This morning, as I sit here convincing myself that scrambled eggs have less cholesterol than fried ones, I can't tell you how unbelievably great it is to have the kids in the neighborhood. I just can't tell you. I will try to tell you, naturally, but I'm reasonably certain that I just can't do it. It's amazing. Stupendous. It's as if a magic CO2 siphon descended from the sky and re-bubbled my seltzer. I'm sort of frothing all over the place.
Last night I walked the kids over to my apartment for a Daddy Supreme, watched a little baseball, and when Mama came by to pick them up she stayed for a bit and watched "Grease." TwoBert shook his booty to "Summer Lovin'," and Mama and I took turns explaining to a quizzical Robert why Danny is such a dick at the bonfire.
Earlier this week, I spent two days cleaning out the old apartment, burying 17 years of my life, and I can't say I was terribly ready for the experience. Weird flashbacks to 1992, when the former super, a puffy-eyed Croat with a strangely cylindrical head, showed me the place.
Also earlier this week, I went to see the New York Philharmonic in Central Park and was seated next to my friend's au pair, who will be here all summer before she returns to Germany in September. We were managing a conversation through crummy English and crummier German when I mentioned that I was in Berlin when the wall came down. And she said something like, "When the wall is falling is when I am being born!"
Whereupon I made the point that I have shirts older than she is. Und ve laffed und laffed.*
She might have thought I was joking. Sadly, today's outfit proves otherwise:
* Note: This is not real German. It is fake German, imagined by me as it might be spoken by Sgt. Schultz.
The boys and I are headed out for a 10-day New Englapalooza. See you in August.