True Love

My mom called me today 4 times within the span of an hour, each time frantically informing me that her face was falling off. Then we went to an apartment. There was a dog. Julie thought it was nice, but Mary Kate thought it was stupid. Kat has glasses. Mary Kate was pretty much correct. The apartment was nice and I am telling Mum to totally BUY THAT SHIT. So she will. And that's where I'll live. I think I will go pluck my eyebrows now. LATERZ.

That was an interlude written by Mary Kate.

Observe: she is an ENGLISH major, yet still managed to write "LATERZ."

LOOZER.

Back to the scheduled program.

All in all, Mary Kate just gave away the surprise.

Yes, my mom did surprise me. She and 2 of her college roommates are driving all over America letting their hair down and frequenting seedy roadside bars blasting the hits of the 70s at 4 AM each night.

So without further ado, let's get to the pictures. Yes, some of them HAVE been fiddled with, but only because they were too dark, and now they look funny. Much like the pictures my sister sticks up onto facebook after they've been mangled with on photoshop to look "artsy" and probably to hide all the zits she has on her face (JUST KIDDING! Her skin is as smooth as a baby's butt). I never realized how challenging it is to translate menus into comprehendable Hungarian.















ala Mary Kate English talk: Good, Gooder, Goodest. Guess which one is my mom.















There she is! Behind that ginormous camera!















Bad, badder, baddest. In 30 years, we'll be like the ladies sitting across the tables from us.





























So people measure a mother's love in various ways. Some people determine it by how long they were breastfed, by how often their mother did their laundry, by how many times they'll made a speacial peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead of a ham one, and by for how long they tolerated cutting the crust off of Wonderbread.

I don't. My mother's love for me is demonstrated exclusively by the number of jars of jams she gets me. This trip's grand total was TWO...WHOLE...JARS: the ones on the edges. This is a huge feat for my mom, acknowleding that I have a love affair with jams, because when she caught me swooning over a jar of jam at home with a spoon in hand and slobber trailing from the refrigerator to the corner I was standing in, she nearly used me as a battering ram to knock down a brick wall before she decided I would make a better human torch instead. These jars of jam are MINE, and I will proudly announce that I have double dipped from all THREE of those jars of jam sitting there.

TAKE NOTE: I DOUBLE DIP IN JAM. I resist nutella, peanut butter, salad dressings, and frosting, but not jam.

Unless I make a very special exclusion for some very special people.