to the Eiffel Tower, we ventured down to the Champs-Élysées and climbed the million steps up to the top of the Arc de Triomphe.

And we did all of this after no sleep on a 13 hour plane ride and zero food other than a small café latte (for me) and a pastry (for Tim) at a small Patisserie near our hotel that morning.

Suffice it to say that when 5:00pm Paris time rolled around, we were jet-lagged and starving.  Ravenous is probably more appropriate.

Now, we did bring a few Hi, I’m a Tourist books about Paris, which included plenty of ideas for good, French food, typical American fare and everything in between.  However, our stomachs were overtaking our brain in decision making – which meant no decisions were being made at all.

We walked all over, going up and down street after street, deciding that what we (read: our stomachs) REALLY WANTED was a warm baguette from a bakery.  Up and down the Parisian streets we went, desperately seeking one out to fill our belly with warm bread.  Yet, every time we thought we found one, it was closed.

Our Hi, I’m a Tourist books never said anything about everyone closing up shop early and leaving starving Americans out to fend for themselves.

Finally, Tim managed to put mind over stomach and out the tourist book.  He found the nearest place that was within walking distance and still open – a small, quaint Patisserie that also had a dining area.  And since there was a “dining area,” we figured that also meant there was actual “dining food” – à la sustenance – inside.

So into the Patisserie we went, Tim explaining in broken French – which was mostly bonjour! and then lots of pointing – that we wanted to be seated in the dining area.

A nice French woman led us up a winding staircase to a tiny, dimly lit room with five two-top (two chairs) tables and handed us the menu…of varying flavors of chocolat chaud (hot chocolate).

Tim and I looked at each other, dumbfounded.

Me: Can we leave?  This isn’t food!  I’m so hungry!

Tim: We are NOT leaving.  I don’t think I can point my way out of that explanation.

We both stared down at the menu, settling on the standard mug of chocolat chaud and biscotti, which was as close to bread as we were getting at this point.  When our French server came back, Tim ordered for us and we sat and waited, trying not to pass out from hunger pangs.

Fortunately, it wasn’t overly crowded yet (apparently the chocolat chaud crowd is a night owl kind of group), so it didn’t take very long for our order to be placed at our table.

And let me tell you – I have never in my entire life been more excited to see a mug of chocolate.

Me: Why is there a spoon?  Why is this served with a spoon?

Tim shrugged, at this point only interested in putting something other than air into his stomach.

I put my lips to the mug and tilted it back, waiting for the warm liquid to hit my mouth.

And I waited.

And I waited.

Finally, my lips still on the porcelain, I looked down into my mug, thinking that maybe I was doing it wrong.  I mean, I thought I had a pretty good handle on drinking from mugs and glasses, but you never know.  Maybe it was different in Paris.

Down below the bridge of my nose, I see this dark brown sludge of a movement creeping ever so slowly towards my mouth.

I set the mug down and looked at Tim, who hadn’t touched his chocolat chaud but was instead munching away on his biscotti.

Me: I guess that’s what the spoon is for.

Tim: Hm?

Me: The chocolat chaud.  It’s more like chocolat…how do you say “mud” in French?

Because that is exactly what it was – mud.  There was no “drinking” of this chocolat chaud.  It was more like a hot pudding.  In a mug.  And this is all very deceiving to someone from America who has never been to Europe and has zero idea how to say ‘thank you’ without completely butchering the language, much less successfully drink what she thought was “chocolat chaud” aka hot chocolate aka non-viscous.

So Tim and I sat at this little upstairs dining area and ate our chocolat chaud with a spoon.

Afterwards, we half fell, half tripped down the winding staircase onto the street below, punch drunk on sugar.  Actually, I might have been certifiably drunk.

And we took our inebriated selves onto the Metro – again – to see the Eiffel Tower at night in all its glory.  I’m not even sure if this was a conscious decision or more of a “follow the crowd” type of activity.  Either way, we spent the next thirty minutes outside, laughing at the blue-lit tower, freezing in the cold November air while walking down the long lawn behind the Eiffel Tower to try and get a picture of me, in front of the tower, at night.

(as you can see, sound decision making was never part of the plan)

However, the silver lining in our jaunt across the lawn?  It led us to this tiny sandwich type store that we found while looking for a Metro station that was STILL OPEN.  Tim and I ran in there like we were being chased by herd of angry elephants, rushing up to the counter and pointing and babbling, our mouths salivating from the smells coming from the back kitchen.  Whether this little shop was about to close or not – I have no idea.  All I know is that they had French onion soup and yesplease.

We didn’t have much in the way of Euros with us since we hadn’t been in Paris long enough to change over any extra money and had planned on getting by mostly with a credit card – everyone speaks plastic.

This little sandwich shop said they took credit cards on their sign outside, so we loaded up.  French onion soup, a grilled something sandwich, two pieces of an apple pear tart and two bottles of water and two very happy people who were finally – after almost two days without a decent meal (hello, six hour time difference) – getting to eat!

Tim handed the older Parisian woman behind the counter his credit card.

She swiped it though the machine.

“No.”

Tim looked at her like, “What do you mean, ‘no?’”

She swiped it again.

“No.  Not working.”

Tim’s eyes were wide, disbelief written all over his face.  He asked her to try again by making the swiping motion with his hands.

I was standing behind him, not really participating in the silent war that was going on between them.  However, I watched her the third time she swiped the card.  And wouldn’t you know it?! She wasn’t *really* swiping it!  She was only half swiping it through the little machine so it wouldn’t read properly.  She didn’t want to take our card.  She didn’t want to pay a fee to run our card.  So she tried to pull one over on the stupid, starving Americans.  So we would have to pay in CASH.

And the stupid, starving Americans did just that.

Because that is exactly what we were.

Starving.

And stupid.

We spent almost all of the Euros we had on that meal.  But it was THE BEST meal we had the entire time we were in Paris.

We left that tiny shop just as they were closing for the night, fat and happy.

***FOOTNOTE***

I am aware that the airport in Paris is Charles de Galle.  For whatever reason…the self writing this decided to type Heathrow.  I have no idea.

*holiday throwback* paris…in pictures

Tim and I skipped out on a traditional Thanksgiving one year and headed across the big pond to Paris…totally worth it, even though I spoke zero French…

Here are some pictures from our Paris trip last November.

Late, I know.

Sorry.

You can enjoy them while I am working one of the two Saturdays of the year I am required – without fail – to show my face among those I already see…

Five days a week.

And yes, they actually put these things ALL OVER Versailles.  They were huge and fluorescent and tacky.

Modern and Old World…not the best combination if you ask me.

*holiday throwback* the primitive trail

The trip Tim and I took to Utah wasn’t technically during any kind of holiday…but there are a few important things of note:

It apparently takes being smashed over the head with a sledge hammer to remember, “oh yea…..[insert painful experience] REALLY SUCKED the last time we forgot [insert item].

During our visit to Arches National Park in Utah, we decided to visit and hike the Devil’s Garden loop.  It had tons of arches to see and it was a 7+ mile trail.  Right up my alley (I’m not sure how up it is Tim’s alley, but he was involved in the decision making process).  We started the hike on a worn, well used trail with a handful of other outdoorsy-types.  Each group wanting to capture the various arches in their own artsy fartsy way.

We made it to Landscape Arch and we saw this sign over to one side of the worn, well traveled trail:

You can guess where we went.

And we stayed on that primitive trail for hours, wandering around aimlessly, trying to find a way out.  We were fine in the beginning, because the trail could only go one direction.  However, the “trail” ended up branching off in two different directions into a wash.  As we trudged through the fine, red sand, we kept seeing these stacked rock piles, thought they were neat, and made our own for the collection.  Little did we know that those were actually marking the trail we weren’t following.  Oops.  Don’t follow the one under a tree next to a huge boulder.

We wandered around in that valley with huge rocks and mountainous looking dirt towering hundreds of feet over us in every direction for hours.  At one point, after we were beyond exasperated and desperate to find a way out, we see people.  Yes, people.  STANDING on the very top of some of those huge rocks.  They looked like Fisher Price toys from our vantage point…so we knew there was a way out of the hell of our own making.  We just couldn’t figure out HOW to get there. We hiked up and down every avenue we could find, at times teetering on the edge of very steep drop offs.  Each time, a dead end.  Our mistake?  No map. No book.  Nothing on Arches…or rock cairns, for that matter.  No idea where the trail was supposed to go.

Eventually we admitted defeat and turned back to hike out the way we came.  At one point, Tim turned around and said, “We will NEVER leave without a map AGAIN.”  Yes, I concede the point, but sadly, this wasn’t the first adventure without a map.  We had previously gone on a five-hour hike-from-hell somewhere in the North Carolina mountains with no idea where we were going.  He said the bit about the map then, too.

After we found the trail that we knew led to civilization, we passed a very in shape woman with a green jacket tied around her waist headed right into the maze we couldn’t find a way out of.  Actually, she passed us.  We were just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.  Some small part of us REALLY wanted to follow her…to dispel the mystery that was the wash, but we were hot and tired and knew we wouldn’t last if she was wrong, too.  Plus, we didn’t want to seem like stalkers.  That would have been awkward to try to explain.  She zoomed by, smiling all the while, power walking through the sand like she knew exactly where she was going.

Once we were off of the primitive trail and at Landscape Arch yet again, we decided to continue on to see Double O arch.  That was also on a primitive trail but there were MANY people on that one and getting lost really wasn’t an option.  Much to our dismay, we learned that was where the primitive trail ended (or began, if you so desired).

When we saw the sign for the exit/entrance to the primitive trail, along with arrows pointing to Double O Arch and Dark Angel, we were aghast.  We had wasted SO MUCH TIME and gone in a complete circle.  To make things just THAT MUCH BETTER, as we were walking down the trail from Double O Arch, ready to move on and far away from Devil’s Garden, none other than the lady in green passes us….AGAIN.  Tim and I just looked at each other.

Yes, there is a way out.  And no, don’t ask, because we have no idea.

*holiday throwback* london…in video!

I swear we’re done with London throwbacks after this…

Here’s a mini-montage of our trip to London last month.  I didn’t film very much…partly because most of the places we went said, “NO VIDEO!” and partly because I just…didn’t film very much.

Tim’s job is the camera and mine is the video camera.  And in London…I slacked off.

*holiday throwback* london trouble part deux

Tim and I went to London one year, not far after the holiday season.

This is what happened.

I had one major objective while in London.  I didn’t care if I saw Buckingham Palace or Westminster Abbey or St. Paul’s Cathedral.  Above all else I wanted to go “beach-combing” on the Thames.  I read reviews and stories of all the crazy things you could find – like hundred-year-old clay pipes or Roman tiles or pieces of pottery.  And as long as you pick up things on the surface and don’t dig, you’re fine.

And THAT is right up my alley.

On Friday, Tim and I set out to do just that. The Thames isn’t known for having the cleanest shoreline but we brought Purell and a plastic bag.  We’d be fine.  We scouted out a few places near Tower Bridge and Millennium Bridge the day before where we found steps that led down to the water and when the tide was low, led to the shore where, among bits and pieces of trash, one could find treasure.

I was ecstatic.  I couldn’t wait.  It was like my birthday AND Christmas.  I love looking for hard-to-find items amongst the masses.  I used to search for whole seashells and sharks teeth on the beaches of Jacksonville, Florida every summer as a child.  If they were broken in any way, I threw them back.  It was like my own personal quest.  Tim thinks that’s where my infatuation with the impossible started.  He’s probably right.

We decided to sleep in Friday morning because we discovered – of all things – a Twitter page that had updates on when the tide was high or low on the Thames and low tide wasn’t supposed to happen until around 10:00am.  So at 11:00am when I stumbled to the window, threw back the curtains and squinted against the sunlight only to see lots of shoreline, I looked over to Tim and yelled, “The tide is LOW!  We have to go, NOW!”

Tim shot up like a rocket, marching orders in hand.  He knew I was serious and also knew that any hint of dawdling would send me on a fear-induced tirade of “WHAT IF WE MISS LOW TIDE BECAUSE IT TOOK YOU FIVE EXTRA SECONDS TO PEE?!?”

We threw on dirty clothes and set out with a determined attitude.  Well, I had a determined attitude.  Tim was playing it safe.  He said to me in the elevator, “You are so certain you’re going to find something, aren’t you?”  I just looked at him like he was crazy.  If there is something to find, I’ll find it or I won’t stop looking until I do. That’s just how it works.

And sadly, he knows it’s true.  I’ll look for hours and HOURS until I find something that will satisfy me.  It’s like this with everything, not just clay pipes.

Tim and I speed-walked to Tower Bridge, make it halfway across, are forced to wait because the only time it is important for a boat to pass under the bridge is when we’re racing the tide.  The bridge  finally goes back down and we scurry across the remainder of the bridge and find the stairway to the shore.

The stairway was right next to Tower Bridge.  There were no warnings or DO NOT ENTER signs or ropes or chains to bar us from walking to the shore. It was just an open stairwell leading right to the river.  So we walked down.

I raced out onto the shore and was like a kid in a candy store, looking through the rocks and tires and trash.  Tim got into the search as well and found a few stems from clay pipes.

And then, not five minutes after we’d reached the shore of the Thames and in the midst of comparing our finds, someone yells down from the wall on the river walk, “Are you MEANT to be down there?”

I look at Tim like, “What?  Yes, of course we’re meant to be down here or we wouldn’t BE down here.  Not exactly my idea of a romantic Sunday stroll.”

But we’re in London.  And that’s not what he meant.

I put a hand to my ear, signaling I couldn’t hear him, so he yells, “Someone reported you.  You aren’t allowed down there.  You can get sucked in.”

Now I am thoroughly confused.  Sucked in where?  By what? And who has had the time to report us?  We JUST got here.

Tim walked closer to the wall and spoke with the guy, who was a Tower Bridge security guard.  The guy gave us the what-for and said in no uncertain terms to get off the shore or else someone would happily escort us.

Defeated, we made our way back to the stairwell.  We were baffled because other people walked the shore…there are TOURS you pay for to do this…why couldn’t we?  I stopped to pick up one last piece from the ground – it turned out to be some kind of pottery painted blue.

We made our way up the stairs, expecting to see the security guard, making sure we kept our word, but he was nowhere to be found.  Tim wanted to ask him where we were allowed to walk on the shore, but by the time we found him, WAY down the river walk, he was busy doing important security work stuff and Tim had decided to let it go.

We did find one other place where I could get very close to the shore and pick things up without actually BEING on the shore.  So I did that for a bit while Tim researched how to legally beach comb the Thames.

Two more police officers showed up and stood behind me while I was doing my mini-comb but they were more interested in two bloaks in suits that had come down and started walking on the shoreline.

When that happened, I looked at Tim like, “Is it just me…or did they just walk right onto the shore?”

I got up, unassuming, and made my way back to Tim in enough time to hear one of the retreating officers say to the other, “I don’t want to have to explain THIS to Sarge…”

I don’t know what kind of explaining he meant but as long as it didn’t wind up with Tim posting bail for me, I didn’t much care.

I had my treasures.

*holiday throwback* london trouble: i’m all alone!

Tim and I went to London one year not long after the holidays.

This is what happened.

I have a really horrible habit after we’ve returned from a holiday to think, “last week at this time we were in [fill in the blank].”  For instance, last week at this time, Tim and I were in London, probably in Leicester Square or Harrods.

MUCH better place to be in than today.  Today I am at home.  Sick.  Tim is sick too.  He thinks we picked up a wicked London bug and I’m inclined to agree, because I NEVER get sick and this thing has been hanging on since Tuesday.  He’s had his little buddy since Saturday.

(I just had to stop writing and run to move Maddie to the linoleum because she was throwing up.  And then clean it up.  Awesome. Everyone is sick).

On my solo-without-Tim flight I ended up sitting in the aisle seat next to a guy named Roger from Tennessee.  All his friends were in 1st class on business and left him in the exit row with me and a flight attendant.  Our plane didn’t move for an hour after we were supposed to take off because we had some…medical issues…that occurred before everyone managed to find their seats.  One lady fell and “heard her ankle pop” and another fainted.  Yes, you heard me.  FAINTED.  I guess someone forgot to tell her that to travel to London without getting on a boat meant flying thousands of feet in the air.  And apparently that was a little too much to take in all at once.

So we, the rest of the plane, who knew how to watch our step and remain conscious had to wait for an airport doctor to check them out.

Roger and I knew all of this and got firsthand knowledge from our flight attendant.  She was just as annoyed as we were.

Long story short: Neither ended up on our flight.

After we finally made it into the air, my flight partner Roger proceeded to tell me, as he was looking out the window, that he was an adrenaline junkie and LOVED doing anything that got the juice flowing and that we were at about the height required for sky diving.  I just stared at him like I would seeing an alien for the first time.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t hear you quite clearly.  You said you jump?  Right about now?  No thank you.  My whole goal during a flight is to get to our destination as fast as the pilot can safely do so.

My first day in London was something of a blur due to my fatigue I mentioned in my earlier post about no sleep.  I, however, will definitely not forget lugging my suitcase from the airport to the packed Gatwick Express to London Victoria…then trying to figure out where the tube station was amongst hundreds of people in work clothes, bustling about.

Just a little hint: the tube station it is NOT in the London Victoria train station. It is not even attached.  It is across the steet.

Thanks to our plane leaving late, I got to experience rush hour in London because we arrived around 8:00am London time and I wasn’t in the underground system until around 9:00am.

And let me tell you,  it is no cakewalk with a suitcase and no idea how to get to where I needed to go.

I eventually followed a large group of people headed outside the train station and across the street who led me to the London Victoria tube station.  I knew I needed to get to Tower Hill so I waited for a Circle Line train or a Tower Hill train.

And I waited.  And waited.  And continued to wait…during a time of day where the trains are so packed people are shoving their way to the front of the line and cramming into a train car while those already on the train have looks on their faces like, “I am about to be squeezed to death. Do NOT let anyone else IN!”  I had no idea how I was going to fit myself and what may as well be another person, albeit one that doesn’t do any kind of shoving for you, onto a train.

I stood right in front of the yellow “mind the gap” (so you don’t get too close, fall over the ledge and get hit by a train) line, train after train, while Londoners made their way past my self-made road block, my face in despair because the electronic sign never said “Tower Hill” or “Circle Line.”  It kept saying “Upminster” over and over again. I panicked and searched in vain for the Upminster stop and couldn’t find it anywhere on my map.  Then, thinking I was in the wrong place, worked my way back up the stairs to check the larger map on the wall, realized I was in fact in the right place, and went back downstairs, cursing the suitcase every step of the way.

I finally realized I could take trains other than the two I had set my mind on to get to Tower Hill and jumped on a District Line train, throwing my suitcase and my eyes left and right as I boarded, daring anyone to deny me a spot on that train after I had waited and watched about fifteen trains come and go.  It was my turn, dammit, and I was getting on.

When the doors closed and the train started moving I wasn’t paying attention and almost fell over.  Thanks to the girl with blond hair – I didn’t mean to put my hand THERE - I just didn’t want to cause a domino effect and look any more ridiculous than I had already managed.

I was sweating and in complete disarray when I finally made it to the hotel lobby.  I decided my best bet was to take a shower in the hotel locker room because I wasn’t allowed to check-in until 2:00pm.  The hotel staff directed me to the elevators and so I went - glad to be rid of the dreaded third unplanned for appendage that I had to drag around like dead weight.

I got in the elevator, pushed the L button, because they told me it was on the Lower Level, and confusedly stepped right back out into the lobby I just left.  I looked around, perplexed, and went to the front desk again to ask where I was supposed to go.  It was the LL button, NOT the L button.  My fatigued brain didn’t hear that part. So I went back and tried again, made it to the correct floor and stepped out into a hallway with doors on either side.

Both doors were closed and had a sign that said “Fire door. Keep closed.”

Now I was completely confused.  How was I supposed to go anywhere except back into the elevator if the doors have to stay closed??  I saw people through the glass portion on the other side of both doors but I didn’t want to open one and an alarm go off or security people come and take me away or have my face on the front page of London Daily.  Fortunately, just before my panic reached an uncontrollable level, the elevator doors opened and someone else came through and opened one of the doors with the warning plastered on the front…..and nothing happened.

Now I understand why the people at the reception desk at the spa/workout area decided to “show me” how to get to where the showers were and walked me all the way.  They may as well have been holding my hand and given me a lollipop for being good.

I showered, put the same clothes back on – which was gross but my bag was upstairs but I couldn’t get away with trapsing through the city in a towel, and made my way outside, back to the Tower Hill tube station.

I decided to go to Covent Garden.  My plan was to go shopping but my stomach said, “Hi, remember me?  Well, I haven’t had any food for almost twenty-four hours and I’m putting my foot down.  No discussion.”  Now, let me give you a little history: I have a VERY difficult time picking something to eat when in a new place.  I don’t want to go somewhere, eat, and then see something else as I leave and think, “I should have gone THERE.  WHY didn’t I just WAIT?!”

On that day, my stomach didn’t care.  I got off at the Covent Garden stop, wandered around, deciding that I would probably get lost,  found a Pret, asked if they took credit cards, grabbed a sandwich and a brownie, sat down and ate the former whilst staring out at a street, amazed at how many near misses there were with double-decker buses versus pedestrians or smart cars, and shoved the latter into my bag for later.  My meek attempt at ”shopping” consisted of walking into TopShop, which happened to be right across the street from the Pret, and then, realizing how tired I was,  decided to find the closest Tube station to take me to Westminister.  I figured I should at least see something before Tim got in the next morning.  I didn’t want him to ask me what I did and my answer be, “Nothing.”

I made my way to Westminster, which, by the way, is much easier without a suitcase, walked outside  the tube station and immediately saw Parliament and Big Ben.  In my mind I was thinking, “I think this is what I think it is…but I’m not entirely sure…they don’t have anything else that looks like this, do they?  Is this right??”

The answer is no, they don’t and you’ll know you’re there based on the throngs of people trying to get their picture taken on this bridge with both Parliament and the ginormous clock in the background.

I managed to visit the inside of Westminster Abbey before I realized I was actually falling asleep standing up.  I tripped over some signage inside the Abbey and almost fell into a tomb, which got a lot of mixed looks – some glares and some surprised – both tisk-tisking me after the drama ended.

Satisfied that I would be able to tell Tim I did something, I went back to the hotel and checked in.  The porter brought my bags to my room and I started rummaging through my mini-wallet for the four pounds Tim had given me before we left so I could tip him.  I started emptying the contents onto a table, telling him I knew he didn’t want American money and I had some pounds somewhere…eventually the poor guy started backing out of the room saying, “It’s ok, really.  If you need anything, just call.”  I think my discombobultation scared him off.

I got in the bed and immediately fell asleep.  The phone rang and woke me up around 6:30pm.  It was Tim, checking to see if I made it in ok.  He told me I better not sleep too much and I promptly told him I didn’t care – I didn’t sleep in the plane and I’d sleep right through until tomorrow morning.

I was awake when I finally hung up the phone and realized I was hungry again and walked outside to find somewhere to get something to eat.  The only places I could find that were open were pubs and I wasn’t ready to try one of those by myself so I went back to my room and ordered room service – pizza and a brownie.  Completely unadventurous.

It started getting dark and I wanted to turn on a few lights andcouldn’t figure out how to accomplish a seemingly easy task.  None of the switches worked.  The TV and the clock radio were on…but the lights…how do I turn them on?!  I tried everything I could think of to do…nothing worked.

A knock on the door produced a maid asking if I wanted turn-down service.  I said, “No, but could you show me how to turn on the lights?”

She looked at me like I had just asked her where to find Nessie, recovered enough to pick her jaw off the floor, pulled out a room key and showed me a little slot mounted on the wall next to the door, put her key in, and all the lights came on.  Mystery solved.

I would have never figured that out.

The maid left and I put my key in, the lights came on, I took the key out and walked over to the bed…and all the lights went off again.

It took another five minutes for me to realize I had to leave the key in the slot.

Lets just say I was very happy when Tim got in the next morning.