So freaking demanding

That would be Peggy.  "You have to write a blog!"  "We need to be able to keep up with your trip!"  "Of course you'll have time to write every day!"  Well, we'll see about that. So far I haven't had time to pee.

We're not packed, we don't have anyone to take care of the fish yet, and the refrigerator cleaning may be parlayed into destruction of science projects upon return.  On the other hand, my toes now sport a lovely dark cerise shine: I have my priorities straight.  I may have nothing to wear in Germany or France, but by god my pedicure will be blindingly beautiful.

I have also learned that no, my father will not be taking those fucking hearing aids on the trip, and indeed, there is nothing I can say about it.  In addition, I've approved my mother's already stunning wardrobe choices, and banned the third nail file.  We've downloaded escapist literature, that category being somewhat of a contradiction of terms, and Google Translate, and I've given up after French Transitive Verbs, Lesson 3, in Duolingo.  Peter has long since started saying everything in German with an expectant look on his face, as if waiting for that time I will respond with a joyous "Aha!" and a string of fluent German, instead of the increasingly withering stares and curt "In English, please," growls.  I already sound like a red necked ugly American and we've barely gone through online check in for our flights.

But willya look at those toes??