How I Spent My Summer Vacation

You know when you look at the J. Crew catalog and think, "That's cute and all, but who the hell ever wears a swimsuit and a sweater at the same time? Who are these people?" Well, these people are summer people — cool in every sense of the word (and also they are models, but nevermind that). For one glorious week, we were summer people. Courtesy of Andy and Megan, we had the pleasure of being those (slightly less gorgeous) sweater-and-swimsuit-lakeside types in one of the prettiest place I've ever seen, in the north woods of Minnesota.

Even with the 12-hour cholera that swept through our bunch (Glendaloch's revenge), we were like a postcard. Wish we were there...

I Need Some April Weather

Whenever my friend April sees me (or anyone she loves), she grins, throws her arms open, cocks her head to the side and offers herself. No one is ever happier to see me: I am the most special person on earth. And despite my perfect specialness in that first moment (or any moment she listens to me), I know there are dozens of people she makes feel that same way. It's easy to forget how special April is because she is so damn busy making you feel special. So when I went to see her in the hospital today, where she lay intubated and small and sick, and instead of her usual spectacular greeting, I received just a squeeze of my hand and quiet tears, her eyes desperate, I worried.

Once they took the vent tube out, she was better: charming the staff, wanting to laugh a little, savoring her breaths. But then her blood pressure started dropping again, putting her back into the same cycle that had landed her in ICU in the first place. The rest of the day was up and down, and she withdrew to the quiet place we go when we are deeply tired and suffering.

So. Tomorrow! Tomorrow, I am aiming for something even a little more like my usual greeting. A smile, a hug, a bit of the special she reflects. We could all use some beautiful April weather.

Lu York City, Day 3

Waking up to the street sounds of New York, snuggling Lu as she slept between me and Jason in the king-size bed (pretty comfortably, as we are not big people), I thought, this is life for city people. I sat up to the crash of a dumpster being emptied and surveyed the hotel room, flannels and plaids and industrial fixtures cast in a little strip of dawn that made it decidedly less romantic than in the hipster dark. I thought, my god, this would be our apartment — where would we even put Milo? Lu, charmingly exhausted, continued to sleep while we stirred. We finally got her moving with the promise of pancakes and a "fancy dress show." After breakfast at Penelope, Lucy and I went to the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met (thanks to Meg and Grandma Susie for the recommendation!), for which I'd bought the special "Mondays at the Met" tickets when the rest of the museum is closed.

The retrospective was exquisite: one of the most dramatic and interesting things I've ever seen at a museum. Lu was less impressed. At one point, she partially lay down in the exhibit, clutching a phantom pain in her side that seemed to correlate strongly with boredom, exclaiming, "I can't go on." (Dear serious museum patrons who paid $50 a head for the private ticket to the McQueen exhibit, I am sorry. You should talk to the management about instituting some kind of culture stamina quiz so this kind of seven-year-old riffraff doesn't get in.) When we got to the end, she wanted to go back to see a few more things, like "the dress that looked like seaweed" and "that red one with the feathers." She did like it, but if I'd wanted the full experience, I'd have gone with Meg or Grandma Susie: alas, Lu did her best.

The rest of the day was magic with Dad: FAO Schwarz and chocolate and a nap in the king-size bed. When I met up with them later, she was even a good sport about eating at Momofuku, the land of much strange and wonderful food.

Lu York City, Day Two

After brunch at Sarabeth's (Goldie Lox anyone?) we headed to Central Park, where I went for a run and Jason and Lu went to the city's best playground to meet John, Jess, Grace and Maddie, a bunch of Austin friends we'd serendipitously run into on the flight (worthwhile side note: these are good pals that we can never coordinate with because we are mutually busy and disorganized — leave it to fate). I tagged in after my run, then Jason left to meet Mary for the Yankee game (Yankee loss, Jason victory over beer and hot dogs). Despite the heat and the walking, Lu enjoyed the playdate with Grace, the carousel ride and lots of carnival fun (Central Park is days of discovery, and we'd allotted a mere morning). The heat and stimulation took its toll: by the time I hustled her back to the hotel to get ready for Mary Poppins, we were both pretty beat. No matter. The show must go on. Or at least that's what I was telling myself as I carried a 40-pound kid on my back halfway uptown. While wearing silk. In 100 degree heat. In fairness, she walked most of the way herself (WITH GREAT COMPLAINT).

We made it with minutes to spare and found ourselves ensconced in AC and stage lights. A spoonful of overpriced Sprite (or Chardonnay) helped the medicine go down, indeed. Cue music and ... she was rapt. She sat on the edge of her seat and sang along, her attention never flagged and she spared me any of those I-paid-good-money-for-you-to-have-the-time-of-your-life-so-you-better-dammit moments. Getting autographs at the stage door was even better.

After that we subjected her to a fancy-hipster seafood meal at The John Dory, rewarded her with Shake Shack (original location), then bed for everyone at 9:30.

Lu York City, Part One

Last week we took Lucy to New York! For years she's been begging to go, knowing that her two conditions were that she 1) be able to walk a lot and 2) try new foods. At last, we decided she was ready, and she did not disappoint. She walked miles through the city, including a big swath of Central Park and a hasty thirteen-block trek up to 42nd street for a show. She ate, among other things, raw Spanish mackerel with charred jalapeño and grapefruit and steamed pork buns. Here's a video report on Day 1:

She forgot to mention that we spent our first evening (in bars!) with some dear friends, two of whom are Austin transplants to New York, relishing the city like exchange students, along with our friend Mary, who has a love affair with New York unlike anyone I know. It was Mary who wrote me and Jason our first personal New York guide, the inside track that started our own love affair with the city. As Mary walked with us up Fifth Avenue toward dinner, she told us that she was seven when her parents first took her to New York. I think we are off to a good start.

Nobody Likes It When

...Milo calls his preschool teacher "Mama." While I realize that 1) "Miss-jess-i-ca" has many syllables and 2) said Miss Jessica is a sweet, nubile creature with a certain Snow White quality, the boy is forgetting which side his bread is buttered on (and who toasts said whole grain bread. And applies the butter. And accompanies it with organic turkey sausage.).

Mama? Oh, don't mind me. I'm over here with a bit of your lunch smeared on my left shoulder and 3 guys and 2 trucks in my pocket. We're cool.

[Ed. note: We here at lucyandmilo.com are starting a new series: Nobody Likes it When. We'd say "enjoy," except that it's a pretty grouchy little series. Instead: Harumph. Commiserate.]

News of the Weird

Long time no blog. Apologies and...updates: So weird that I am 38. Sigh. I'd give myself long odds on accomplishing everything I'd intended to between now and 40, but the good news is, the lead on any post-Pulitzer interview could now be, "Amazingly, she toiled for years in advertising and didn't publish her first novel until the age of 39 (or so)." For now, I toil in advertising-ish things until the muse (read: giant expanse of free time) strikes me. Which I have been warned it never does, in which case I will be a Grandma Moses of "mom"oirs and pithy short stories. Milo is not that weird, but at the peak of his charms. Really, he's a bit of an asshole. But he has this sly, sweet look — you know, the kind the cute guy in algebra gave you just before he asked to cheat off your homework? This is the look Milo is giving to check-out girls and passers-by. There's an outside chance that Milo is cool. He will be applying for some kind of exchange program soon after realizing that no one else here is cool. Sorry in advance, kid.

Lucy: a strong force in keeping Austin weird. Ah, Lucy, I go to her next, not because she is not cool (there's still a chance, baby girl), but because I see her approaching an age where it matters to be cool. And I see her approaching that age wearing a crocheted tail, many layers of costume jewelry and fake eyeglasses. She will be fine (for this week, at least: she's going to art camp).

Jason = more dweeb than weird. For my birthday he gave me a French press and a subscription to The Art of Eating, the indie food mag the NYT calls "erudite" — clear evidence that he not only gets me, but also the person I aspire to be.

We are weird. We are here. Get used to it.

Shells

As Lucy and I walked along the beach looking for good shells on Friday, we held hands. We did not rush. We were quiet and patient — two rarities for both of us. We did our task and enjoyed each other's company, considering the rosy color of one shell, why this one had a hole, what a pretty piece of sand dollar. In this moment, I pondered how little true attention I give her. Maybe her volume — both the number of words she says and how loud she says them – is a function of how hard she has to fight for an audience in our noisy, noisy life?

During our quiet walk, we found a few modest beauties, which thrilled Lu, but I hid my disappointment at not finding a whole sand dollar. Just as we headed back, we passed a pretty white-haired woman who was on her own shell hunt. I said, teasing, "Good luck — I think we got all the good ones already!"

The lady smiled, wordless, and held out her hand. In it was a perfect sand dollar. She must have picked it up right behind us. In a moment very much out of our shared character, Lu and I agreed we just needed to keep looking. And so we are.

Did You Know...

... that right now [6/6/11, 8:17 a.m. CDT, when this revelation was made in the car on the way to theater camp], a bunch of male penguins are probably at the South Pole with eggs on their feet? Because it is winter in the South Pole and that's what penguins do — the men take care of the eggs. Ed. note: That's what Man Penguin does here, too, even in the blazing heat.

Ed. note 2: Said Man Penguin just came and read this post over my shoulder and said, "That's not true, babe — you take care of our babies, too." Lady Penguin: "Nuh uh. I'm no good. I just can't handle her." Man Penguin: "Me neither. Can we just lock her in one of these cabinets?" Family contemplating casting noisy Girl Penguin into frosty isolation. Baby Boy Penguin allowed to stay, narrowly, because he doesn't yet speak English, er, penguin.