Shiny Things – Page 3 – Diary of Ann Franks

LONDON DAY SIX: WAR AND PEACE

Published on August 14, 2013August 14, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

I’m proud to say we once again braved the Tube and ended up exactly where we were going. Kensington Palace. This was the childhood home of Queen Victoria and the home of William and Mary. Currently, it also plays host to the Fashion Rules exhibit, which traces the history of the clothing worn by Queen Elizabeth II, Princess Margaret and Princess Diana.

The presentations are beautifully arranged and when we arrived around 11:30, there was not but a small crowd in the rooms. Following are some of my favorite pieces. All I need is a World War to eliminate bread and sugar from my diet and I might achieve a waist this size as well. If I remove a rib or two.

Meanwhile, the other rooms are dedicated to two sad stories. One is that of Queen Anne, who lost 17 babies. She finally gave birth to a boy, William, who though rumored to be quite frail, danced and danced at his 11th birthday party. Hours later, he went into a troubled sleep from which he never awoke. Anne was broken hearted and went to her death years later knowing the monarchy would pass into the hands of a distant relative. It landed (after much passing of laws to surpass approximately 50 others) with her second cousin George I. He was 41 when he discovered he was in line for the throne.

This exhibit was titled Anne’s 18 hopes.

The second tragic story is that of Queen Victoria. She was madly in love with Albert. They were married and had a veritable gaggle of children (9)! Unfortunately, Albert died rather young, at 42, leaving Victoria mourning for the rest of her life. There were even calls for her to abdicate the throne if she couldn’t snap out of it. She wore official mourning until she passed away 40 years later. They appear to be the first royals to be truly in love.

We stepped out of the gloomy story and into the garden where we were nearly blinded by the beautiful flowers. A couple of photos are below.

After a short trip back to the hotel to catch our breath, we decided to fast forward to World War II. The Churchill War Rooms were a startling look at underground headquarters for the core of the the British Government during WWII. How these people lived and worked, day in and day out without sunlight, without knowledge of what exactly was going on outside, is astonishing. It’s like a land-locked submarine. There were signs announcing the weather. Warm and fine, etc. We became completely enthralled with the history of Churchill and had to rush the last of the War Museum before closing. The map room is on view, complete with a graffiti version of Hitler drawn on one map, and Churchill’s bedroom, where he reportedly spent only three nights, aside from his daily hour long naps that broke up his 18-hour work days.

We may have to return to the gift shops, where I found wartime slogan magnets and posters with helpful hints like, Eat Less Bread. There was also a modern take on the Keep Calm theme that directed, Sod Calm and Get Angry.

Strange. that’s exactly my tourism philosophy.

Meanwhile, strange spottings today: one was apparently what UK buddy, Dave, refers to as a hen party. The other is a look-alike of the week. A muscular Ben Kingsley.

LONDON DAY FOUR: MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

Published on August 12, 2013August 13, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Exhaustion hit last night, so when some sort of alarm went off at 1:45 AM that quickly turned off again, I couldn’t be bothered. Like a cat in a bath, Sandy instantly levitated from the bed, evidently concerned about fire or some such and kept talking to me and waking me back up until I asked her to look out the window and see if people were exiting the hotel. When she reported in the negative I sank back to unconsciousness without a worry. Today we discovered an alarm in the kitchen went off, but all was fine. Which is good, because I wasn’t going ANYWHERE at 1:45 AM. Somehow in the hub-bub, our clock alarm became unset, so, had we not ordered a breakfast delivery for 7:45, we would not have awoken until the call from our delightful tour guide, Jannine.

Breaking all records for showering, make-up and hair styling, Sandy and I staggered into the back seat of the van and fell prey to the soothing tones of what can best be described as a blonde Emma Thompson. I could swear our guide sounded just like her in “Love Actually.” I just hope she introduces us to her brother, the Hugh Grant look-alike.

Our tour today was laid out in a sort of triangle. We headed for the first stop, Avebury. The village of Avebury has a ring of standing stones running right through it. Many are missing, but small pedestal type rocks mark the places where they are missing. Here, unlike Stonehenge, we are able to touch the stones. A large ditch surrounds the inner circle. These are Neolithic ruins, and the process for raising them involved a great deal of ingenuity. Also unlike Stonehenge, these stones are not shaped to specifics. They are more organic looking, as if boulders rose to stand at attention. One third of their length is buried in the ground.

As we left the field and made our way out the gate, Sandy took a misstep. By the time I whipped around, it appeared she had tumbled head over arse down the three stone steps. I have since been informed she merely SLID. There was no flipping involved. Although slightly damaged, she bounced to her feet and carried on. Bully for Sandy! I could not have recovered with quite the aplomb.

Next stop was Glastonbury, reputed burial ground of King Arthur and Guinevere. On the way there, Jannine pointed out the hedgerows lining either side of the road and told us many are being destroyed to take advantage of as much planting field as possible. There is actually a group now named “Save the Hedgerows.” I envisioned Hugh Grant earnestly speaking to me on the telly saying, “Join me and Save the Hedgerows.” I’m in, Hugh, I’m in.

At Glastonbury we visited the thorn tree, reputedly from the crucifixion of Christ that Joseph of Aramathea planted when he stuck his staff in the ground. (Joseph was an uncle of Jesus’ and helped him carry the cross.) According to legend, the tree weeps blood at Christmas. This is confirmed by a friend of our tour guide, who claims to have a cutting. How said cutting was acquired has not been answered.

We also saw the spot where the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere were found. The woman had long flaxen hair, but when the priests touched it, it turned to dust. They moved the remains to another spot near the high alter, where a marker sits today.

Next, we ventured on to Stonehenge. Approximately a jillion people were in line. Buses unloaded hordes of Japanese tourists and elderlies. Jannine skipped ahead to speak with the ticket agents, purchased two passes for Sandy and me, and we happily pushed our ways through the jumble to enter the walkway that leads to the stones, no doubt cutting half an hour off our time.

Awesome is the only word to describe this mystery. TV, movies and photos do not reveal the amazing sensation of being in the presence of the stones. Every angle reveals a new perspective that must be photographed. The stones are aligned so on the day of the summer solstice and winter solstice, the sun is perfectly aligned with the structure. Jannine said the people who constructed it must have watched for two years. They are fitted together like giant Legos, with knobs on the standing stones allowing the cup of the top stones to seat. Also, the stones used were not from this area. each portion of England has very distinct strata layers and within a fifty mile radius, you could have villages and fences made of gray stone, cream colored stone, chalk, etc. These stones, which weighed tons, came from Wales and another location approximately 50 miles from the site. Why haul stone from such a distance when they could use local stone? Who knows. However, you can tell why people are not allowed to tough them anymore. The green lichen are visible on the upper most part of the stones, but are non-existent on the lower 2/3rd.

After snapping a ridiculous amount of photos and remarking on the way the clouds in England make us strangely happy, we left for the hotel. Our assumption about the clouds is that we see so few in Texas in Summer they seem romantic and mystical now.

To entertain us on the way back, I asked about tourist behavior. Having experienced a number of obnoxious tourists at the site, I tried to get our guide to reveal the worst country of origin in her experience. As I determined, Germans are among them, as are the Italians.

Told ya’ so.

Tomorrow we go to “Buck House,” Buckingham Palace, and on the The Globe to see The Tempest. I look forward to viewing a play by Shakespeare in the exact manner Elizabeth I would have viewed it. Unless I fall asleep, which is possible.

By the way, if you visit, make sure you get a blue badge guide. They are certified by the government. Apparently around 1,000 apply each year and they are weeded down to 200, many of whom speak multiple languages. They are graded on knowledge, entertainment, and presentation ability. It is well worth it to get a good one and maximize your experience. Sandy and I were lucky enough to be able to book ours for a private tour, but group tours are available as well.

LONDON DAY TWO: THE TOWER

Published on August 9, 2013August 11, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Sandy and I were tired enough last night to go to sleep in a room that was approximately 80 degrees last night. Not exaggerating. Dave and Amy were expected by 9:30 AM to join us on a trip to The Tower. They were also responsible for deciding what sort of Tube tickets we needed for the week. After purchasing a 6 day Oyster card we made our way to The Tower, where much to our admiration of Rick Steves there was not a line to enter. Apparently being first or last to enter is the primo goal. Amy was in charge of the map, and our first destination was the Tower Jewels. Unfortunately, no cameras were allowed, so I have no photos of the crowns,p acceptors, swords and orbs that had us bouncing up and down on or toes and Dave requesting that Amy not hold up her engagement ring/ wedding and to make a comparison. This was sage advice as some of the stones were 150 carats. What we wanted to know sort was how much some of these items weighed. We finally came across a plaque that told us one of the crowns weighed 5 lbs.

After our first trek down the living sidewalk past the jewels, Amy pulled aside a Beefeater who explained which crowns were used for what to this day and which crowns Charles and Camilla would wear. We were relieved to hear the crown for the Princess of Wales was actually kept in Wales, and that out of respect, Camilla would not wear it. After breathing a sigh of relief, we made the circle and went past the jewels again as Amy recited all her new found information.

We visited the Torture chamber, the Salt Tower and the gift shop, of course. Amy was a game hostess and posed for us in several of the displays.

We hopped onto the tail end of a Beefeater tour and entered the chapel, where seated on the pews, we heard the tragic stories of Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, and Catherine Howard, all of whom were beheaded and buried under the alter of the chapel. Once back outside, I approached the green, where the executions took place, and photographed the memorial. By some miracle, everyone moved out of my way and I snapped a shot, but you’ll notice a pair of pink tennis shoes in the frame. I prefer to think that was a playful symbol of Lady Jane, executed at age 16 and Queen for 9 days.

We skipped the White Tower in lieu of a cheeseburger along the South Bank, but will definitely try to return later this week.

After lunch, we made our way across Tower Bridge and back the The Tube to locate Fortnum & Mason, where we had reservations for tea, thanks to Amy. We shopped a bit and picked up some souvenirs, tried on some fascinators, and then went to tea, realizing we should not have eaten so much at lunch.

Tea lasted about 2.5 hours. The host became our friend the moment the cameras came out to photograph everything. “Is this your first visit here?” Christopher asked. “What gave us away?” The camera laden Amy and Sandy asked.

After tea, we walked through St. James park back to the hotel for a quick refresher and on to the local pub. (Many of which were closed on Saturday night because we are in somewhat of a diplomatic district.)

We finally found The Sanctuary open and piled into a booth to enjoy a pint or two before returning to the hotel it’s a promise to meet in the owning, but it too early. We have plans to find the Borough market and attain cheese sandwiches by noon. A worthy goal, in my mind.

While we were gone, housekeeping noticed the sweltering condition of our room, which led me to believe I was having constant hot flashes. The situation has been corrected and we now sleep in a refrigerator. Sandy says she will not adjust the thermostat, even if she has to buy a cost and hat. Freezing is preferred to our humid sleep of last night.

Thanks to our companions today, it feels as though we are quite at home here. Instead of a frustrating day of finding our way around, it was quite leisurely and the company was just what one would wish. We are quite lucky, I dare say, to have Amy and Dave willing accomplices to our escape.

LONDON DAY ONE: LET THE FOOD AND BEVERAGES BEGIN

Published on August 9, 2013August 9, 2013 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

Sandy and I met at the airport around 7:00 at DFW Terminal D and after passing through security with no fatalities, made our way to the Admiral’s Club. There we enjoyed a couple of drinks – Sandy a Sprite and me two glasses of wine – until we made our way to the plane. We were among the first to board in Business Class. This was deliciously different from our flight to London two years ago, on the way to Wales. That trip involved my knees rubbing against the seat in front of me for nine hours, and trying to sleep with my head on the tray on the back of the reclined seat in front of me. I’m not sure how I un-pretzeled myself after that, but I swore I would never be tortured that way again. I couldn’t move my neck for MONTHS.

Therefore, our investment in Business Class this time. Once you take a long flight somewhere and do it in Business or First Class, you’ll never go back to Coach. Not without tears and gnashing of teeth. We got situated in our adjustable recliners and were instantly handed a glass of champagne. We were also handed the greatest thing ever. Warm mixed nuts. This was an unexpected treat. A treat until the flight attendant scooped the bowl of nuts away from Sandy mid-bite and moved her on to the next course.

Around this time we learned the other flight attendant, (a.k.a. The Good One) was a wine drinker and who returned to us often. (Well, more ME than US.) Then, after we took off, our multi-course dinner was served. This too went well, except the scary flight attendant kept snagging Sandy’s plate while her fork was still moving back and forth between the appetizer and her mouth. The same thing happened with the salad and the main course. The only thing the woman didn’t snatch away was the ice cream sundae, which remained long enough for us to watch the last of it slowly melt. The rest of the flight was wonderful. I think I actually slept maybe 5-6 hours, basically undisturbed, unless you count your left leg falling asleep and getting that pins and needles sensation. But overall, it was heaven in comparison.

Once we exited the plane, Sandy kept referring to our last time in London and how we got to the train, etc. Since I had been nearly comatose the last time we came through Heathrow, I was no help AT ALL.

After waiting 2 hours to check into our room (time that was spent on the terrace eating the Sea Box and Meat Box and having a Kir Royal or two, we showered and changed, then staggered out into the perfect 75 degree weather.

We strolled to Westminster where we immediately entered the souvenier store and then began snapping photos like tourists. Sandy is operating a new camera – the Cannon G15, so there’s a bit of experimentation going on. I was operating my iPhone 4S, which refuses to turn off unless its battery is completely drained. The attached photos are mine, as the internet connection isn’t working yet to download Sandy’s “professional” photos.

This evening we had the requisite fish & chips and are turning in “early.” Tomorrow, friends Amy and Dave meet us and we head to The Tower. After I drown myself in coffee. At some point I’m sure we will be experiencing pub fare. A lot of pub fare. And a tour of London by those who live here.

So far, I have noticed the British seem to be stingier with water than the Mexicans and French are with ice. Dehydrated from the plane, I asked for a big glass of water and received a thimbleful that was never refilled. Is water short in the UK? Do we need to stage a telethon to save the water? Has anyone heard of a large glass around here that holds more than 4 ounces?

That’s all I know for today. Wish me hydration. And that the air conditioning in our room motivates itself to cool us at least as much as the cool setting on my hairdryer. Otherwise, I may break glass in case of emergency and enjoy the 60 degree night air just beyond my reach.

DEPARTURES

Published on August 6, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks7 Comments

Counting down the days until Sandy and I depart Terminal D at DFW for Heathrow.

First, an update from the last post. (For those totally disinterested in my estrogen count, please move on to the next paragraph.) The gel that would keep me from having headaches and hot flashes can take a month to kick in, which should be around the time we board a flight BACK to the US. Send your best wishes and a taser to Sandy, who will have to deal with me abroad.

Now, regarding the trip: Over the past weekend I shopped until it hurt. (Which is about 5 minutes into it for me.) Then I shopped through the pain. I must be going through my second or third childhood because I spent all my time in the Junior’s department trying on jeans and t-shirts. I wasn’t into clothes in high school, so now I want to be either punk or grunge. When I try on “normal” clothes in the Women’s Department I feel as though I am adorning myself in unfulfilled potential and crippling compromise.

So instead of a practical, responsible, mature person’s clothes, I purchased what appears to be Lisbeth Salander’s slightly more upbeat sister’s wardrobe. I even almost purchased her boots.

I was saved when one of my fashion advisors made an astute yet traumatizing Justin Bieber comparison via text in response to this picture I sent pre-purchase. Even if I had been able to brainwash myself out of picturing Justin Bieber as I strolled the streets of London, GOD did not want me to get those boots. How do I know that?

Because as we checked sizes, it turned out every single box of shoes had two different sizes in it, despite the fact they had obviously never been handled before. There was not a matching right and left boot in the correct size. Anywhere.

Maybe Tim Gunn is God.

And yet, I am still inexplicably drawn to those boots. Just like I was to Robert Downey Jr. when he was a drug addled mess.

By Sunday afternoon I was almost packed. Everything was laid out on the bed by category. I was so proud of myself I took a nice long break.

Five hours later, when I needed the bed to sleep in, it all wound up in a giant, unrecognizable lump in the guest bedroom. I guess that’s okay, as soon it will be a giant unrecognizable lump in my suitcase. And then in my hotel room.

Maybe I’ve just discovered the up side of jeans and t-shirts.

LONDON, HERE WE COME!

Published on July 8, 2013July 8, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

It’s the time of year again when our hearts long for far away places. Places where no one expects us to work. Places where the only question someone asks us is, “Straight up or on the rocks?”

My friend Sandy and I are dragging ourselves to the finish line of what will be approximately 8 straight months of work without a vacation in order to experience 10 days of vacation in London. At this point, it can’t come fast enough. In my excitement, I may just kiss the terrazzo floor of terminal D at DFW Airport good bye.

Heck, who am I kidding? I could be headed on a bus tour of drainage ditches and I’d be happily waving goodbye.

Luckily, London is WAY better than what I would settle for.

As we approach the 4 week countdown, I start to wonder what I’m going to wear and how much to pack. Then, I promise myself I won’t overpack again this year. I will be smart. I will be savvy.

I will be standing in the rain wondering why I didn’t bring a raincoat. (Hello? It’s England.)

Anyway, we have devised what equates to a brilliant plan of action. And by WE, I mean Sandy. I am the one who pays scandalously little attention to the planning portion, then shows up and is surprised by what we’re doing, or irritated that it’s on the agenda for 7 AM. It’s called passive aggressive tourism. Luckily, Sandy knows if she just hands me a glass of wine, I’ll recover instantly and tag merrily along. After all, her plans are typically without flaw. Except that ONE TIME IN WALES WHEN SHE DIDN’T LET ME EAT UNTIL 3:00 IN THE AFTERNOON. But I’m over that and I trust her completely. (Note to self: pack peanut butter crackers.)

We (Sandy) have some tours scheduled via guide. Other sites we will venture to on our own. As we tend to do, we also have set aside time to do absolutely nothing but wander about. We are hoping to be able to worm our way around the crowds of August, which are infamous. Knowing our luck, things could go either way. It will either be a case of perfect timing and we will slip in and out of the palaces and museums like a couple of crocs through the Everglades, or we will spend each day elbow to elbow with that most dreaded of living creatures – the tourist. (Nevermind that we’re tourists too. We prefer to consider ourselves favored and charming guests.) That’s why we intend to enter each palace with a royal wave and perhaps a “Ta Dah!”

There are (of course) plans afoot to attend a performance at the Globe. I believe the official “stalking of the actors” occurs immediately afterward at The Swan.

Also on the agenda are visits to Avebury, Glastonbury and Stonehenge, which should do much to slake our mystical and Arthurian thirsts. Hampton Court, The Tower, Kensington, etc. will be must-sees as well. I will NOT be happy unless I see a ghost of either Henry VIII or Katherine Parr. Preferably both. Together. Chasing each other through the halls.

Over the next few weeks I’ll be delving into the tours planned and other attractions in a bit more detail. That way I may actually KNOW what I’m in for, rather than guessing.

Until then, another day, another few inches toward the finish line.

I LOVE A GOOD HISTORY

Published on May 18, 2013May 18, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

I was actually sick enough to stay home from work the other day. It takes a lot to make me do that, because there’s usually nothing worth watching. However, this time, the universe aligned and I found myself drawn into King Tut’s Mystery Tomb Opened on the Discovery Channel. It was the story of Tomb KV-63, which turned out to be the tomb of King Tut’s mother, Queen Kiya.

(She’s obviously seen better days.)

I was fascinated. What? When did this happen? Why didn’t someone alert me! I hit the info button to see what year the show was released.

July 2006. Go figure.

Perhaps I’m a little late to the party, but regardless, the show reminded me of my late-found love of all things historical. If I had known in my teens what I know now, I would be an archeologist, or anthropologist. Alas, instead, I read biographies and watch Discovery Channel, or Gone with the Wind.

Next, I watched Pompeii: Back from the Dead, which examined the discovery of skeletons in the basement of an excavated villa. The skeletal remains were making it possible for scientists to study the diets and diseases of both the elite and poor.

I had somehow missed this important find as well, which apparently occurred in the 80s. Of course, I was kinda busy in the 80s with important stuff like Flashdance and parachute pants.

A few days after my archeological catch up and sick day, a blogger friend in Scotland, Jo Woolf, of Jo’s Journal and a beautiful online magazine titled, The Hazel Tree posted that she had found a website, historicalhoney.com, and had written something for them. The site was started by three talented and intelligent women who wanted to make history more accessible. Or, “History without the cobwebs.” Sweeeet. Why didn’t I think of that?

Luckily for me, they published my first effort on Friday.

I may not be an archeologist or anthropologist, but I AM Honey 027.

Please follow the link to The Real Housewives of Versailles, and explore the rest of historicalhoney.com while you’re there.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Published on May 9, 2013May 9, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Somehow, my whole life has become food related.

“What did you do for Easter?”

We ate at the club.

“What did you do this weekend?”

Ate at that new restaurant.

“What did you do last night?”

Ate blue point oysters and fresh halibut.

“What are you doing for Mother’s Day?”

Eating at a buffet where I can continue to stuff my face with cheese, crab, shrimp and pasta salad until I explode. Oh, and after that, have a big heaping helping of prime rib, thank you.

For someone who exercises maybe five times a year, I need to tap the brakes on this.

Robert isn’t helping. This weekend he became totally obsessed with what we were going to do for dinner Saturday night. He started emailing me about it Friday afternoon. By Saturday afternoon he was in bad shape. The good news is, he KNEW he was obsessing, but somehow couldn’t stop himself.

The same thing happened in France. We had restaurant reservations almost daily for lunch and dinner. Again, I’m not complaining, but this cannot be good. What to eat. Where to eat it. How best to photograph it so you can show people on Facebook. “Look! I’m eating! Isn’t it amazing!”

How about this?

Annoyed yet?

What about now?

Okay, now I’m depressed I have so many food pictures to choose from.

I can tell you for a fact, there are only two people interested in what you are eating. You and your mother.

And your mother doesn’t really care. She’s just being supportive because for once it’s not a picture of you with a drink in your hand.

(There may be a few exceptions.)

Sandy and I are currently planning a trip to London. The good news is, we don’t make a big deal out of lunch and dinner plans. We’re usually too busy trying to view every castle within a 20 mile radius and then get off our feet. We know for certain we will be eating fish and chips. Other than that, I have no gastronomical expectations. (Fill in your own joke about English food here.)

Regardless, I’m sure a few pictures of menu items will appear on my Facebook timeline. Or Twitter. Or both. After a couple of pints I will no doubt decide there are people out there waiting with breathless anticipation to see what I’m eating during my vacation. Apologies in advance.

Bon appetit!

* Picture #3 above is Robert’s invention. The Meat Tower. Sausage and bacon rest upon a bed of hash browns with grilled onion, drizzled in maple syrup. Heart attack on a plate, but oh so good.

HOW I RESCUED THE EASTER BUNNY

Published on April 27, 2013April 27, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Okay, so this is slightly late, so kill me. At least I’m not writing it at Thanksgiving!

For the past three Easters, I spent the Saturday before subjecting myself to what can only be described as one of the circles of hell. I accompany my mother, brother, sister-in-law and my precocious niece to the country club where an Easter egg hunt is held for the children. This is not an occasion for the faint of heart. However, as a PANK (*Profesional Aunt, No Kids), it is my duty and something I look forward to in some twisted way. As you might imagine, the club’s dining room is crawling with children.

Children anticipating candy, while eating candy. A D.J. blasts what I consider completely inappropriate music like, “Thrift Shop”, as 2-4 year olds bounce up and down to the rhythm. Frankly, between the decorations, the cupcake making tables, the screaming, running, and the 6- foot 5-inch easter bunny who bears a striking resemblance to Harvey, I don’t know how anyone comes away sane.

After 3 years I have the survival guide down. Enter room through whatever amazing decor they’ve appointed as the theme – either through a small doorway where you enter the looking-glass with Alice, or down the yellow brick road to join Dorothy and the Wizard. If you haven’t snagged a waiter proffering champagne in less than 30 seconds, you’re toast. The nerve endings behind your eyes start to flare and you’ll have a migraine for the rest of the day.

Champagne in hand, I make my way to the table where my family awaits. My niece waves shyly, then pretends she would rather not know me. Others have tried the same before, but she’s family, so not going to get away with it. It works well, this game of hard-to-get.

In an effort to win her to my side I stumble to the buffet tripping over small, darting, screeching objects, or children, I suppose, to get to the bacon. I return to the table and wave at my niece. Yes, bacon is her bliss. Just like her aunt.

Now, it’s the countdown to the Easter egg hunt as we look at our watches and stare at the Easter bunny while he poses for pictures. I’m on glass two of mimosa. Believe me, it wasn’t making a dent in the din. Of course there are moments when you look around and see all the children in their cute Easter outfits and can’t help but smile. Then you recall that for every sweet little boy or girl, there’s a wide-eyed maniac ready to knock them to the floor and take their candy. After stepping on their fingers. These little events just help prepare them for what’s coming, I suppose. Toughen up, you in the pastel pink sundress with your ponytails! Your mom just basically gave you handles for a hairstyle. Meet Tommy, who’s going to grab you by one of those and swing you right into a tizzy as he steals your painted eggs.

Before the hunt we visit the petting zoo. One day, I am going to get thrown out because I am going to dress down every parent whose child is lifting baby ducks by the head, nearly stomping on terrorized bunnies and playing tug of war over a lamb. I stand beside the fenced area where I gasp and cover my eyes waiting for something to keel over dead. Possibly me. Parents gather outside the fence taking pictures and chatting as they ignore little Brenda holding onto bunnies back legs as he attempts an escape. Those feet were definitely not lucky for him. “Play dead! Play dead!” I shout above the chaos.

Now, once beside the hunting grounds, I tried to prepare my niece for success – without telling her to knock people down. Instead, I pointed out the eggs that were on the ground immediately in front of the rope where we waited for the “go” sign. Which of THOSE THREE EGGS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU are you going to pick up first? I prodded. Those are really nice EGGS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU nudge-nudge. I BET YOU CAN GET TO THOSE IN TWO STEPS. Hello? Sarah is nodding, but her eyes are unfocused. Like when I try to point out a squirrel across the yard to Daisy and she stares at my finger instead.

(There, you can barely see me leaning over and coaching. You’ll know me by the champagne flute dangling in my hand.)

Sure enough, the rope dropped and I watched indignantly as Sarah raced past three, four, eight eggs before she heard us and stopped. PICK UP AN EGG! Her mother shouted. EGGS! RIGHT THERE!!! We all echoed, pointing madly in ever direction. LOOK AROUND! Her mother shouted again. I saw a little boy heading her way picking up eggs like an aardvark inhales ants and had to physically turn away in dispair. The three eggs right in front of us sat untouched. Sigh.

Seeing my lovely but directionally challenged niece had a decent collection in her basket by the end, I sauntered to the table set beside the hunting area where glasses and glasses of champagne called my name.

Back inside, I steadied my breathing and stepped once more into the breach. The giant Easter bunny was attempting to avoid a little boy who was determined to whack him in the head. Over and over again. In between polite, yet ineffective avoidance maneuvers, the bunny was giving hugs to the other children. The boy would put one hand on the bunny’s arm to brace himself, then launch into the air, smacking the giant bunny head, causing it to spin sideways or tip. As I watched in dismay, the bunny was stepping closer and closer to two plates that had been left on the ground by other demons, I mean children, whose parents had obviously no understanding of the concept of parenting and had abandoned their duties. After the fifth or sixth time he punched the bunny’s head – I was unable to control myself. I stepped up behind the child (probably 7-years old) and said, “HEY!”

He turned slowly to look at me, his eyes alight with his bunny bonking success. I squinted my eyes at him, doing my best Clint Eastwood in his prime, and shook my head slowly, “Don’t. Do. It. Again.” His eyes widened and he darted off. Quick as a bunny.

Aside from the momentary fear I was about to be assaulted by a bad parent and have a knock down drag out, I was pretty pleased.

I downed the last of my glass and walked off into the noonday sun.

And THAT’S how I rescued the Easter bunny.

*Reference to PANK does in no way indicate I don’t consider Derek and Austin my kids. I just didn’t get to do this sort of “little kid” thing with them.

HEAVEN IS A DINNER PARTY

Published on April 7, 2013April 7, 2013 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

I attended First Baptist Academy during my elementary school years, where we had a daily Bible study class and weekly chapel. It might be me misremembering, or perhaps the teachers were trying to explain things in a way young children could understand, but to this day I recall their description of heaven as being an eternal feast. We would all be seated at a large table with God. Everything we wanted would be set before us as we dined. Sort of like the feast days at Hogwarts.

During this feast, we would be able to ask God all those questions that have troubled us, and He would answer our queries. Now, the thought of sitting at a dinner table for ETERNITY was not a big turn on for me at the time. I had trouble sitting at a table during family gatherings for the 2 hour period it normally took, much less sitting there forever.

Sure, I wanted to go to heaven like everyone else, but this seemed like punishment to my 6-10 year old brain.

The one part I liked, and still do, was the opportunity to ask questions and have God explain everything. Then again, I can only imagine that it may be like what bothered me so much about school. There were always those kids who just couldn’t keep up, and whose concerns and questions made me envision stabbing them in the neck with my pencil. I had no patience for them then, and despite this event being held in HEAVEN, I still can’t imagine my patience improving THAT much. I imagine God would frown on my stabbing my table mate with a fork (just to get their attention, of course, not to permanently maim).

Frankly, I’ll leap across the table to take down the first person who raises their hand and says, “God, would you please explain to us the origin and existence of Bigfoot? Why couldn’t we find him? What was his purpose?” That is, unless God smiles and says, “Bigfoot? Seriously?” and then shoots a lightning bolt across the table. Then again, the threat of asking God a stupid question and getting zapped would probably make everyone think twice about raising their hands next.

I have different questions. I’m not in a lather about whether the Loch Ness monster exists, or where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. I want stories. Sitting around listening to some good stories could be tolerated for YEARS.

I want to hear about things like the 5,000 year old skeleton couple caught in an eternal embrace in Italy. What’s THEIR story? A Neolithic Romeo and Juliet.

Tell me about the l’Inconnue de la Seine, the young woman who drowned in the Seine around the turn on the last century. A young medical assistant in the morgue became so enamored of her face that he made a casting of it. The copies of the cast became all the rage, and the mysterious story behind the young woman’s death inspired a slew of authors.

The lost colony of Roanoke would be an interesting topic, no doubt, unless the truth is as simple as the colonists being captured by a tribe of Croatan Indians.

What about the Lost City of Helike? Is it Atlantis?

The Carnac Stones? I doubt that even if there was a Merlin, he turned 3,000 soldiers to stone, but wouldn’t it be cool if he did?

Maybe God could explain how women are able to read those Shades of Grey books. I can’t make my way through it for laughing at the dialogue. (Although I realize they’re not being read for the witty repartee.)

Perhaps I’d be interested in hearing if Oswald acted alone or not, too. Just in case.

Bu since we are at an eternal dinner party, I’d definitely like to ask God about the whole shellfish issue. Was I really NOT supposed to eat lobster or crab? Really? Does that seem fair? Why did He give us butter and lemons if those shell encased creatures of deliciousness were off limits? Just seems cruel, really.