“You are a unique traveling family,” my girlfriend said. I could tell she was trying to be polite.

“Most people buy shot glasses and t-shirts when they go on a trip. Your family buys equipment,” my girlfriend in the backseat added. We were on our way to Los Angeles for a New Orleans style bra party celebrating the end of the summer. Every one had to wear a bra outside their clothing in some decorative New York. Does that count as a t-shirt?” A Russian saleswoman named Angela had been very concerned about my bra wardrobe, working herself into a sweat as she ran between the dressing room and racks.

“Well that certainly wasn’t cause for the extra suitcase,” they razzed me. “What else did you buy?”

Dare I tell them about the heating pad I bought in Boston because my hip went out? While sitting on an old bench seat on the Ducks Tour Boat, my hip popped out. Limping through the Freedom Trail with my kids was an interesting way to experience the blood, sweat and tears of the American Revolutionaries. I  nally broke down and headed to the pharmacy to buy a heating pad and Advil.

My husband called, “Can you get me two screwdrivers? I need to put some equipment together.”

Probably freaked out by his truly lame wife, my husband went to a sporting goods store and bought a pull up bar, an exercise band and in. atable exercise ball. With the screwdrivers, he assembled a torturelike contraption and did pull ups o. the doorframe. Me on my heating pad, him on his bar was possibly our best Mars and Venus moment.

Loading up our car for Maine was an adventure. By then the family had also acquired a can of tennis balls (to roll on my hip), several copies of the Declaration of Independence, and a stack of books from the Harvard Bookstore. We tipped the valet so generously he brought us a six-pack of water.

Hanging out in Maine, my husband immediately forgot his exercise plan as we ate lobsters, clams and garlic bread. My youngest daughter did acquire a fan for her room, which got fairly warm. My heating pad was still used nightly and once during the day a. er I accidentally drank hydrogen peroxide that was in a glass to clean my retainer. (I obviously couldn’t retain the memory that it was not water.)  ere’s nothing like throwing up foam to make you question your ability as a mother.

In New York City, our  nal stop, I stopped using the heating pad and bought a fan. I don’t know if it was the New York heat or some kind of lobster withdrawal, but I needed a breeze and my youngest was not sharing. By then our pile of stu. had grown substantially but that didn’t stop me. I bought a gorgeous blue glass cake plate and an adorable shell art turtle in an antique store in Soho.

Fortunately, a cousin had borrowed a large suitcase from us in July and taken it to New York. Breaking into a sweat, I packed up our acquisitions. And it all  t, except for the pull up bar which was fortunately le. at my mother-in-law’s house.

“Oh and there were two boxes of glutenfree cake mixes I bought in Maine,” I added,  nishing o. my list to the girlfriends.

“What?” they screamed. Luckily, we had just arrived at the party and my souvenir interrogation session was over.

As we entered the party, an attendant with a rack of bras greeted us, “Ladies, may I get you a bra to wear?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “This time, I actually brought my own.” I put an old bra on as a belt and headed inside. It was time to  nd a shot glass  lled with something refreshing and unforgettable.



Our family vacation is next week and I am afraid. Very afraid. Sure, the lighting and whining over who gets the airplane window, rollaway bed and chocolate on the pillow incites a subtle dread, but that’s not it. A steady diet of French fries, chocolate chip cookies and multiple sightseeing caramel lattes doesn’t even worry me anymore. Go on vacation, gain five pounds is the norm.

It’s not even a fear of flying, although there’s nothing like bouncing through a thunderstorm to make me wish I were at home folding laundry. No, I am deeply afraid of luggage. ­ ere’s always some movie moment drama and frankly I’m just not up to it.

Eleven years ago, before I was married, my parents took me on a trip to Costa Rica via Miami. When I arrived in the Miami Airport, I met up with my family, grabbed my purple du. e bag and headed to our hotel in South Beach. Later that night, I discovered that my luggage lock wouldn’t open because, lo and behold, it wasn’t my bag! A" er spending an hour on the phone with the airlines, I discovered that a man had mistakenly taken my bag, too. I wasn’t the only dufus at the luggage carousel.

Another hour on hold and it was revealed that Mr. Purple Du. e Bag was staying in our hotel, one - oor directly above me. My head swirled. - is was obviously fate, a “Sleepless in Seattle” in Miami. I rushed down to the front desk with his bag. My bag was there but no cute guy was next to it. A" er interrogating the desk clerk, I found out that Mr. Purple was headed to Chile with his girlfriend. - at was a whole lot of anxiety over nothing.

Since then, I’ve had a few lost bags but nothing too dramatic until last summer when we traveled to Brooklyn to visit my husband’s family. My daughter and I packed up my computer, her stu. ed bear and sassy out. ts and spent the night at my girlfriend’s apartment in Greenwich Village. - e next day, we met up with my husband who took our bags and put them in the navy mini-van in the public garage.

What a beautiful day in Manhattan, until we got home and there was no luggage in the van. Obviously stolen, I had a meltdown of the . rst degree.

To make a long and painful story short, my husband put our luggage in the wrong blue mini-van. - e person discovered it when they got home to Ramsey, N.J., and found their van . lled with a stu. ed bear and silver suitcase. My husband and I drove to this honest man’s house to get my stu. . - is movie moment was more like “Shutter Island” where my husband escaped a near-death experience.

Everyone knows that things happen in threes which is why I’m slightly nervous packing my bags. What will I lose this time? More importantly, what is the lesson? Don’t check luggage? Like that’s going to happen with two kids and a husband who wears three shirts a day.

I’m going to stick with my grandmother’s adage. “Pack a clean pair of underwear and tooth brush in your purse, and you’ll always be fresh.” I need this vacation to be drama free. Less “National Lampoon’s Vacation,” more “Princess Diaries.” A little “Eat Pray Love,” wouldn’t hurt either.

Thanks for the therapy session. I feel ready to face the carousel with glasses in hand and a fully stocked purse, just in case this devil needs to wear Prada.



My girls and I saw The Sorcerer's Apprentice in a nice, cool movie theater and loved it!

The movie is based loosely on the Fantasia animated movie, The Sorcerer's Apprentice, that stars none other than Mickey Mouse. In this version, Nicholas Cage plays the sorcerer and one of Merlin's apprentices. Let me just say that I couldn't quite see Nicholas Cage in this role, but he turned out to be perfect. Read more and Kitty Kat and Sara Cinema's reviews...

Today is my tenth wedding anniversary. Yes, I have been married for 3,652 days. My husband says it feels 365,000 days. Not sure what that means but I’ll err on the positive side and chalk it up to the fact that we have been very busy these past ten years with two kids, three moves and an array of exploding toilets.

Today also marks my tenth anniversary of being a mom since I was pregnant when we got married. Aware of my family’s history with fertility problems, we began the baby dance as soon as we got engaged. Pregnant by April, the October wedding was moved to July and my dress exchanged for a larger size. There’s nothing more fun that being too fat to fit into your over planned, expensive wedding dress.

Several weeks ago, my girlfriend and I were talking wedding anniversaries. “I’m going lingerie shopping for our twelfth anniversary. Why don’t you come with me?” she offered.

“You couldn’t pay me to go shopping for lingerie right now,” I said, rolling my eyes with great effect.

No, you couldn’t pay me but you can share a picture of me at a recent film screening in which my bra looks like a tiny ace bandage wrapped around my torso creating a top and bottom bulge. Attractive. And I’m so happy that there are lots of photos of me like that. (If this is too much information for you, stop reading now. I am beyond self-restraint.)

Ten years ago, my underwear drawer was filled with beautiful lingerie from Victoria’s Secret and quaint boutiques of French lace. Now days, it’s pure Costco with a little Target thrown in for variety. I decided it was time for a change. Start the next decade with some new lingerie.

The sales girl at Nordstrom’s was so enthusiastic about the twenty bras she brought to the dressing room, I can only think she pitied me.

“Oh, that looks beautiful,” she exclaimed. “That fits you perfectly.” I looked around for hidden cameras. Was this some kind of Punk’d Candid Camera situation?

The shopping trip was a success, or at least for the sales girl. For that price, I could have bought twenty Costco bras and a large bag of chocolate chips. But these were ‘quality bras,’ she told me, ‘the kind that Oprah likes to wear.’

The next day, I put on my fancy one and headed out the door. I was feeling pretty sassy, if you know what I mean, until I got to my lunch meeting. Sitting at the table, I couldn’t catch my breath. Am I having a panic attack? An asthma attack? My whole rib cage started to ache. I excused myself to the bathroom.

Yes, I was having a heart attack, smack dab in the middle of the bathroom stall. I hurried home, changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed before my kids got home.

Strangely enough, I suddenly felt better. I could breathe.  That’s when I realized my fancy pants bra was way too tight. I marched myself back to Nordstrom’s, looking for Miss Lingerie USA. Lucky for her, she wasn’t there to hear my tirade about how perfect is not always comfortable.

That’s a life lesson I keep relearning. Perfect is not comfortable. Thank goodness, I no longer feel the need to be perfect in my marriage. It’s becoming like a set of sheets that keep me warm and cozy. The older they get, the softer they become. Of course, there are those days that the toilet explodes. And that’s when I try and remember  ‘for better or for worse,’ a vow to count every day even when it barely fits.