MDW

Memorial Day Weekend.  

Four years ago, exactly on Memorial Day, appropriately enough, I was here, on the coast of Normandy, at the American cemetery and war memorial at Omaha Beach, a small niche of US-owned soil where more than 9,000 WWII soldiers are buried. 

It was one of the most touchingly patriotic moments for me, to walk that ground on that specific day, and I felt so proud of the privilege, as well as my heritage, even while standing 4,228 miles from home on pseudo-American soil.  I meandered through the cemetery, only realizing just as our group was departing that we could actually go down to the beach itself, rather than just gazing wistfully on it from up above.  

So, even though everyone else was waiting on us in the coach, my friends and I ran down the flights and flights of stairs to at least be on the beach for a second, to get a whiff of the English channel, and to really connect with the history of this iconic coastline in a way that no screening of "Saving Private Ryan" could have ever imbued. 

We also stopped in St. Lo, a nearby little commune that had been stormed on D-Day as well.  The site has been left relatively untouched since 1944, complete with cement bunkers overlooking the ocean and a crater-pocked terrain that is partly the remains of trenches and partly grown-over explosion sites.  Here, the exploded bunkers remain in a haunting disarray of concrete and mangled rusty barbed wire fences. 

(And then, after all the solemn sight-seeing, we went to a fixed-menu dinner where everyone was served the same questionable cut of pork, which was indecipherably either a heart or a foot.  I think I just ate the fries.)

But anyhow.  Every year, I think back on the hallowedness of this particular experience and say my prayers of gratitude to be who I am, where I am, when I am.  

This year, our memoriam was arguably a little less stoic and significant, mostly because it revolved a little more around pedicures and swimming and laser tag and face masks and pizza and pizookies.  But at least I had some of my best ladies for the loveliest four days.  

 

 NT and I found a place to live together, forever and ever, to have and to hold, as eternal companions and Zumba buddies, and she vows to make me ham and cheese casserole and artichoke dip, while I solemnly swear to give her back massages and make all the cake. 

We took a little dippy dip in the Aunt and Uncle's pool and then we all laid out in the sun, pretending to tan and just getting dry instead.  

(PS.  Do you like Emily's rock collection???)

The Triumvirate of Sassy

Because what's more patriotic than over-priced shaved ice?  Or strawberry lemon cupcakes?  
I mean, so what if I pledge allegiance to Bahama Bucks, maybe.  

Oh, and look how we all inadvertently posed exactly the same.  Cuuuuute.

Being the hilariously bad bowler I am,  I NEED PEOPLE TO UNDERSTAND HOW SIGNIFICANT THIS IS. 91 points? Only 9 points away from my Bucket List goal of bowling a solid 100?  The best part of this is that there have been times before where I've only knocked down 1 single pin in an entire game of bowling.  So, obviously this is a drastic improvement and no indication, whatsoever, of my skill level, seeing as it was all possibly attributable to a favorable breeze whipping through the alley?

Ah, yes, and so here we are, for what is a 3-day weekend without facing your fear of heights? 

So the moral of this story is this:
Come visit me in PHX.  Even if it's hot outside, I'll still show you a good time.
And then we'll go to trendy restaurants for dinner where all the waiters are ridiculously good-looking.  
Pinky promise.