BACK FROM CHICAGO AND TEN POUNDS HEAVIER!

(Not really a Lincoln Town Car or fleeing old people - but a faithful representation)

“We’re Back!” the couple screamed as their ancient Lincoln Town Car bounced it’s way down the Florida highways, slid sideways up their side street sending walkers and oxygen poles flying from terrified old people, and up into their driveway.

It was later reported that the number of “For Sale” signs that went up within moments was unprecedented and probably the true cause of sudden hurricane warnings on THE WEATHER CHANNEL, or as we like to call it in Florida, THE TRAVEL CHANNEL.

Yes, we have returned. I sit here now and reflect, relaxing after my first decent shower in two weeks, contemplating the blowtorch that I have fired up beside me, ready to do it’s good work on the old leg hairs – or branches as Richie likes to call them, with that mad twinkle in his eye – leg hairs that have woven a colorful tapestry across my limbs and under my arms.

I look like a homeless woman, I really do. More than usual. I have toenails that rival Howard Hughs’ and the fingernails of an Opium Den proprietor, or Empress Dowager Cixi, last Emperor of China (get real - of course I looked that up on Wikipedia, do you think a reasonable person knows these things off the top of their heads? Hmmm, do you? As if I was a reasonable person to begin with … Where was I…?)

Oh yes, so we have returned to the scene of the crime, our home, after two weeks of being with friends and relatives. Next time I’m bringing a gun.

I won’t bore you with details (or with facts for that matter) but I have a few observations I wish to make for posterity.

(Not actually Don and Carol but a faithful representation)
***

First of all, Carol and Don Furst are about the nicest people in the world. We love them to bits – Carol is my husband’s niece and a delicate delight. Don is not so delicate but still a definite charmer himself. How we got to be related to people like this is more mysterious than a Greg Isles novel but suffice it to say that they are dear sweet people who deserve all of the luck they have. All that luck. All that darn luck. I don’t begrudge them any of it, not a thing. Nope. Really I don’t.

However…

(Not really Don and Carol's home but a faithful representation)

Who else do you know who buys a gorgeous, historical, home (their driveway and lovely professionally landscaped and lit patio is all made of pavers for god’s sake) and have the seller insist – INSIST – that she must paint all the rooms for them before they move in, whatever color they choose. And she took some money off the price – cause they are such nice kids. And she sent them a card for their year anniversary in the house. And she sent them a card for Don’s new fancy job downtown…come to think of it, just why do we like this couple?

Oh yes. They have perfect children. Their daughter, Beautiful Colleen married Handsome Adrian, the same man who voluntarily made my website presentable, out of the goodness of his heart. And their son, Adorable Charlie is a brain walking around just being brilliant all the time and he gets to go to London with his boss.

These people are starting to get on my nerves. Let’s move on.

(Not my brother's actual home but a faithful representation)

(Not my actual sister-in-law but a faithful representation)

We drove next to my beloved brother’s house. My brother is on a lot of drugs for back pain so he can't drive at the moment and was waiting for us at his daughter's home.  (Note to self – do not ever again ride in car driven by lovely, super powered, multi-tasking, distracted sister-in-law as she applies press-on nails and polish) Richie nearly peed in his pants in the back seat and so did I in the front seat, but I pee in my pants hourly so that doesn’t count. Anyway, we got to my niece’s house. Anne Marie had given birth to an angel. Dillon or Dylan - or however they are going to spell it - is a beautiful seven days old, but had just come home that day from the hospital because of some complications; she must wear a heart monitor for a few weeks.

(Not actually my brother but a faithful reprsentation of him on drugs and

hearing the baby monitor go off)

That is all my brother and I have to know to be on 'edge' (read hysterical - discuss among yourselves). It is in our genes, truly it is, and cannot be denied, not that either of us attempts to achieve any level of “reasonableness” very often. Well, I finally was convinced to hold the little bundle of love and wires for a few terrifying minutes. Here’s an interesting aside - not all women are maternal. No siree. I am about as maternal as a Komodo Dragon and tiny babies are the pits. When the babies are sick and tiny…don’t make me hold them. Please. I do have a warning from the National Institute for Health issued concerning me with small children and farm animals.

Anyway, my brother hovered and I trembled. Then the worst thing happened. The alarm on the baby’s heart monitor went off. My life flashed before my eyes. It had to be my life because the TINY INFANT I WAS CLUTCHING IN A DEATH GRIP HAD HAD NO LIFE TO SPEAK OF YET!!! Poor wee thing, and me with my brother’s hands gripping my throat…

Well, it turned out to be the battery on the monitor was low because I was walking around singing “Baby Face” to the little one (I always sang Baby Face to my nieces and nephews when they were newborn infants. Many of them screamed and two left home on all fours. But I digress…)

Coming next…on to DANNY AND REBECCA’S HOUSE!