As promised, here is the much ballyhooed accounting of our little excursion to the Big Apple. You know it’s bad when, in all honesty, I have to report that the Rubber Chicken had a better time than I did. I spent at least 24 hours puking my guts out. Now before you get all excited and think it had something to do with St. Patrick’s Day, think again. Jeez Louise, remember the nine children? Remember I’m 52 years old? Remember we were there for a high school journalism convention for crying out loud.
No, apparently it either had something to do with some virus I picked up or that Linguine Vongole I ate. Either way I didn’t feel better until after I puked all night long, crawled into a cab and then threw up again in front of the nice little doctor’s office by Central Park, got a shot, drank some Gatorade and slept another 12 hours.
In the meantime, everyone else got to go to the Wall Street Journal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Central Park. Oh, and let’s not forget the three course dinner at the 21 Club and the orchestra section seats for the Mary Poppins Broadway show. Or let’s not forget the shopping or running willy-nilly through Times Square.
No siree, missy. I got to do none of that. Nope. Instead, I got to do things like see the Naked Cowboy on Times Square. Yeah, now that was some kind of fun.
So you can see how the Chicken enjoyed his little visit more than I did. Not only did he get to do all those fun-filled things. Hails bails, he even got to have his picture made with the pilot on our return flight home. Not that I’m complaining, but all I ever get on my airplane rides is a smile or two and an occasional packet of pseudo Chex mix. Yeah, that’s how I roll.
I didn’t even get to attend the Columbia Scholastic Press Association’s awards ceremony to watch the kids collect their first ever national award—a Silver Crown. Nor did I get to teach my session on blogging where I intended to not only impart what little wisdom I possess, but I also intended to do a little bit of shameless blog self-promotion. I even made my own cute little business cards. Yep about 100 of them.
And yep, I still have 100 of them.
Probably the biggest disappointment, though, was that I didn’t get to spend much time with my little DIs (darling inspirations), so I don’t have much fun-filled fodder to report. I mean there were the regular things like getting on the wrong subway, someone falling down while trying to slide into the elevator, someone else accidentally opening the door to the airplane bathroom while someone was in there. You know, the regular stuff that occurs when traveling with teens. Still, I do have a few things to report.
From Our NYC Trip
Incident #1…At the Museum of Modern Art…
Staffer… “Where’s the Mona Lisa”
Me… “In Paris”
Staffer… “Oh…I thought van Gogh did it.
Me… “Let’s institute the 10 second rule.”
Me… “Don’t say anything else without counting to 10 first, OK?”
Incident #2…Also about the Museum of Modern Art…
My newspaper editor…“Did you see the lint on the floor? How is that art? I could get my dog to chew something up and hack it back up on my carpet and call that art.”
Incident #3… Walking around the streets of New York…
One of the sports editors every time he came across a ventilation grate would stomp and yell, “Wake up Ninja Turtles!”
Incident #4… Waiting to board the plane…
Me…Why aren’t you boarding?
Staffer…“Oh, are they boarding?”
Me… “Yes. That’s why everyone is getting on. Jeez.”
Staffer…“I guess we’re on the short plane.”
I guess if Obama can make politically incorrect statements about special education so can the DIs.”
Incident #5… After my daughter chaperoned the DIs…
My daughter (who is the final stages of completing her student teaching in elementary education–she just loves teaching those little ones–and who thankfully stepped in to watch my big kiddos while I hovered near death in my fancy schmancy Times Square hotel room) returned from an outing with the children and said, “Mom, I don’t know how you do it. I could never teach high school.”
Hmmm, interesting. I’m not quite sure how I do it either.