The Last One

What better way to enjoy our last Saturday in New York City than with a creme brulee donut, complete with burnt sugar topping?


A handful of rides on the subway (for the transportation-obsessed among us)?


The view from the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art:



And a relaxing family rowboat ride in Central Park, counting ducks and scouting for turtles, and taking in beautiful scenery like this:


We ended the day with a walk through Central Park and a divine cookie at Levain Bakery. Well, I'm not sure it actually counted as a cookie; more like an inch and-a-half thick piece of chocolate chip insanity that we couldn't even finish. We would have taken a picture, but the sugar-induced coma that immediately followed the first bite made us forget ourselves.

Thanks, New York, for another great day.

A World Gone Mad

This morning I checked my calendar to see if it was April 1st, since the news headline that greeted me on my homepage was "Obama Wins Nobel Peace Prize". Pardon me, but huh? For what? Brokering a peace deal over a tense tea party between Sasha and Malia?

I'm so confused. I mean, up to this point I was under the impression you actually had to do something to win this prize. Although, I suppose if the only qualification is that you not be George W. Bush, Obama had it in the bag.

(Somewhere Bill Clinton just put his fist through a wall).

Sadly, this is only one of many evidences I've received today that the world has gone mad. This afternoon as I was walking home from the grocery store, I ended up behind three guys, one of whom was describing some boyfriend-material he'd recently met. As he described the man, one of the other guys piped up, "He sounds so familiar. I wonder if I [had sex with] him?"

Nice.

So I crossed the street and settled into pace in front of a platonic couple who were having a conversation about cheaters. "That's why I'm not married anymore," said the man, "because my wife cheated on me." He almost had my sympathy until he added, "But she was cheating on her boyfriend when I met her, so I guess that's just her." Um, sounds like all that needs to be said to this man is "duh".

Of course, if you've been watching the news, you should know by now that cheating is no big deal, especially if your name is David Letterman and you've been bed-hopping with your employees. And as long as we are talking about things that aren't a big deal, neither is rape, with the small proviso that you are a big-time award-winning movie director. It doesn't even matter if the victim was thirteen at the time. All's fair in sex and Hollywood.

Oh well, who has time to be concerned over such things when we could be busy slobbering over the "accomplishments" of our president?

Stop the world, I want to get off.

The Halfway Point

After a near constant stream of visitors over the past three weeks, we have our apartment to ourselves again. Visitors are lots of fun, but so is lounging around in my bathrobe until 10 a.m., so it's nice to balance the scales a bit.

We have less than two weeks left here in NYC. The weather has turned and reminded me that I actually do enjoy the city when it's not sweltering outside and I don't feel nauseated every time I get a whiff of rotting garbage or burnt pretzels. David and I are trying to soak up every last bit of city life we can, including all the treats that will be unattainable once we leave. We have told Michael we are going to move back to our Virginia house and that he will have to say goodbye to all the taxis and trains (which confuses him about as much as telling him he's going to get a brother and a sister) but luckily for him, we will be buying a "fast car" to satisfy his appetite for all things transportation.

I am twenty weeks along (more than halfway!), but have been surprised by some pregnancy symptoms that didn't appear until at least seven months with Michael. Then I compared a twenty week picture from each pregnancy and it became obvious why I'm already feeling pressure in my lungs.

Behold, twenty weeks with Michael, barely into maternity pants:


And twenty weeks with the twins:


Dude.

I will now be taking guesses on how many more weeks I have until a whale sling becomes necessary to move me from place to place. Actually, I have felt very well, all things considered, and have nothing to complain about. But I am immensely relieved to be heading back to suburbia where I can drive a car instead of hauling Michael's stroller up seven flights up subway stairs any time I need to go somewhere.

Anyway, I suppose I should take my bathrobe off and run a brush through my hair so I can go buy some laundry detergent, which we (of course) ran out of two weeks before heading home. Unfortunately, we can't survive without it, otherwise it would join the list of other things I'm going to stretch till our departure - like the remaining teaspoon of dish soap and the last roll of paper towels.

Of course, I ate the last piece of chocolate in the cupboard yesterday, so if I wanted to be consistent about my rationing and sacrifice, I wouldn't buy any more.

Luckily for me, consistency was never my strong point.