Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

My husband Tom and I have toted our Rick Steves all around Europe. We love him. His pages are dog-eared and scribbled on and reread. One time, in a moment teetering on tragic, we nearly left Rick on a German bus. Luckily Tom accelerates under pressure and although the incident left us pale and shaken, we were reunited with our trusty friend. I can’t say enough about German/Austrian Rick, London Rick, Paris Rick, or Italy Rick. But in Prague, we got a little hitch in our giddyup. I find it hard to say out loud, but we had a squabble, Rick, Tom and I. First he left us hanging on his orientation tour on the tram. We didn’t realize the route wasn’t circular and we ended up in the suburbs. It’s ok, we travel low to the ground, we figured out that the trams don’t pick up where they let out and managed to get back into town. It’s just that Rick is usually so thoughtful and careful with his directions. Unfortunately, not so much in the Czech Republic. There are only shadows of his signature wa...

Aha! I'm seeing the reason for the evident weightgain across the pond: XXXL Wangers. Devastating to diets in all languages.

You used to be able to pick out the Americans in any crowd: Jiggling a little chub Wearing comfortable shoes Loud talking Rigged out in T-shirts featuring English words spelled correctly and clustered into phrases that actually make sense Contemporaneously, indicators 1 & 2, not so much as telltale signs. Fat Europeans abound and they have discovered that double-D width sneakers and padded socks properly underpin the extra poundage. Gone are the days when Tom and I were the only ones taking on a six mile path up a mountain to some castle in sensible shoes while everybody else hauled ass in strappy sandles. Blessed be for indicator 3. And 4. Holy truths even in these dubious times. You can hear we Americans coming across courtyards of cobblestones, our voices ringing above all others as we point out how unexpectedly short kings generally are, and how Joan Crawford and Yoko Ono share a lot in common. And for sure, we are not wearing T-shirts revealing hard facts like: "If you c...

The internet is not as good as the beer, comrades. Catch you on the flipside of the week. Na shledanou.

Tom and I travel to the cursed depths of Manhatten for a Tuesday night show at Webster Hall. Steel Train Opening band Steel Train consists of five dudes from Mr. Kotter's class. Their conjoined earnestness oozes from their pores and permeates the room with the faint odor Gabe Kaplan's encouragement. Tom says they are "tight." I say one day, when moldy rockstar grime has smothered their dilligent fascination with their instruments, then, maybe, they will become intriguing enough for big-eyed girls with knapsacks to chase around. Musically, Steel Train's songs contain an average of three notes, which the gaggling supersilious guitar player standing behind us repeatedly points out while he glances around to see if anyone has overheard how totally boss he is. I teeter on mentioning that this is probably why Tom Petty never really achieved much attention. Piebald The guys in Piebald know what piebald means and they chuckle backstage at all the morons who are not clued ...

Me: "Why is there a whole lot of potato salad in the refrigerator?" Tom: "Because a company of Dutchmen is coming over."

Raccoons have thumbs which enable them to open many closed containers (such as garbage cans and doors ). Their intelligence and dexterity equip them to survive in a wide range of environments. The densest population o f raccoons in New York is in New York City." Yeah but we already knew that. See the Raccoon Chronicles . This is a new chapter. What do you call a Catdoor with no door....? Our Catdoor. Twenty pounds of ravenous fur ripped it off a long time ago. Raccoons have substantial hand strength. So, our Cat Pass-Through is located in a basement window. After the raccoons began their nightly fandangos, we corked up said window. We spent our free time sketching scale drawings of mechanical fortifications that would feature the following must-haves: Tensile strength robust enough to withstand raccoon metacarpus. Blockage against nocturnal nemeses, but not against the cat. No requirement for anything to be strapped on or about Alex, Cat Houdini. For a year, I tinkered with m...

Unaware of the tragedy to follow, I laced up my rollerskates and waited for Tom to concoct a perfectly proportioned electrolyte mix. Fifteen miles is a long way to run, which is why I decided he required wheeled accompaniment. Rounding a corner by the man-made beach, I got clotheslined by a canoe. In the back of a parked pickup truck. Flew right underneath and skidded down the path on my tushy. It was really very acrobatic, but I did not stick the landing. Luckily, there was a lifeguard competition going on and the beach was packed with their loyal fans. Who all turned around when the canoe took me out. Because of the loud bang. If you're going to careen down a path on your ass, you might as well have spectators is all I'm saying.

Never have I seen such artistry. Heartwarming whippery that'll fix you right up. My Joe frothed the hitch out of my giddyup and I was good for twenty more blocks. Joe's Coffee Manhattan/West Village 141 Waverly Pl New York, NY 10003 The Art of Joe

The entire drive home from dinner, Dad clutched the steering wheel ten and two, his sonic alligator gaze locked on dim and trecherous highway. He struggled against all odds to avoid obstacles like street signs and parked cars. The nubilous darkness rendered him completely mute. Now he's ticked at Mom. And for good reason. She never told him he had his sunglasses on.

My Brazillian sister-in-law bought a large ceramic chimpanzee. Very collectable. I heard her say: "I put up the baby-gate so Little Mark can't get in the livingroom. I don't want him spanking the monkey."

I would not get a tattoo of a butterfly. I would not get any tattoo on my ankle. If I were to get a tattoo, I might get an eagle. In the service, I thought about getting a tattoo, but my mother would have killed me.

Sethie: Maybe I'll just rest my eyes here a little bit. Everyone will be focusing on Ella and my powerful biceps anyway. Mom: heeheehee. Sethie: I'm pretty sure I've lost circulation to my lips. This perma-grin has my whole face locked up in its fierce unrelenting grip. Mom: yipeeeee.

As my mom tells it, when she woke him up and announced she was in labor and he needed to get snappy and get her to the hospital because I was on the way, my dad immediately hopped out of bed and combed his hair. Pantless. Not much has changed in 39 years. Re-enactment of my brother Sethie and Mary enroute to the hospital on the phone with my dad, soon to be Grandpa: Mary: "We're headed to the hospital. Can you meet us there?" Dad: "Should we just go to your house?" Mary: "No, I'm in labor. My water broke. We're going to the hospital and I'm going to have the babies today." Dad: "Oh. Well, we'll be there late tonight or maybe tomorrow." Sethie: "DAD! We're having the babies right now. Where's Mom?" Dad: "I have a doctor's appointment at 2:15. I can probably cancel it." Sethie: "Good idea. Where's Mom?" Dad: "So what happens now?" Sethie: "I don't know, this is new...

The NYC Half Marathon ended in Battery Park this morning. Me: "Can I get a bottle of water, please." Street Vendor: "That'll be $4" Me: "$4?! No way. Lemme have a $2 bottle of water." Street Vendor: "Ok fine. That'll be $2." Me: "So the $2 bottle of water is the same as the $4 bottle of water?" Street Vendor: "Yeah." Me: "Fine." technorati tags: NYC Nike Half Marathon , NYC , Battery Park , Street Vendors

Alex the Curious Cat followed me into the bathroom. He seized on the opportunity to practice his Acrobatic Feats of Daring before a captive audience. In a complete failure of foresight, I chucked the roll of toiletpaper at him.

The Good News: We no longer have bees living inside the wall of our house. The Bad News: The bear who has been shitting around our deck ripped out the hive and ate it along with a mouthful of siding. It's like one of those drama-packed thrillers where all the subplots miraculously come together inside a breathtaking climax. All the loose ends are wrapped up except for the hole in our house and the bear in our backyard. technorati tags: bear , beehive , suburbia , house