Don't Drink and iMac

Just when I thought a PictureMail of the "meaty bitch" was going to be the most offensive illustration of the loaf & Lohr evening, I present you with a lesson in "where you at, fool." Please don't try this nonsense at home without a magnum of red wine. (yeah, we're almost 40)

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v

Traveling Aquarian Birthday Tour, Day 3

(All photos have been pre-screened by Nic for "big face")

On Saturday, we ventured up Route 3 with newly-minted South Shore residents, the Flaleys, to sign on to Code Red's Traveling Aquarian burthday tour. The meandering celebration had entered its third straight day and ended with bags of frozen peas and ibuprofen and the ponderance of hip replacement surgery. We tore into a late lunch at Firefly and then ran down the street and around the corner through squalling snow with no boots on to the Oak Room to meet up with Nic, Paul, Sinead and Fergus for some civilized cocktails. Here we toasted EPB's 40th, discussed names for the Flaley fetus (it's a boy!) -- LaDainian for now -- and took turns touching Paul's velvet blazer, which did not turn out to be velvet at all. Happy Birthday, Annie!

Some shots:

("Nice winter coat, T-Bag"

-- BG on T's skyward fro)






Sinead & Nic: 1 Big Face: 0





Make us some crepes!






Resplendent in velvet.

"40"

(Buon Compleanno!)

I started calling Ernie Bean "Ernesto Beanini" after Roberto Beanini's character in the movie "Life is Beautiful." He wasn't as much of a spaz as Roberto's character but his love of life and fervent belief in the beauty of it was just as palpable.

Many years have passed since the days we'd go to the movies at Kendall in groups of 10 and then shoot pool at Flat Top Johnny's. But things are even better now than then: Ernie turns 40 this Saturday. Right now, he's living in Australia (alas, no dancing at Paradise Cafe this year), but the key word is living, living, living. And living well and healthy. Sometimes we forget just how significant this is. I can’t tell his story as well as he can. That said, raise a toast to Ernesto Beanini this week, but most important, visit Bean Down Under, read his story, and blow up his comment box with birthday wishes.

MF One Pin

Our bowling outing to Lucky Strike on Lansdowne: Retro hoopla + Overstimulation = Simply awesome. We planned the big ball bowling precisely because "there will be more strikes," yet were consistently foiled, time and time again, by the MF one pin. Knocking down nine, with one standing, wobbling slightly, but ultimately refusing to go down. Was it simply Candlepins vets off their game or a conspiracy of pins? Lucky Strike, my butt. All I know is those big balls are heavy; I let one fly on the backswing and almost injured some friends. (Sorry) Anyway, enjoy a crappy slideshow of the good times (and mounting frustration) of what will undoubtedly become a traditional outing.

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PATS Live from the Bagatorium

(ladies)

On Saturday, I cooked up a vat of turkey chili as James had invited some friends over to watch the Pats game. And then, just like last week, Stevie B called at the 11th hour with an extra ticket to the game. So, James, high on his own Lebanese luck, took off at 11 a.m. in a Gortex ski mask and snow pants looking like Hannibal Lecter in black Marvy Matchables.

That said, I was planning on watching the game on mute while continuing my trip through the 3rd season of Lost on my laptop. Probably eat some chili. But then, I received word from the Bagatorium in Cohasset that there were christening leftovers, friends, and a forum for my chili vat.

(gentlemen)

So, after a four year old birthday party at Scalliwags, I took the sugared-up brown ones over to watch the game, indulge in the smorgasboard of finger sandwiches, and play with wee infants rolling to and fro on baby blankets. There was constant wine glass surveillance as 16-month-old Jack --Paulie 2.0 -- cut a chubby swath of destruction through the living room every 10 minutes. While we celebrated the Pats, we toasted the news of a transcluent fro-headed baby due this summer. We look upon Divine Dell’Olio who basked in sunlight by the bay window. And noticed that Code Red, a closet football fanatic, has honed her peripheral vision to almost Bionic proportions. One minute she was engaged in our conversation about the short-lived show "It's Your Move," the next screaming “NO! Someone get that fucker” at the TV.

So, the Pat’s won. “That’s great.” Again, like the Red Sox, the exhilaration is missing. Bags let loose a small fist pump. There were some golf claps. And I think we have enough chili leftover for the Superbowl.

Girls Gone Wild

The last time we went out with this crowd, we woke up in NYC with arrhythmias, Jen pulling us aside and peeking from beneath mammoth sunglasses: "I think I might have to go to the hospital." It was a crazy weekend, chock full of poor judgment: Shady backroom deals with Canal Street criminals for crappy purses and an overindulgence in Red Bull that began at the SoHo Grand midafternoon on Saturday and ended in convulsions on a sidestreet off Time Square the next morning. Our dinner at Aquitaine last night was the polar opposite. We completely chilled out, catching up over some lemon sole and pinot gris, swapping baby photos and work stories. But somehow the wildness of that Manhattan night hovered over us like a bouquet of balloons. The table next to us kept asking us if we were on a bachelorette party. God, no! We were baffled as to how our quiet gathering could have possibly given them that impression. This perception was only made more ridiculous when the valet brought Siobhan's car around after dinner -- a Volvo wagon with Winnie the Pooh sunshades. Girls Gone Wild!

The rest of us headed next door to the Beehive where there was already a line. But again, we must've been giving off that loose party girl vibe in our cotton dresses and flat shoes because the doorman pulled the four of us out of line, brought us right inside and sat us at our own table downstairs. It was like the bar in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

We had a carafe, listened to the jazz band and people watched for a bit. I headed out around 11:30 to find the line winding around the Cyclorama. Two Irish men in line called out -- a quote of the night to a girl gone wild: "Is that it, now? It's not time for home! It's time for dancing! Is that it!?" That's it. I walked to my car wondering when the hell Boston got so friendly.

Easy like Sunday: Zero Creepies, Plenty of Crappy Crudite

In the hopes of making Sunday nights easy like Sunday morning, we've established "Snackplate Sundays" here on the Shore this summer. These gatherings kick off in the late afternoon and wend their way into evening where daylight -- for now -- lingers past 8 p.m. During this time, all are welcome to loiter around a never-ending supply of crudite and some bottomless goblets of vino, and band together for a dual purpose: 1) to prolong the weekend and 2) to ward off the Sunday Night Creepies (for those unfamiliar with the term, the Creepies are the sinking feelings caused by miserable ruminations about and mindless preparations for the beginning of the work week.) So, while Irish Seisiun musicians meet at the pubs on Sunday night to exorcise their demons through music, we gather in the kitchen to seek solace in the snackplate (or as WMD's Irish relatives would say "To attack Monday. Attack."). Maybe it's just an excuse to cocktail. Either way, solace is often achieved on such Sundays and yesterday, in particular, was like butter.

For one, a large crew of pals just happened to be available yesterday -- a rare occurrence for a late-August Sunday afternoon. Friends arrived bearing steak tips, pasta salads, appetizers, Andy Capp's Hot Fries, cupcakes, and brownies in what became the perfect showcase for the new babies, a forum for streaking toddlers and indulgence in all things marinaded and pickled.

So, James sparked up the grill -- a platter of Meditterean chicken, tips, and hot dogs sweating beside him -- only to find our propane tank was spent. What to do? This is the burbs, damnit: Like a cup of sugar, we borrowed a tank of propane -- the Dell'Olio's tank was a mere 1.8 miles away after all – the distance was noted more than once, of course, betraying our notorious obsession with proximity. As the grilling of meat ensued, Brownguy played lifeguard to the kids and tried to inspire a whirlpool out back, his red swim trunks calling forth the heroism of the Ross Montolio era. The burds snacked and quacked around the kitchen island, passing around the wee babies. SAC had an obstacle course going in the side yard for the kids, all of whom were hopelessly hopped up on Hoodsies. We also took in a DVD of some of James' Thanksgiving Day football games from the 80s that inspired a hilarity that only a much better writer could describe.

In the wake of this grand time, there were too many great pix to be shared (even after the digicam was hijacked by the children), so enjoy this crappy low res slideshow, sprinkled with cute baby photos and Body Bombs.

Police @ Fenway

The Police at Fenway. While we've been looking forward to it for months, expectations were tepid. But it turned out to be an amazing show, an event, an all around good time. Few shows are memorable these days so this was a welcome surprise. Standout tunes: Truth Hits Everybody, Bed's Too Big Without You, King of Pain, Synchronicity II -- pure adrenaline. On the way home, the post show rehash: "Wasn't crazy about the versions of 'Walking in your Footsteps' and 'So Lonely.' 'Next to You' wasn't as energetic as I'd hoped." Then we realized: We just saw The Police, at Fenway, in the summer, on a Sunday night, in the 10th row. We're in dire need of shutting up and soaking in the fantastic reality of the evening.

Before the show, we met at P and Maria's for a cookout and were supposed to meet up with KT at the Foundation Lounge but deep into the pre-show dilly dally, we totally ran out of time. Boo. We pulled into Pete's secret squirrel alley parking spot and then ended up at Tequila Rain (again), the perpetual last resort.

I took some videos of the show, figuring that'd be better than still photos. Wrong. Taking video while dancing/wobbling on way-high shoes is a bad idea. I'm afraid if I post the vids, someone will have a seziure ala Japanese-Pokemon.

PRE-SHOW DILLY DALLY:


( I love my pants)

My bellies. Seratonin skyrocketing.













Southie, al fresco

Jimmy and I look like we're on a bus.

Oh, hello, Peter.










Miss a turn on Route 1?

Sporting a blousy white linen shirt, goatee, and wee bit of a mullet, Norty channels guy-from-Saugus-chic...and completely pulls it off.







Buh.

Empty Dunkin Dugout










Humid.





THE AFTERMATH: Went back to P & Maria's for a foolish indulgence in pork products after midnight. Late night sausages. Another bad idea.

An email from James Monday morning via Billy Dee: "From the Inside Track: 'Spotted: Police guitarist Andy Summers dining at Davio’s and chatting up fellow patron and vintage rocker Peter Wolf.' I'm surprised they were able to keep him off the stage." The man who ruins everything.

Nantucket: Where We Left Off

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(Behold, another crappy low-res slide show)

I'm back from four full days on Nantucket. I missed the family but a change of pace was in order and as always, the island delivered. I was flung back into the fray yesterday because there is simply no way to ease back in. At this hour, I am still detoxing from pitchers of white trash sangria and late night kitchen dancing.

This vacation never disappoints even when it threatens to: 1) FTG forecasted a wash out but every day was perfect -- they were the kinds of days where when the sun got too hot, an ocean breeze would kick up and allow that extra hour of chilling at the beach. 2) Before boarding the Grey Lady, I was stopped by two security guards who pointed to the giant bottle of Cavit jutting out of my canvas tote. Apparently, transporting alcohol on the ferry is illegal. Who knew? We’ve been doing it for years, not wanting to pay premium at Island Spirits. One of the guards reached into my bag, presumingly to confiscate the contraband. Instead, he wrapped it up in my sweatshirt, camouflaged it with my book and magazine and sent me on my way. (Thanks, man.) The overall sense of well being lasted until I learned that they no longer serve hot dogs on the fast ferry. (What?!)

Upon docking, we indulged in our annual tradition of de-ferrying, hitting the Tiki for some frozen cocktails, food shopping buzzed and then cabbing to the house where we found all the good vibes lingering from years past. This is a rare occurrence with so many people and personalities in one house but we’ve found the right mix. We sadly missed our pregnant pals but celebrated the addition of Meghan, Nic, and Dillard (who’s requested her PU name to be “Dillighta.” not “Dillbag”).

We picked up where we left off last year: There was kitchen dancing to the annual Nantucket mix to which everyone on the trip – and those there in spirit – lent a song. As always, there were competing iPods lined up at the Bose, their on-the-go playlists jockeying for position. (BTW, I never ever want to hear “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy again. Ever. Especially since we now know what “Downloading some Country Music” is code for.)

Each morning, I fired up the iPod and took my walk to the rotary for iced coffee.
Every afternoon, we walked to the beach to stare at the ocean and read, idle chit chat rising from our cluster of beach chairs. The snack plates at cocktail hour weren’t quite as robust as years past having no Dell’Olios on board, but we over-enjoyed Brownguy’s batches of white trash sangria and played rousing games of LCR at the kitchen table. Nic was thrilled to nurture her gambling problem on island, taking all of our money – as usual – then gloating mercilessly.

We made Post-It notes for Cameo’s HR folder: Infractions: drinking, gambling, listening to country music, and cutting up her bathing suit.

We shared moments with off-island pals via text and picture mail, which resulted in an uncomfortable moment for Nic when she unwittingly walked in on Brownguy and T-Bag taking an “odd” photo to send to Smitty.

We hadn’t been to the Chicken Box in a few years because we thought we were getting too old for that scene. "Nonsense," we said. While getting ready, I received a call from home – “the babies want to say good night.” But it was a sneak attack, a ruse: They started crying and begging me to please come home immediately. In addition to their grief, Vito was apparently on a hunger strike (he didn’t lose any weight, btw). After I hung up, I started to descend into a guilty meltdown but was abruptly pulled from the quicksand. I was told to “shake it off” and was handed a madras in a pint glass.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the Box, the band sucked. And when the band is bad, the Box is worse. We distracted ourselves for a few hours, becoming embroiled in a barn burner of a pool tournament. Then, one of the infamous Duke lacrosse players sauntered by with some junior mints and we realized that perhaps we really were too old to be there. Seconds later, a sunburned senior citizen with his Nantucket Reds pulled up to his armpits walked in and all bets were off. We decided to head back to the house anyway -- which was an excellent call. I have some hilarious footage of what transpired but unfortunately cannot post it here.

The next day, we hung out at the house a lot where the occasional game of horse shoes broke out in between Coronas. That night, we had dinner at Cioppino’s where they seated all 10 of us in a private room upstairs. We half expected them to put some orange cones out around us too. Our unnecessary nightcap involved T-Bag squeezing into my denim jacket just to horrify some patrons at the Boarding House. Then, back to the house for hot dogs and hot tubbing and body bomb tributes to all the new babies getting ready to crown on the mainland.

Luckily, we were able to squeeze in a final lament at the Tiki before bidding the island farewell -- until next year when we'll pick up where we left off all over again. Good times, all.

Snippets!

Back-to-Back Brushes with Death
Friday, I was almost killed – twice -- in under 38 minutes. At 2 p.m., I was leaving a meeting at the Hancock tower and heading toward the Back Bay garage. For reasons unknown, I made like I was in London; I looked the wrong way on Clarendon Street and almost got plowed down by a Town Taxi when I stepped off the curb. We’re talking inches from death. The driver swerved and screamed something in Haitian. I almost had a heartattack. Strangers – normally indifferent -- were aghast; people were running up to me. Oh my God! Are you OK? Yes. Thank you. That was close. Whew. Wow. Damn!

I sat in my car for a few minutes, dealing. I took some deep breaths and tried to stop my heart from racing. Recovered, I was heading toward 93 over by the Boston Herald. I had a green light at the Harrison Ave intersection when out of nowhere, an ambulance came flying at me from the right. I didn’t even hear the sirens until it was right on top of me. (probably because I was blaring Blur -- Wooo Hoo! -- and blasting the AC.) Considering my sub par driving skills, I still don't know how it didn't hit me. In that instant, I was possessed by Lightning McQueen. I slammed on the brakes and turned the car 180 degrees as the ambulance wizzed by. The fact that there were no other cars on that road on a Friday afternoon is amazing unto itself. I pulled into the Herald lot to do some yoga stretches and more dealing before getting on the highway. Friday the 13th ended up being my lucky day.

Renegade Parade
I was still rattled by my back-to-back brushes with death but I sucked it up and took the traveling circus to the Common to watch the Renegades' game. These softball outings have been gigantic failures over the past few years, full of whining, sherpa loads of gear, and vein-popping hypervigilance. I've left some games crying and even abandoned a stroller on a quick getwaway during Caroline's historic "Gotta take a turn" meltdown of 2005. Then: Life takes a turn. Suddenly, things are much more chill. There were no heavier than thou diaper bags, just a couple of wet naps and a cooler packed with Cavit ponies and juiceboxes. I even whipped up a mobile snack plate for the bleachers. And instead of running on the field or expecting a turn at bat, the kids put on a Wizard of Oz sideshow, played freeze tag and served beverages to the adults. Some scenes:











(video: Oh, this was weird. The game was interuppted short-term by some bizarre parade of undead winding its way thru the Common. WTF was this?)


Apryl wasn't drinking Sangria...


...at Nate's 1st birthday party on Marina Bay yesterday. Why? Nate has a new baby brother or sister on the way. Yup - Apryl is expecting again which means we can expect to see the mama boobs in full effect again soon. It also means Pete is going to have four kids. Pete. Four kids. Say it.


Birthday
boy.








Scott Baio is 45 and Single

They're totally ripping off High Fidelity with the "revisiting of the exes" premise but if they weren't, we wouldn't get to watch crazy-eyed Erin Moran tell Baio that he has a small penis. Wow. In this delicious car wreck of an episode, Baio opened up about his past relationships, including an anecdote about losing his virginity to Moran on a corduroy couch where “mistook” the couch for "her." It's an image I didn't need. Still, I was pleasantly surprised that Baio's ego doesn't preclude him from ripping on himself a little. During the show, he's trying a little too hard to create some chemistry between himself and the life coach that is guiding him on this path of self exploration. No Tony/Melfi thing happening here. He acts annoyed by all the self analysis, repeatedly rolling his eyes at the life coach as if he's not getting paid. Also, I don't know if it's dirt or fine hair but he's working some pubescent-looking 'stache. It's kind of pervy looking. Yet I'm strangely drawn to him.

The Last Supper...

...for awhile at least. On Saturday, we headed out for a farewell nosh with EPB who is leaving us on Wednesday for Brisbane, Brizzie, Brizvegas. (I’m memorizing the Australian slang dictionary on Koalanet. I got through letter B so far.)

Waiting for Toro to call, we hung out at EPB’s apartment around the corner. A former bagel shop, his place is the perfect blend of cool and cozy and being there really highlights your shitty taste in home accents. B-Mac was resplendent in chartreuse, a tribute in tincture, perhaps, to EPB's bitchin kitchen of the same hue. When our table was finally ready, we bogged into a smorgasbord of mini burgs, chick peas with chorizo, sea-salted veggies and a Flintstonian rib-eye that fed all four of us. My bottomless glass of Albarino saw me through when these three figjams began swapping anecdotes of their athletic glory days. After dinner, we headed to Stella for the standard unnecessary nightcap and then back to EPB’s for yet one more.

Last week, I was reminiscing about EPB's random inebriated phone calls from our less tethered days. In these calls, usually from someone's roofdeck or a bar, EPB either beckoned us to join him or to share something hilarious that had just happened. Those moments are few and far between now that we're clucking around our suburban hinterland in concrete flip flops. But yesterday, the phone rang at 4:30 p.m and I heard the familiar voice of a spirited, togged up EPB on the other end. His friends had taken him out for a boozy brunch and they were holed up at Fritz."Hey, I'm at the Chandler Inn." It made my day. Had it not been for the bonzer of a playdate I had going (body bombs into the pool!), I just might've fired up the station wagon.

We can't pop down for a weekend or a spontaneous swing-by but keep those calls coming -- and emails, of course. Luckily, EPB has started up his own blog. Bean Down Under which he will update regularly (or I will hound him relentlessly). Safe travels, EPB! You will be missed more than you know.

(What's wrong with this picture? James + curb = looks like Shaq)

(B-Mac attack)



(Shriek!)

Dayna's No Jinx

I know this post is a week late but I had to exorcise Storyland from my being first.

Before any mentions of the jinx, let the record show that Dayna attended the 6/29 Sox game and they won. So she is not the reason our annual outing on 6/30 ended in yet another crushing loss. I'm beginning to wonder if our presence at the game together conjures some karmic kibosh that causes the inevitable, continuous tanking. While we initially blamed Bill's fuzzy fu manchu for sucking the mojo out of Fenway, it was Dayna who took it on the chin for the loss, receiving a barrage of 7th inning Blackberry messages imploring her to please vacate the park immediately.

Emotions were running high to begin with. I spent the better part of the evening verklempt. It began when EPB completely blindsided me pregame at Canestaro announcing that he's leaving for Australia next week. Another time, I became unglued when the Fenway crowd gave Jacoby Ellsbury, in his first MLB game, a standing ovation for his first hit. What followed were some well-deserved taunts and blackmail photos snapped of me trying to hide the fact that I cried a little.

Aside from the loss, the annual outing was fine enough to warrant a reprise this August. Hopefully, we'll be tricked out at Fenway in all the fashionable FBI garb that Dayna can muster. Good times.

Fear and Learning at Storyland

(Mind the gap)

We returned from our first trip up to North Conway with the kids and I'm still recovering. Pre-kids, we spent a lot of time up there in the White Mountains -- leisure time -- it's a beautiful place to visit in all seasons. [But make no mistake, for all its quaint galleries, shops and cafes, it’s still New Hampshire: Motorcyclists with mullets where helmets should be. Gunracks. At the local general store, you can buy a steak-and-cheese and some cherry bombs from the nice lady with the lower back tattoo. Sites in the woods off Route 16: A tipped-over school bus. Tumble down shacks with “private property” signs, its occupants likely holed up inside with rifles, challenging the government to just try to smoke them out. Live Free or Die.]

Anyway, we headed north to take the kids to Storyland with the Kielys who were vacationing there with their kids for the week. Years ago, when we spent a weekend up there with the Kielys – pre-children – we eyed the Storyland signs with a sense of forboding. “One day we’re going to have to go there with our kids. Shit.” Indeed, Storyland is one of the inevitabilities of parenthood in the New England area; it's an outing that is faced with deep resignation and a smidgen of dread. It is a fantastic wonderland for kids. For kids. If you’re over the age of six, you need to suck it up and go to your happy place lest you go completely mad.

Alas, this storied land is a three hour ride from Boston, and despite all our cheap distractions and iPod strategies, toddler insurrection set in: “Where are we going.” “When are we going to get there.” “I want to get out.” “Mama, I want you to hold me.” “Will you take off my shoes.” “I have to pee again.” Oh my God. Is it too early to start drinking? A DVD player with headphones was our savior. (Thank you, Lynnie.)

When we finally checked into our hotel and headed off to the park, Caroline and Paulie acted like we were dragging them to the oral surgeon: "I don't want to go." "I want to go home."

“C’mon, guys, it’s Storyland. Look alive!”

Thankfully, once they spotted Conor and Katherine out front, the gloom and doom lifted and they ran amok with delight. They tackled the treehouse playground, took a train ride, went on a pirate ship, visited Cinderella's Castle. They suspiciously eyed a very brunette Cinderella. "Cinderella has blonde hair," they said to the tune of "Who is this bogus imposter?"

(Woo hoo, Boulos)

Then, of course there were the rides. The teacups, the tilt-a-whirl, the flying fish. Every ride spins. And since the kiddos were still too little to go on the rides themselves, we had to accompany them. We grew more glassy-eyed and woozy with each attraction. It was like the Paragon Carousel x 50.

What's happened to us? I used to love rollercoasters and spinning rides. My favorite ride at Canobie Lake was the Turkish Twist, a ride that spun around so fiercely your body would literally cling to the wall from the centrifugal force. Now I can barely handle Ring around the Rosie.

After a few hours, the incesssant ice-cream-man music was starting to make us twitch so we packed it in. Since Nic and Paul had been up there since last Thursday, they were able to scope out places and restaurants that were the least taxing (i.e, have play areas for kids so the parents can chill)

Nic discovered an outdoor ice cream place with Adirondack chairs and a gigantic playground and when we arrived, the place was incredulously deserted. We parked it on said Adirondack chairs while the kids played. We sipped pinot grigio from some to-go cups and marveled at our good fortune at finding the only spot in town that wasn't crowded. We learned later it was because the entire region was in lock-down in the wake of a triple homicide in Conway a few hours earlier. We had no idea. More rainbow sprinkles? Another glass of pinot? Gunman on the loose. A community in fear.

The shooting had taken place at an Army Barracks store just a few miles from the North Conway Grand where we were staying. We'd passed it on the way into town and I remembered it because it had a "help wanted" sign out front. I remember thinking -- after battling the whiny uprising in the car for 3+ hours -- I could crack the passenger door, drop and roll onto Route 16 and flee into the woods. Then, I could get a part-time job and hide out until the kids calmed down in a few years.


All told, there was a great deal of living and learning on this adventure.

-We learned that Caroline has not inherited James’ ultra-competitive nature. Upon being told she'd won some skee-ball horseracing game, she screamed "No I didn’t!" and had a complete meltdown. She felt badly that the other kids lost.

-We learned family vacations are selfless endeavors requiring a tremendous amount of fortitude and patience. The sooner you realize this, the better off you'll be. I realized this on the ride home, but will be better equipped -- mentally, at least -- next time.

-We also learned that you need a condo, not a hotel room. While the NC Grand was a beautiful, family-friendly place, we were rattling around in the room like dice every night. The kids passed out at 8 p.m. and I usually fall asleep around 1 a.m. We couldn't read because the lights would've woken up the babies. We couldn't pop down to the Mountainside Tavern for a few cocktails. In another gross error of judgment, we rented the movie "Premonition." I thought I’d read somewhere that it was like “What Lies Beneath.” It wasn't. It was hilariously bad. We definitely should’ve rented “I Laid the Nanny II: 2007” as James suggested. I can admit when I’m wrong.

While we ended up finding some enjoyment in the adventure, we'll return better prepared next year, a bit wiser with a greater supply patience. One thing for sure: The kids had the times of their lives -- which was the whole point.

Some shots: