I keep listening to the same album on my iTunes library, hoping desperately that I won’t get a headache. I get headaches if I stay on the computer too long or listen to music too long or can only get one contact lens in and walk around all day with vision in my left eye and blindness in my right.

Cousin Jesse, Mom, Dad, and I went to the National Gallery. I put up a fuss because I was wearing heels and it hurt after all that walking. I put up a fuss because I’m eighteen and putting up a fuss is something I’m proficient in. I put up a fuss because I felt like it, so get off my cloud, okay?

Mom and my brother, Rick, saw the Rolling Stones yesterday. I had dinner at an Indian restaurant with Dad and Cousin Ellen. The food was very good. The wait was long. Dad talked a lot and, although he proclaims to be an adamant opponent of all things lamb, he managed to scarf down five pieces and clear the plates clean. Not too bad. Ever heard of leftovers?

Here are some D.C. highlights:

First was walking. Second was walking. Third was sitting—in a taxi cab. This day seemed to follow a chain of similar events. I think the climax was either eating cafeteria chicken tenders with breaded French fries in the Capitol building or awaiting the Senate, which we saw live. To be fair, we witnessed some old Senator giving a eulogy of some obviously dead guy. Not much happened. Snails didn’t move. We read through the Senate guidelines and pamphlets for twenty minutes, groaned and whispered our ways through the eulogy, and managed to enter the House of Representatives. They were on break until 5 P.M. So we walked to the place we originally were at, got our phones, our belts, and our souls back in place, just in time to drop off Dad at a hotel. Just in time to catch another taxi. Just in time to devour a cheese dish at an Indian restaurant with a Klipspringer nailing the piano keys, all clad in a tux. Just in time to spot some really famous but unknown actor in our quarters of the restaurant. Just in time to eat crème brulee and tepuscule, I’m not sure what that other word was…tamusiri? Tamisura? I guess I’ll just type until the spell check disappears…tiramisu.

Speaking of tiramisu, Miriam just stepped in to offer us some cake. To be clear, Miriam is my grandparents’ friend and neighbor who lives down the hall. My grandparents are the people we are staying with. We are staying in Wayne, New Jersey. And no, I’m not providing the address.

Regardless, nothing new today, except for what I ate. But that’s too long a story and a blog’s only supposed to be a certain number of words. My eyesight is getting so bad that I have to squint to look at the computer to see what I’m typing.

Mom had lunch with Barbara Something, not sure the last name. We call her Babs.

Babs likes to talk and Babs likes to urinate…in other people’s bathrooms. Twice! First she entered the condominium for a piss. Took a break to eat Japanese food with Mom. She then returned for a second piss. But I guess that’s excusable. After all, she stayed at the condo for two hours and fifteen minutes. (I counted.)

Babs is an interesting person. I didn’t remember much of her. It was maybe five years since I last saw her at a museum in New York. I don’t remember much about how she looked, her age, or anything important. Just that I visited the mummies with her niece who apparently was going through a tough time but managed to be really nice to some obnoxious high-pitched squeaky-voiced nine-year-old like me. And the cafeteria food. I guess you can say I have a way with recalling museum cafeterias.

Babs planted herself down on the couch in the living room. We talked about college admissions. She offered us some matzoh-base chocolate brittle, which was absolutely delicious. Then she chatted some more and some more. Apparently her husband Lee had something wrong with his ankle or leg or knee, which required Babs to massage him all the way from crotch to toe. Oh the things we remember.

5 thoughts on “Babs

  1. Babs the urinator here. You’ll never remember this, but years from now when you are my age (and your mother’s too), you will spend a lot of time looking for bathrooms. One of the treats of getting older that no one ever tells you about. Now what about the flute playing? No mention? Thar went on for an eternity though I did not obsessively keep time of that because I was socializing with the people to whose home I was invited.

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