So much for the long, graceful neck

You know how people are always saying that swans are lovely because they have such long, graceful necks? Well, I'm sure that's true, although it wasn't true of this particular swan we met while strolling the banks of the Avon River in Stratford.

On first blush, what could be more romantic than a swan on the banks of the Avon River in Stratford, Ontario? Well, first of all, it wasn't necessarily a romantic occasion because my husband and I were with Meelyn and Aisling, who trailed along behind us, honking like grumpy geese: "I'm cold!" and "I'm tired!" and "When's dinner?" and "Haven't you taken enough pictures YET?" washing over us in a querulous tide. When my husband and I saw the swan, which was very tame, we stopped to watch it for a moment.

Although I found this swan's leathery black feet -- huge feet -- very off-putting, it was still a very beautiful bird. It observed us impassively for a couple of moments, and when it had apparently determined that we didn't have a little bag of corn concealed about us, it proceeded to give us the cold shoulder in more ways than one. The swan was intent on grooming her (his?) feathers, especially the feathers on its own rear end. Because one of the benefits of having that long, graceful neck? As it turns out, you can use it to angle your beak back and bite your tail feathers A LOT. In a disrespectful sort of way.

Here I managed to get a picture of him just as he was going back for one more dig. All the others I took feature that long neck at an awkward angle, as the swan nips pleasurably at his own butt. Ah, Nature....is it any wonder I'm not all that fond of you?

The Catholic churches of Stratford

Immaculate Conception Parish, Stratford

St. Joseph Parish, Stratfor

On Friday, September 10, Meelyn, Aisling, my husband and I spent several hours of free time just driving around Stratford and looking at different places of interest. Two places we were automatically drawn to were the Catholic churches in Stratford, the enormous St. Joseph parish and the smaller Immaculate Conception. Both churches were lovely in their different ways.

St. Joseph was mind-boggling to those of us who attend humble little plain parish churches where the actual church isn't even built yet and Mass is celebrated in the building that will someday be the youth center. St. Joseph was a striking combination of pumpkin and apricot, baby blue and deep navy, which might sound completely hideous, but it wasn't. It was gorgeous. I love the way the sunlight was coming in blindingly bright in my photograph, right over the crucifix and the tabernacle. I took that picture from not even halfway up the aisle in the nave, so this is a big, big church. We tried to keep our exclamations of admiration very soft and quiet, as there were people coming in and out to pray. We prayed as well, so as not to give the impression that we were just gawking tourists who had come in to gape at their architecture, completely unmindful of the presence of the Son.

Immaculate Conception also had its share of pray-ers in the pews, so we were very quiet there, too. But honestly, both churches were just too beautiful not to take a few pictures. Immaculate Conception is very sweet and pretty and reminded me of my home church, St. Anne in New Castle, the one that was burned down and has since been rebuilt. It smelled faintly of beeswax and incense, as churches should, and an elderly man praying in a pew looked up from his devotions and smiled at us indulgently as we all breathed an "Ohhhhhh..." of delight and then genuflected before taking out our cameras.

In a couple of years, my husband and I hope to make our Stratford tour a three-night trip, a Thursday-through-Sunday excursion that would require Mass attendance in Stratford on Sunday morning before we all left to drive home. We picked up bulletins and other literature in each church, noting the staggered Mass times for those who prefer the Saturday vigil Mass and those who like to rise early on Sunday morning, or for those who prefer to sleep a little later. It looks as if attending Mass at either of these parishes will be a treat for the eyes as well as the soul.

The best dress-up box EVER

When Meelyn and Aisling were little, they had a huge trunk full of dress-up clothes in their playroom full of fairy wings and junky jewelry and hats and frocks and high-heeled shoes that my mom and I collected from different re-sale shops. Because you know all those bridesmaid's dresses you furtively bundled into the trunk of the car and took to Goodwill, hoping that no one would see you and realize that you'd actually WORN those awful things? It turns out that little girls think those are the most awesome dresses, ever. Here's Aisling posing in a wreath of flowers that looks kind of Midsummer Night's Dream-y to me.

Maureen, Rachel, Beck and Kathleen posing in costumes from various plays and eras. I wish you could have heard all the giggling and screams of delight and cries of "Take my picture! Take my picture!" as the girls all delved through the racks of clothing.

Gina, whose personality is less like a goofy court jester's than just about anyone I know, dressed like one. So very cute!

My husband in a puffy Renaissance style hat.

Meelyn in a queenly garment combined with a hat that looked like a bizarre combination of Audrey Hepburn and Goodwife Prudence Bradford.

More from the Costume and Prop Warehouse tour

It was with great disappointment that our group learned that the Costume and Prop Warehouse doesn't rent out costumes for Halloween, because what could be more perfect than dressing up as Titania, Queen of the Fairies, or Bottom wearing a donkey's head? Or how's about King Henry VIII? No? Me neither. Although I've been given to understand that our figures are remarkably similar. And -- heaven be thanked -- I don't have a beard.

But there were some other very interesting things to be seen 'way back in the dim recesses of the warehouse. Such as this immense and towering mast, which looked like it could have served on the Nina, the Pinta or the Santa Maria.

Tasty hors d'oeuvres, anyone? If you're hungry, you might want to skip these, seeing as how they're made of dense foam carved into the shape of deviled eggs and celery sticks.

My husband was delighted to see these mugs of beer sitting temptingly on a table. They looked so incredibly real, but being made of plastic, they were extremely lightweight. You'd think that maybe they were those joke mugs you can find in souvenir stores and the like, but they were actually crafted on site by the craft artisans employed by the Stratford Festival.

Sometimes the props are a little gory. There was one of a life-sized decaying corpse that startled us all as we came around a corner, and then there was this severed head, which looked very realistic. I can't remember what play this was used for, but a mask was taken of the actor's face so that the artists couldrecreate him in foamand latex looking very, very dead.
The hair was even real. Eeek!

We're learning how to write our names in elvish runes

The Costume and Prop Warehouse tour in Stratford was one of the best field trips I've ever been on. You can tell from this exterior view of the building how truly heeeyooge it is: I couldn't even get the whole thing in my camera shot while standing way out in the parking lot. We learned all kinds of amazing things while there, but I think one of the parts of the tour everyone enjoyed most was the fifteen minutes at the end when we were taken to the back of the warehouse, where several racks of costumes and a big rack of hats awaited us.

My family automatically gravitated toward a sparkly gold elf hat and it seemed very important for us all to have our pictures taken while wearing it. To be honest, my husband didn't actually GRAVITATE - Meelyn, Aisling and I had to alternately cajole, threaten and wheedle my husband into putting it on his head, but persistence finally won out.

Aisling looks like she should be in Santa's workshop at the North Pole, making toys.

Meelyn wears the elf hat with a jaunty air, perhaps thinking that she needs to get back to her job baking cookies in the Keebler hollow tree.

"OH, LEGOLASSSSSS!!!"

Do not even think of messing with Mr. Meanie McElfhat. He will take your candy cane and crush it into a fine powder.

Bentley's looooove

Bentley's is a Stratford institution, a place that came highly recommended by a new friend named Aaron, who is a Stratford local. We owe Aaron a huge debt of gratitude because Bentley's was a lot like Mary Poppins - practically perfect in every way. From the fun pubby atmosphere to our darling waitress to the delicious food, Bentley's was a definite high point on our Stratford trip and it's a place we'll want to return to again and again.

See? Could this place be any cuter? The bar area was raised up from the main floor and decorated with cheerful advertising signs and everything was dim and cozy. It was a place that looked like it would be a comforting stop on a snowy evening after work, but it wasn't bad in the hot September weather, either.

Al, Michelle and Gloria beaming brightly while waiting for their dinners, which were delicious. So maybe they were beaming even more brightly after they ate, but I was too busy with my own plate to take their picture then.

Gary and Katie, a handsome couple, are the parents of one of my longtime students, Beck, and are our dearly loved friends.

Bentley's is famous around Stratford for two menu selections - their fish and chips and their Mennonite Apple Pie. My husband and I had the fish and chips and agreed that we've never had better and wondered if Canada is too far to drive to during Lent. As for the Mennonite Apple Pie, the words that can describe this delightful dessert are ones like: mmmm and fabulous and utterly and completely delicious. The person who would use words like "calories" and "fattening" and "high carb" to describe this masterpiece of pastry should be soundly beaten around the head and neck with a rolling pin.

Wherein I am betrayed by nature, now with more Shakespeare.

People who know me know two things about me, definitely. The first is that I hate nature. Oh, don't get me wrong. I love the brook that babbles, the eagle that soars, the fields of grain that ripple like a horse's skin when a fly lands on it. I am ALL ABOUT the purple mountains' majesty and all that crap. It's just that I only want to see all of it through a window.

The second thing people learn about me rather quickly is that I have the attention span of a gnat. Which would explain why, when going into the bathroom for a wee, I'm sometimes distracted by my own reflection in the mirror and how it looks like the blush on one side of my face is darker than the blush on the other side and then I wind up with wet socks.

That would explain why my husband, while we were waiting to go through the international border last Thursday, was gazing around at the cars around us and then sucked in his breath and let it out again in an enormous whoop of laughter.

"It's YOU," he wheezed as the girls and all all chorused "What? What? Whatso funny?"

"It's perfect! It's like it was made for you, but on someone else's car." He pointed to an SUV in another line, about two cars ahead. On the tailgate of the vehicle was a large bumper sticker that read:

I don't have a short attention span, I just....Oh, look! A squirrel!

The girls started chortling, "Oh, Mommy! That's TOO perfect! You have to get one, because, you know, you're SUCH a DOPE."

"Humph," I said, glowering at the three of them. "I do manage to get dinner on the table every night, don't I?"

My husband looked in the rear-view mirror to meet the girls' eyes. They all traded a silent glance and seemed inclined to start laughing again. "Well, sort of," said my husband. "Unless it's Friday night."

"Or Saturday," said Meelyn.

"Or Sunday," Aisling chimed in.

"If any of you ever want to eat anything without having to suck it through a soda straw ever again, we'll just cut this conversation short right now," I threatened.

********************

So that brings us to Friday night. My group was at the Festival theater, upstairs on the balcony, waiting for the performance of As You Like It to begin. It was an absolutely gorgeous evening with the sunset and the flower gardens and the trees; all the adults were sitting around at one table (except for Katie, who was taking a thousand pictures) and all the students were sitting at another.

I'd just finished telling my sad story to everyone about how my family thinks I'm stupid and the "Oh, look! There's a squirrel!" bumper sticker and all, drowning my sorrow in a bottle of really tasty pilsner from the Stratford Brewing Company. Katie came back to the table to show us a message that had just come up on her camera.

"Look at this," she said, turning the camera so we could read what it said. "'Warning! Camera battery is exhausted.' Like it's the only one that gets tired. Has it been the one walking around all day and getting up at the crack of dawn to go on the Costume and Prop Warehouse tour?"

We all laughed and then started going "Ooooh!! Look!" because the troubadours who come out to the balcony with their drum and trumpets to play the fanfare that announces the beginning of a performance were walking by. Katie was cursing her camera's exhausted battery and went closer to them so that she could maybe coax a couple more pictures out of it; I gave my camera to Meelyn so that she could go get a few pix for us.

The troubadors finished tootling their welcome to the crowd and Gary, Katie's husband, said, "Well, I'd better get Katie."

"And I'd better go get my coat," said our friend Gloria, whose jacket was draped over a chair at the kids' table.

"And I have to finish my beer," I said and tipped the bottle up to get the last swig.

Gary waited until I was in full gulp before he said excitedly, full of mischief as usual, "Look! There's a squirrel!" He pointed to the other end of the balcony.

I tore the beer bottle away from my lips and squealed, "Ooohh! Where is it?" I'd noticed that Stratford has quite a few black squirrels -- we have them here, too -- and they're just so cute, all silky and dark like little chimney sweeps with their bushy tails. I looked where Gary was pointing and I didn't see any squirrels at all, so I looked back at Gary, who was exchanging a good, hearty laugh AT MY EXPENSE with my husband, the man who vowed before God to cherish me and buy my theater tickets until death separates us, which looked like it was going to be coming sooner rather than later because it's a pretty steep drop over the railing of that balcony down onto the cement sidewalk below.

"Gary, I LOOKED," I said indignantly.

"I know," he said smugly, giving my husband a fist-bump. "And it was really funny, too."

You think that Katie, Gloria and Dwan, as my friends and fellow women, would have been on my side, but they were laughing their heads off, too. If they go again in 2012, I'm going to put nothing but gummy worms and Tootsie Rolls in their treat bags. And if they want some cold, refreshing bottled water? TOO BAD!

The Water Nazi

In preparing for the Stratford trip, I had to think of a lot of things, some of which were a pleasure to think about and some which nearly gave me permanent hives, such as when I went to pick up the theater tickets at the travel agency one bare week before we were to leave and she casually mentioned that she'd never received a confirmation for our motel reservations.

"By the way," she said, "we've never received a confirmation about the motel reservations."

My group was due to stay at this place for two nights. The hotels and motels in Stratford have been booked for months in advance - we'd made our arrangements with the proprietor of this establishment last February -- and since the festival season was still in full swing, it was going to be unlikely that we'd be able to find another place at the last minute that could accommodate the number of rooms we needed. Not to mention the fact that I'd already written the travel agent a check for a couple thousand dollars to make sure everyone with me had a place to brush their teeth and rest their weary heads.

I stared at her across her desk, resisting the urge to staple a Kleenex to her forehead. "Well, do you think you could maybe CALL HIM UP while I'm here?" I asked in a level voice.

The travel agent and her assistant traded a glance. "You call him," said the agent. "I can't understand him. He's some kind of foreigner."

"I believe Mr. Patel is from India," I replied.

"Well, whatever. Wherever. I can't understand him."

The agent's assistant heaved a heavy sigh and put on her headset. She looked up the number in my file, dialed, and began speaking very loudly to the person on the other end of the line whom I assumed was Mr. Patel, whose first name is, unaccountably, Bob. It is true that he is very difficult to understand, even when you're standing right in front of him. He speaks beautiful English; it's just that he has a very heavy accent. I did sympathize with the assistant, but there is email and there are fax machines. It seemed that this oversight could have been handled quite efficiently using either of those means.

After about twenty-five minutes of shouting, it became clear that my group still owed a balance of around $126.00, which did not please me at all.

And then I found out that when I made the arrangements for the two dinners that were to be served at the two different restaurants? The travel agent hadn't made an allowance for the tax and the gratuity for either meal.

And THEN I realized when I was already back at my house with the theater tickets that the travel agent had failed to secure the A+ and A rated theater seats I'd requested. Considering that we ordered these tickets in early December 2009, it didn't seem like it was an unreasonable thing to ask for. That was when I called my mother and told her I was going to go burn down the travel agency: she could either come with me and help carry the gas cans or go to the bank and withdraw enough money to bail me out of jail.

She sighed. "I completely sympathize, but it's so hot outside and we're going to have to wear ski masks to make a sporting attempt to disguise ourselves. And your dad says he'll be glad to come with us if you can wait until Matlock is over."

"What time does it come on?" I asked, disgruntled.

"Oh, it'll be over by 9:00. But are you sure you don't want to reconsider? This seems like an awfully strong response to her inefficiency. How about a strongly worded letter when you're back from Canada and have had a chance to cool down?"

It took a lot of doing, but she finally calmed me, mostly by speaking admiringly of the treat bags I'd lovingly made for each family. Those treat bags were dear to my heart and I'd done everything but snuggle up to them in bed at nights, along with the two cases of water I'd been chilling in the laundry room fridge for the past week.

The treat bags -- the lovely, lovely treat bags -- were adorable black totes with red handles, decorated with a white filigree design on the sides. Very baroque. They went so nicely with the red travel folders I'd designed to hold everyone's itinerary (printed on adorable white paper with a black filigree border), theater tickets and a list of FYI addenda. The treat bags held what I thought was an amazing assortment of goodies: microwave popcorn, chocolates, granola bars, chips, cheese crackers, hard candies, plus a separate bag of comfort items like a hand soap with a pump (I hate washing my hands with those teeny bars of hotel soap), some hand sanitizer, wet wipes and some air freshener to get rid of that motel-y smell - although if I'd known then about the motel what I know now, I would have included a travel-sized package of Napalm.)

Along with the goody bags, I had those two cases of water to load up into our coolers. I wanted to be able to give each family water bottles to store in their room fridges because it's a pain in the toe trying to get a cold drink out of those little weeny cups supplied by hotels. I was very happy about that water and I even brought plastic bags to put the drippy little bottles in as we handed them out to our guests.

Unfortunately, there was a breakdown in communication between me and my husband about those water bottles: My opinion was that he was a HOST and his opinion was that he was both a HOST and a GUEST. An epic battle took place in a McDonald's parking lot in Clearwater, Michigan when he opened one of the coolers and tried to remove an icy cold bottle of water to slake his burning thirst.

"Wait, there. Whoa, whoa, whoaaaa....What are you doing with that water bottle?" I asked him. I had opened the rear hatch and was standing there cooing over the goody bags and he'd joined me at the back of the van and opened the cooler while the girls were still in the restroom.

He gave me a strange look. "I'm getting a bottle of water," he said, holding it up for me to see.

"You can't have one of those bottles of water," I said indignantly. "Those are for the TRIP."

He looked around him and then leaned close, as if to whisper in my ear. "Uhmmm...I think we may be ON THE TRIP, right at this moment. Because we're, like, two hundred miles from home."

"But we're not at our destination," I argued. "These water bottles are meant for everyone's motel fridge in STRATFORD. This, my friend, is CLEARWATER."

"Well, if I'm thirsty now in CLEARWATER, I'm really going to be parched by the time we get to STRATFORD. And you know what would help me with that? A nice, cool, refreshing BOTTLE OF WATER."

"Get one through the drive-thru then," I said, attempting to snatch the bottle out of his hand. He held it above my head where I couldn't reach it. "Gimme that! I mean it! That water isn't for you, at least not 'til we get to Stratford!"

"Are you seriously telling me - seriously - that you want me to go through this drive-thru and BUY A WATER BOTTLE WHEN WE HAVE FORTY-EIGHT FRIGGING WATER BOTTLES IN OUR CAR?"

I stopped trying to grab the bottle and put my hands on my hips, glaring at him defiantly. "Yes, that is EXACTLY what I mean."

"UN-be-frikking-LIEVABLE!!!"

"Oh, quit being such a brat and go through the drive-thru, already. I want a Diet Coke."

"I bet you do. And you know what? I bet if there were forty-eight Diet Cokes, perfectly chilled, in the back of this van, you'd be helping yourself right now."

"Not true," I said with dignity. "I want a Diet Coke with ice in it."

We piled back into the van where the girls were waiting for us. "Are you two seriously out there bickering about water bottles?" said Meelyn mildly.

"He started it," I said defensively.

"Did not."

"Yes, you did! You tried to steal one of my water bottles!"

"Oh, so now they're YOUR water bottles. I thought they belonged to our guests!"

"Ohhh, you know what I mean."

He looked at me as he pulled into the drive-thru lane. "No, I do not know what you mean. It makes no sense to me at all. But I'll tell you one thing I do know - you are a WATER NAZI. 'No water for you!'"

From that moment on, he told the Water Nazi story to just about everyone we met: the people on the trip with us, the teller at the bank who changed our American dollars for Canadian dollars, the ushers at the theater. By the time we headed home, I was glancing fearfully over my shoulder to make sure there wasn't an angry mob coming up behind me with the intent of dragging me to the Avon river and holding my head under until I promised to buy everyone in Stratford a chilled water bottle of their very own.

I made it home safely, but my husband couldn't resist pointing out that we still had water bottles left over. I don't believe he'll be letting me forget it any time soon.

There and back again

Oh, you just have to enjoy a good toll road - three dollars will open up the door to Canada, or at least it will open the door that leads to the door where the very intimidating border crossing agent, armed and wearing Kevlar, will step out of her booth and ask in a very severe voice: "Do you have anything to declare? Tobacco or alcohol? Firearms or other weapons?"

"Why?" my husband asked anxiously. "Will we need them?"

The border crossing guard permitted herself a very small smile, the kind that didn't push her cheeks up. "I sincerely hope not," she replied. "Could I have your passports, please? And please remove your sunglasses."

I whipped off my sunglasses and my husband pushed his to the top of his head. "She doesn't know that I'm much more handsome without them," he said to me in a low voice out of the corner of his mouth.

I was digging into my binder for the passports, which I had pulled out and touched every hour upon the hour for the past five hours, just to make sure they were still there. "She's terribly, terribly polite, which is somehow scarier than rudeness," I said with a slight quiver in my voice. "It makes you think she'd say, 'I'm so sorry I have to do this' just before she pulled her gun and nailed you right between the eyes."

The border guard carefully scrutinized our passports and then demanded that we open up the doors on the van so that she could look inside. Meelyn and Aisling, comfortably ensconced in their seats amid oceans of pillows, blankets and crinkly Jolly Rancher wrappers, looked abashed as the agent peered in at them.

"Hi," said Meelyn sheepishly. Aisling just stared with round eyes.

"Hello," the guard said smartly. "Having a good time, girls?"

"Yes," answered Meelyn in a small voice that indicated that her father and I were kidnappers who were preparing to sell her into white slavery in Toronto.

The guard closed the van door and went back to her booth. "Where are you going?"

My husband and I did this strange thing we've developed through nearly twenty years of marriage: We answered in unison, using nearly the same words. It only happens when we're nervous and probably makes us look as furtive and guilty as homemade sin, like we've rehearsed our story well in advance and got it down pat.

"The Stratford Shakespeare Festival," we chimed.

"How long are you staying?" she demanded.

"Until Saturday," we replied, looking at each other out of the corners of our eyes. Furtively. Guiltily.

"Have a good time," she barked at us. The two of us nodded like bobble-head dolls. Oh, we would have a good time, because the border guard gave the impression that if we should be so foolish as to have a bad time? She would personally hunt us down and beat the snot out of us.

We drove on across the gorgeous bridge, Lake Huron a perfect, ineffable blue under the sunny September sky. It was a wonderful trip. We stayed in the most hideous motel I've ever set foot in, went on two fabulous field trips, ate at some delightful restaurants, learned what peameal is, and saw two plays, one of which I loved and had to be pried out of my theater seat so that the theater could close for the evening and the other which I hated. Although don't get me wrong: Half the fun of watching Shakespeare, whether on DVD or onstage, is comparing it to other performances and stacking them up against one another, so it's all good.

We're back home, safe and sound, and feeling a teensy bit blue.

Next summer, the four of us hope to do a scouting trip to Stratford with the aim of finding, above all things, a different place for everyone to stay in 2012, because I firmly expect the place where we stayed this time will have crumbled to the ground under the weight of its own dirt and mold. Embarrassing, that was.

Oh, and we're hoping to see Twelfth Night and The Merry Wives of Windsor, too. No sense in coming on an expedition and not seeing a couple of shows. They're just too good to miss, even the bad ones.

And we're off!!!

Or we will be in about forty-five minutes, anyway. The girls were both sound asleep by about 11:00 p.m., but my husband and I puttered around, packing our suitcase, my husband marveling at the enormous amount of cosmetics, unguents, lotions and hoo-doo it takes for me to maintain the appearance of a modest forty-something mom instead of, say, a gargoyle.

"We should have rented a U-Haul trailer," he told me earnestly.

I was tempted to go all Taming of the Shrew on him, but we saw that two years ago.

We were all up by 5:15, looking like shiny, happy people as my friend Karen says. Right now we're waiting for the rest of our caravan party to get here -- they're not due for about twenty more minutes. The van is crammed full of our luggage (are we really only going to be gone for three days?) and goodies for my tour people. Those are a big secret, though, and I hope they'll all be delighted when they see them.

So, my dears, until Sunday, when I'll be back with lots of pictures to post and plays to talk about, parting is such sweet sorrow.

Counting down the hours with a hey and a ho and a hey nonny-no

It's been months. So many months that it hardly seemed worth counting because that just made the wait seem longer rather than shorter.

But here we are now, leaving so soon, so very soon, that I'm wondering how to get everything done I need to do; time is flying so, with wings the size of an eagle's and the speed of a hummingbird's.

Stratford waits for us -- The Tempest! As You Like It! -- and I only wish I could feel more convinced that our passports won't decide to climb out of the car when we stop for lunch and hitchhike back home. I'm always convinced that passports are plotting some wicked scheme that will involve me standing helplessly at an international border while an armed guard with a big rifle and one raised eyebrow listens to me explain why I thought it would be a good idea to lead a travel group to Canada.

Worries about my passport remind me of going to Italy with Ma when I was fifteen. We went in November, so the weather was soft and cool. I took several sweaters with cowl necks so that I could keep warm, but also so that no one could see my secret shame, which were these strange passport-carrying devices Ma had found in the Harriet Carter catalog or somesuch place.

The secret shame was an opaque plastic packet, just big enough to hold a passport and some folding money. It attached to one's bra straps with snaps. This left the pocket dangling in one's cleavage, although I didn't really have any cleavage to speak of at age fifteen, which left the pocket banging around on my chest instead of resting cozily on my bosom. It was as much of a torment as Laura Ingalls's long underwear, and every time I wanted to get my money out, Ma had to turn around and throw her London Fog trench coat over me like a magician's cape so that I could gracelessly fumble under my sweater to find my lire. Oh, it was a lot of fun, but not quite as much fun as being hit in the kidneys with an umbrella by a nun on a city bus who must have thought I looked like I was hiding something. Which, of course, I was.

Ma was totally vindicated, however, when someone tried to pick my pocket when we were standing in St. Peter's Square right before we went to the Sistine Chapel. He came up with nothing but a Bonnie Bell Tootsie Roll Lip Smacker and was so disgusted, he threw the lip balm on the ground at my feet and swore at me in Italiano. Heh.

What the people in my tour group don't know is that I've made passport pockets for ALL of them, even the dads and the boys, who need to immediately go out and buy bras so that they'll have something to snap their artfully concealed pockets to. Which should create many memories, don't you think? Won't they all just be delighted with their little gifts?

All a-buzz with tickety happiness

Got an email from the travel agent today. She has ordered the theater tickets and reserved our places on the Costumes and Props Warehouse tour - I'm hoping to see Bottom's donkey head there. Wouldn't that be fun? There was no problem with the theater tickets or the Props and Costumes event, but unfortunately, the Festival Theater Backstage Tour was completely sold out, yes, SOLD OUT almost ten months in advance.

I am so relieved that we have places on the Costumes and Props tour, I have no emotion left over to be disappointed about the other one.

And the tickets! Our theater tickets! As You Like It and The Tempest, both shows in the evening with excellent seats. Invoice coming in next month with a 30% deposit to be paid. January is such a hideous month, it will be nice to have that to look forward to, knowing that we're that much closer to our eventual arrival in Stratford in terms of time and money.

Excitement next September

I went to the travel agent's office on Friday to give her the group's first big deposit on our tickets - she'll be faxing in the order early next week. I sat in front of her desk and we talked of whens and hows and passports and playbills and it was all terribly exciting. It served to remind me just how quickly the next ten months will pass, too: I remember sitting in the exact same seat two years ago and thinking, This is kind of a long time to wait. But no, no it isn't. And all the waiting makes the trip only that much more exciting anyway. News to me, that was, since I am not big on delayed gratification.

When I got home, I sent out an email to each member of the group, telling them what was going on and oh-yes-by-the-way-I-need-more-money-from-you. I absolutely hate having to ask people for money around Christmas time, but unless we want those two really special field trips to get booked up on us again, I have no choice. I sent a copy of the email to Pat, who has agreed to be my financial advisor, and he responded by sending me back a custom-made spreadsheet to help me keep all incoming monies cleanly organized. Because, money? Money I cannot organize. I do not understand it. Silverware drawers? Those I can organize. Sorting students into age-appropriate groups at the Indianapolis Museum of Art? Piece of cake. Making sure everyone gets to Hilbert Circle Theater for a symphony performance or to the Indiana Repertory Theater for a play -- contract signed, money paid, directions sent out, group met in lobby -- and I am your girl.

But keeping track of several thousand dollars in other people's money for a nearly one year period? No can do. Or, to put it more vividly, scared out of my freaking mind to do. I did it last time, although I'm not sure how, but I felt confused ninety percent of the time. It was awful. So when it came to things I wanted to do differently this time, my number one thing was Do Not Go To Another Student Performance, Like, Ever, Because the Students Will Behave Like Baboons and You Will Want to Kill Them, but running a close second was Have Someone Else Handle the Money.

Excitement abounds, 'struth!

Stratford Shakespeare Festival Tour 2010 planning underway

Hard to believe that our home school group made its trip to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival a whole year ago. What's even harder for me to believe is that I have seven families signed up to go this year, up from five in 2008. So here's a great big raspberry to the economy -- ppplllbbbtttt!!!! You will not keep us from seeing our plays on our lovely trip!

This time we're going to see As You Like It and The Tempest, both at the Festival Theater pictured there at the left, so beautiful. And both of those plays? We're seeing them at evening performances: I am NEVER going to arrange a group outing to another student performance again. As I wrote in that article I linked to above, we drive too far and spend too much and wait too long to go to a performance where three-quarters of the audience acts like they were just released from the chimpanzee habitat at the zoo. Seriously.

We're also staying for two nights this time. In 2008, we found that a one-night flying trip to Stratford was do-able by the adults, but the kids couldn't handle it. By the time we got back to Indianapolis, they were sick of each other. The combination of the excitement of traveling, the lack of sleep, the many new experiences, the lack of wholesome food and -- above all -- the fifteen hours they spent all up in each other's business in the van contributed to a slightly hostile environment on the way home.

Which brings me to another point: This time, we're eating fast food lunches and we're eating dinner in real restaurants with real food off real plates. I think we were all slightly bilious by the time we got home, maybe because of the deliciousness of the doughnuts at Tim Horton's or maybe because of the six pounds of M&M's Virginia generously brought for the grownups to munch on the way home (we did not share with the kids because we were concerned about their health - that is our story and we've stuck to it for thirteen months now with no sign of relenting.) Or maybe it's because none of us had a true, hot meal in forty-eight hours? Could be.

Janet (our travel agent) and I spent an hour together last Friday and we are working to find a couple of restaurants in Stratford that would be willing to offer our group two choices of entrée that could be included in the package price the families will be paying. That was one of the wish-listed things the adults agreed upon last year - two dinners included in their totals would be so nice, what with not having to worry about the money and just being able to go in, sit down, eat and relax. Our Tim Horton's "dinner" last year was not very relaxing. I think that some of the kids who went to that student performance of Hamlet were actually employed there, if you know what I mean. If I could do icons on this blog, I'd be adding a frowny-faced one right about here --->

I'm hoping to stay in the same motel we stayed in last year, which was plain, comfortable and clean. It also offered a very nice complimentary breakfast of fruit, muffins, cereals, juice, coffee and milk. Impressive for such a small place! And again, it was great not having to whip out our wallets, but just drift, bleary-eyed, over to the little eating area when we felt like it.

All in all, last year's trip was lovely, but it was definitely the beta version. In 2010, I think the little tweaks Janet and I make will add up to making the trip even more pleasant for the group. I am practically hugging myself with excitement and reminding myself that the time will go so much faster than I ever think it will.