We're *Sortie* 5000

I thought about blogging again from our trip, but I was too tired.  We kept a pretty fast pace and our sore legs were pretty pitiful after Paris.  After our day at the Louvre, we hit the Eiffel Tower and from there, braved the Metro system so we could explore more neighborhoods without falling flat out dead.  So many lovely memories...We tried a cafe on the Rue du Cler (thanks, Kate... the food and service were the best we had!) and it was a Saturday, market day.  I popped into a specialty food store and loaded up on candies as I never knew when I'd find good treats and gifts next.  We took the Metro to the Rue du Francs Bourgeois, where I'd read had fun shopping.  We found a perfume shop and I got gifts and we later stopped at a pastry shop for a chocolate mousse type cake and homemade marshmallows.  The city is by far the most cosmopolitan I've visited. New York City is amazing, but it can't hold a candle to the city's ancient history and sheer vastness.  We loved it.  We loved the cafes and the "Parisian fast food" that was like Panera, but way better.  We could eat a fresh mozzarella and tomato sandwich with dessert and drink for about 8 euro.  

Our last full day was spent travelling to Versailles.  The town is beautiful, with tree lined streets leading to the palace.  We had a loooong wait to enter, and by our last day, we'd hit antiquity overload.  We saw a cool exhibition commemorating the 300th anniversary of King Louis XIV's death.  It tied into the macabre theme of Halloween with a recreation of the state funeral.  We also toured the royal apartments, but again, it was old painting/old painting/sculpture of a famous guy/fancy bedroom/old painting/there's a nice chair/ooh, the hall of mirrors is nice/done.  As a sidenote, sortie is the French word for "exit" and it was everywhere on the signage.   We had big fun "sortie-ing" all over Paris.  Our last day was a Sunday, so most shops were closed in the city that morning, but by afternoon, many had opened.  We grabbed one more round of souvenirs and headed home to pack up for Amsterdam.

Our flight was supposed to be at 8 a.m., but was cancelled overnight due to fog and WE DIDN'T CHECK OUR EMAIL BEFORE LEAVING THE HOTEL.  I'm not sure why the airline didn't automatically re-book, but we had a series of hassles getting out of Paris.  We had a full day in the airport due to fog which really thrilled Alex.  He's a super patient guy when it comes to inefficiency. We finally made it out and met Alex's good friend Maurice that evening, who took us to his home where he reheated the traditional Dutch meal he had prepared and we enjoyed a nice visit. 

The next two days included a tour of the city, a canal ride, a visit to the Anne Frank house, the Rijks museum, and a bike ride to the nearby village with working windmills.  Maurice and his wife, Laura, welcomed us into their home like family.  They have three little girls who absolutely charmed us, and I will consider them my new Dutch nieces.  We met their mother and father, close friends, sister and brother and niece!  It was very special to me, especially because Maurice and his father expressed their appreciation for the welcome Maurice received as an exchange student at Alex's high school.  I've heard it said that women measure happiness based on the quality of their relationships and that men "only" need a wife and a best friend to have their relational basics met.  So to see these old friends pick up where they left off, from different countries with different political and philosophical viewpoints, but with so much mutual respect and shared experiences as husbands and fathers... well.  It made my heart very happy.

We really got to experience more than a tourist's perspective of life in the Netherlands.  We could be at the train station in 5 minutes, and the family could bike to most of their errands.  We biked to the windmills and I had to ride the 10 year old's bike (hanging head).  I reminded everyone that I had not biked with any regularity in about 15 years, so let's all be cool.  Note to self:  Let's work on personal fitness for our mind-body-spirit well-being and not worry so much about scales and labels.  

And the FOOD.  If it's possible, we ate even better in Amsterdam!  Maurice and Laura introduced us to what they just call "gourmet," a meal resembling hibachi.   They put a big electric griddle on the table, and set out plates of steak, ground beef, pork, breaded chicken, bacon, and cut up vegetables.  We dropped herbed butter on the griddle and cooked up batches of food as we talked and snacked on the bread and spreads.  If that wasn't enough, Laura kept us fed and watered while watching soccer, pulling out yummy snacks and even introducing us to Bugles (the snack) filled with soft cheese.  GENIUS.  

We flew home Thursday, fat and happy and tired, watching movie after movie, having food and drink offered at regular intervals to keep us from mutiny in the skies, I suppose.  For our 10 hour flight, we were given a full hot lunch, including dessert, a snack box with olives, cheeses and mousse and then another hot sandwich and ice cream.  It was kinda over-the-top, but with nothing to do but sit and stare, we lived up to our American birthright and ATE.

We took a lot away from the trip personally.  I realized how very isolated America can feel from the rest of the world, all wrapped up in my comfortable suburban life.  World events and political unrest seemed more pressing to the people we visited.  Alex and I both had lots of time to be silly and talk about more than the day's bullet points.  We planned and dreamed.  We really like each other.  We want to broaden our children's perspectives and show them a larger world, too.

In a nutshell?   Trip of a lifetime, definitely.  

Flat out exhausted at the Arc d' Triomphe

        One of the many canal bridges

Alex and Maurice

Portrait Of The Blogger As A Young Woman: A Purse Retrospective

I got a kicky new handbag for my birthday.  It's big and rugged and up-for-adventure.  It makes me feel like I should fill it up with a camera that takes film (if I still had one) and  my (blank) passport for a spontaneous excursion to some new locale instead of remembering to pack a Pull-Up just in case as I slide into my sleek mini-van with the peeling roof liner and make tracks for kid pick-up.  I'm a girl with a new bag and it makes me feel good.

As I was toting around my new accessory, I remembered the first work bag I bought for my teaching internship.  It was a black, pleather messenger bag that had a compartment for files and I felt so grown up and purposeful carrying it.  I was an adult, and my bag proved it.

And I can't help but smile this time of year at all the fresh, clean book-bags and lunchboxes, carefully adorned and filled by anxious parents and worn by too-small people.  This bag has ballerinas and that one has Batman and each is a little representation of the wearer.  Whimsical, adventurous, silly or studious: the things we carry speak to who we want to be.

I've carried plastic Barbie cases, and then little girl purses that resembled the style worn by grown ladies. I got my first "status" purse around 12.  (Remember Liz Claiborne? Was that not the ultimate in Middle School Cool?) I moved on to the Jansport years of high school and college.  I've never been able to drop triple-digits as an adult on some truly drool-worthy bags, but I happily received one on my most recent birthday.

The Liz Bag. Mine was beige.  The first thing I put in it was Raspberry Extra Gum and daydreamed
that I would snatch it as I ran to meet the The Man (Boy) I Loved In The Nick Of Time.
I was 12.

Pretty close the bag I carried in high school. Thank you, Ebay picture.

My New Bag Identity- The Explorer Tote Crossbody.

The bag isn't overly fancy or ornate-- it's made well, with strong materials.  It's subtle and up for anything.  And like those ballerina backpacks on mini-mes, this new bag exudes what I hope this next year is for a year-older me: stable, prepared, and ready for new things.  And cute.  Because above all, a girl wants to be cute, no matter the age.  If clothes make the man, a purse makes the woman.

What The Jesus In My Mind Would Say in A "Hey Girl" Meme

To be clear, I enjoy satire, but I have no appreciation for irony when depicting religious figures, most of all the Creator of the Universe, thank you very much.  I always felt squeamish when SNL did Jesus bits and quickly turned the channel.  I know that's supposed to be the mark of a free society and free speech, but uh-uh, nope, I'm good.

Now that we've got that all squared away...

We try to do a little devotional most nights (less than 3 minutes!) and one of the things I like most is the weekly bible verse.  Some weeks the verse lends itself to motions. I wish I knew ASL, but alas, I only know Jesus, Lord, please, thank you and more.  Meaning I've been to my fair share of evangelical youth camps and attempted to have a toddler request more Cheerios.  I also "teach" kids' choir, so I really also know sing, love, and all the motions to Go Tell It On The Mountain.

All that to say we were practicing the verse James 1:22 that exhorts "Don't just listen to God's Word; you must do what it says. Otherwise, you are only fooling yourselves."  I'm not sure the version this is taken from, but it is also more commonly rendered "Be doers of the Word and not hearers only."

As the girls were doing the motions to aid in their memorization, I thought to myself, "Well, shoot, James.  You kinda nailed it there." I mean, that's a "drops mic" moment.  Leave it to one verse in the Bible to knock you over the head.  I believe that's why the theologians like to call it the inspired Word of God.

Somehow, I imagined how Jesus might apply that verse to me, not to fool myself with thinking listening to His words was somehow enough:

I wasn't convicted of any one thing (because let's face it, there's always so much in view of a holy God), but the book of James is pretty clear.  You'd better work out your faith.  It's the proof in the pudding. (End Sermon.)

And I thought I'd share that little nugget with you, along with my two Scripture memory/gong show stars.  Watch to the end to hear the verse :)

Pink Dyeables and Worn Dish Rags

Fare thee well, Williams-Sonoma hand towel from my 2004 bridal shower. We've shared some good times. And I doubt you'll be replaced with an comparable comrade. #domestic #silliness

A photo posted by Melissa Young (@thejaybirdblog) on Apr 20, 2015 at 6:48am PDT

I decided it was time to chuck out this wee little dish rag that has faithfully served me lo, these many years, or since the early 2000s.  If you know me at all, it should come as no surprise that this silly picture screams METAPHOR for MARRIED LIFE.

I'll try not to belabor the point, but isn't that the way we start out?  We forge into coupledom armed with good intentions and a registry wand, carefully debating the color schemes for our wedding, and in extension the beautiful life we will be building. Linens, china, and my own personal Waterloo, dye-able bridesmaid shoes.

Say no to the dyeable.

(A word to  young brides of the '10s: before there was chalkboard art and turquoise pumps, there were dye-ables.  Pink dye-ables, in my case.  Don't sweat the Pinterest board.  The dye-ables didn't break me; don't let the choreographed first dance break you.)

It is fine and good to having a pretty wedding and heavens knows I love a good one.  But as my dish rag will attest, the rubber meets the road soon enough.  The good china gets knicked, the towels get caught and rip in the dryer; the waistlines stretch, the hair recedes, the shiny and new becomes old and familiar.  The wispy dreams become ordinary reality, and you sometimes don't recognize that girl you used to be.

That girl had lots and lots of optimism.  Pages and pages of earnest prayers.  Years and years of Sunday school lessons and youth trips and singles retreats.

She had hour upon hour of free time, dollar upon dollar of disposable income, outfit upon outfit in a single digit dress size.

This, well, grown-up woman, has lunch upon lunch to pack, basket upon basket of laundry to run, event upon event to schedule.

Face upon face to kiss, hug upon hug to steal, laugh upon laugh to share.

So, yeah.  I enjoyed the fresh kitchen linen years.

But the holey, faded, rag-tag ones are sacred. Because they are more real.

It's The Middle That Counts

 "...Beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning." (Hope Floats)

I thought we'd be moving away this week.  That's what I told our dentist, doctors, and therapists as I got records, made last minute appointments, cancelled others, and oh, listed our house and SOLD MY KITCHEN TABLE. It was beat-up anyway, but that's serious intent, right there.

Oh, and with the expectation of moving across state lines and not having company insurance benefits for the first 9 months, along with other reasons, we enrolled Jeremiah back in school.  That's a whole 'nother post, but basically, I feel totally confident in this decision.  His teacher (who was going to be his teacher last year) just agreed to start a special needs Sunday school at our church.  Guess who is her first class member?  And guess who I worked with to get J back into the system smoothly?  Seminary grad.  When we were small-talking at J's IEP meeting, he mentioned graduating seminary and I immediately said, "So that's why I like you so much."  This man was so helpful and on-the-ball and welcoming to us coming in to the school year a few weeks late.  I honestly left that meeting and thought to myself, "I feel like God's favorite person."  It's so cool to me how I've changed in my view of education and special education in particular.  I feel more empowered from our year of homeschooling and so at peace that this particular autism classroom and that this particular teacher sees my whole child.  He (like any child) needs so much more that academics and this is a great fit.  Public school is our choice for this year and this stage of J's development and I stand by that.  Honestly, one of the few things holding me back was "well, what will my homeschooling acquaintances say?" like I would lose some kinda mommy-wars street cred.  Which is ridiculous, but there you go.

This move, or almost-move, gave us permission to re-examine our life and priorities.  And that's been worth all the emotional energy it consumed.

Two weeks ago, my husband hands in his notice.  His employer makes a counter-offer; he comes back to me and we decide we were still "go" on the move.  We have an over-the-top-this-is-wonderful trip to Knoxville.  Which is most likely due to the fact that we are alone for almost 3 days and can do anything we please... brunch, home-hunting, campus strolling, happening upon a local downtown festival (I die), eating on the hip square, a movie. Bliss.  We visit a church and the worship rings true.  We can do this.  The possibility of a double housing payment, uprooting and starting over; the potential of the job and the city are worth it.
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Two weeks ago:

We're moving in two weeks to the Knoxville, TN area.  Which is the same amount of time I've had to start mentally preparing for this.  Listing the house, making calls, and doing a last round of doctor visits.

A job opportunity that caught Alex's attention last year has become open again and he is going for it.  He'll be working in the same field of computer programming and working with the same language, while learning a new one.  It's a fantastic professional opportunity in a exciting area (for us, at least.  I mean-- SEC football, seasons, and even a Trader Joe's.)

When we moved to Middle Georgia six years ago, we just loaded up our 1100 square feet of stuff and toted our newborn along.  I had my husband and my baby and as long as I had that, I was up for anything.  And then we built a house and moved in and had another baby.  And another baby.  And we have lots more square feet of stuff.  Lots more bills.  Lots more obligations.  And we're honestly excited to hit the reset button and simplify again.

I've still got that "where thou goest I will go" spirit because, well, that's the deal.  If my husband is happy and fulfilled and it happens to be in another state, that's where I want to be.

Then I reflect on all the middles.  It stops me short, a punch in the gut.

I know some things here.  I know the places.   I know the people.

I have a community.  Just this Sunday, a longtime Sunday school teacher remarked that our children's faces are carbon copies of one another.  

They are loved here.

When someone goes the extra mile for your kid, it sticks with you.  And there are so many faces in my mind that have done this for me in the last several years.

The deacon who helps in J's choir class.  One evening I came to choir classes without J because he'd just been having a hard time.  This man made a point to come over and tell me that J was missed-- and welcomed-- there.  And you know you just cruising along and come undone in a moment because a kind word has just opened your Achilles' heel?  That's life in the middle.

Same thing with my pastor.  I attend a relatively large church in the area.  Church culture gets knocked around a lot, sometimes deservedly, but from the moment I met my pastor, I've been impressed by his genuine care for people, while being an excellent teacher and administrator.  When I finally started sharing openly about J, I asked the pastor to pray over me.  The next time I saw him in the halls of our church, he made a point to share a story of a young autistic man who was becoming a missionary, fluent in 5 languages.  He made sure to have a hard copy of the article sent to my house.  While most of what I know about my pastor comes from sitting under his teaching, actions and character speak volumes.  I'm so tenderhearted toward my church. Church is a good thing.  It's truly a second home.

So many kind and passionate teachers and therapists that have invested in all of us.  Those real deal friends who quietly go the extra mile to meet your needs: a kid's special haircut, a 1:1 VBS teacher for J, a meal or a coffee date.  Therapists, with so many clients to attend to, have each gone above and beyond in some way to encourage me in J's progress under their care.  

There are good people everywhere.  I've just meet so many here.

This is a love letter and a promise.  

I'm going to take all of this and make, hopefully, new memories that quickly become middles.


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The second time he turns in his notice, with the offers being even and the reality of a home, community, and supports in place for J in particular, we decide to stay.

And now, we're in the middle of our middle again.  Our closets are leaner and meaner.  We are, too.  I'm trying to take the excitement I was ready to invest into a new home and pour it into new outlets.  We're going to a Country and Western concert at THE Georgia National Fair, our first since dating years. (Musicals and plays, yes, but live music, sadly, no).  We're playing softball for our local Autism support group.  I hope to take the kids to visit their aunt and uncle in Kentucky because if Fall won't come to us, we'll come to Fall.  And I have two little girls ready for some attention.

Basically, we're a stronger team.  We can bust it for each other.  That lesson was worth learning.

Just One Thing

Mitch Robbins: Have you ever had that feeling that this is the best I'm ever gonna do, this is the best I'm ever gonna feel... and it ain't that great?

Station Manager: Happy Birthday.

--Billy Crystal, City Slickers

In that spirit, I present:

 Melissa's Ideas on Being Awesome at Age 34, Completely Tongue-In-Cheek

1. Health: Get with the program and starting running 5Ks like every other woman in her mid-30s.

2. Nutrition: Buy a Vitamix and make green smoothies.  All the lifestyle bloggers are doing it!

3. Body Image: Increase ab exercises from 10 situps done over 5 years to 10 done at least once a year.  Come to terms with midsection.  Lose somewhere between 1 and 30 pounds without completely abandoning chocolate. 

4. Personal Growth: Increase my blogger cache. 

5. Relationships: Have real conversations in real time.  Laugh more.  (No snark here.)

6. Housekeeping: The bathrooms.  Something about the bathrooms. 

So, I had a birthday yesterday if it wasn't obvious.  I had cake and presents and family, so I had the good birthday requirements met.  I don't have any set birthday rituals, but I have been thinking over the last few days that this birthday is the first one in a long while that doesn't bring with it some kind of change or milestone.  Without some obvious goal for the year, I started thinking about what I want to be true of this year.   I haven't come up with any definitive answers as my Ideas list suggests, but I think it involves what any major goal takes: focus and one step in front of the other.

If I'm not careful, my goal could easily become "Make Jeremiah into a 'typical' kid at whatever cost to my sanity."  I think I've been operating in that manner for the last 6 months.

It hasn't made me the most fun person you'd ever meet.

After quite a topsy-turvy ride of emotions, I do have an aim for the year.

Trust and Obey.  

That means learning to appreciate my unique situation, looking less to what the "norm" is and more to what God would want me to do.  I do think many of the above ideas are things to pursue, but not because "that's what you do" but more "that's who I want to be".

Truly, I want to be more of the person God made me to be, and less of the perfect image I've cobbled together from the constant influx of "ways to be awesome" in which I emerge myself.

If I do, that is gonna make it an awesome year. 

Just one thing.

The Bracelet

At a Christian conference, I recently heard Pam Tebow speak about how she raised her family.  Of all the sessions and speakers I soaked up, her story of receiving a special bracelet from "Timmy" is the take away I have with me weeks later.

Before playing in Miami for the championship game, each player was given spending money for the trip.  The Tebow men apparently are last minute Christmas shoppers, and so, Tim used this money to buy his mom a bracelet.

It was a charm bracelet, filled with orange and blue beads, his football number, and other Gator related memories.  She wore it on stage, and emphasized that since her son picked out every detail of the gift, it was priceless.  She wouldn't change a thing.

You would never change a treasured gift.

"Love (your kids) the way they came packaged."

Bullseye, Mrs. Tebow.  Ouch.

It is hard to love every bead on my kids' strings.  For each bead I cherish: compassion and friendliness, affection and gentleness; there are others I would happily exchange.  Some I'd leave off altogether.

They seem wrong. Not my style. Not what I want.

Just because something is imperfect does not mean it's not valuable.  (Right, self?)

Yesterday was a "this is not what I want" day. Today is one of those "starting over again" days.

I want to see the beauty of the imperfect.  I don't want to disregard it and hope for something better to magically appear. I want to accept my gift. I want to treasure it.   I don't always.  Today I do.

Some wonderful, some painful, some hidden-- but each piece was carefully selected.

A few days after I wrote this as a draft, I noticed this little treasure.  15 seconds of receiving grace from my son.  I want to finish a task.  He just wants to be near me.  That's a 'bead' I needed to see right now.

Me and My Bathrobe: Thoughts on Being a Woman

After a rare nap yesterday, I had trouble falling asleep.  For some reason, I began to ruminate on my bathrobe.

I've mentioned it before.  It's like my second skin.  My security blanket.  The next best thing to actually being in bed.

I seem to hoard robes.  I have four hanging in my bathroom and a few pretty ones that rarely leave my closet--those feminine, satin ones I received as a bride-to-be.

Know the robe, know the woman. Probably should make a Pinterest image out of that one.  'Cause I can't stitch it on a pillow.

As a little girl, I had a few robes given to me over the years for Christmas.  I really didn't know what to do with them.  The tv shows I watched showed adults always throwing one on in a panic to answer the door in the middle of the night.  Since I had no reason to do this, the robes went unused.

The first time I needed to use one was to wear as I sprinted down the hall of my girl's dorm as a freshman.  Communal showers, people.  That's real living.  I had my shower caddy stocked with Pantene and Crest toothpaste, my Barbie pink sandals (a shower necessity) and my white terry cloth robe. I still have that one.  I've long lost the belt, but my terry cloth robe still proudly hangs beside my mercifully private shower.

That robe reminds me of my time as an undergraduate living on campus at the University of Florida.  My biggest worries were making to my 10 o'clock class and trying to write a 10 page essay on no sleep.  Really gut wrenching stuff like that.  I made lifelong friends and learned a few helpful things both in and out of the classroom.  I was still basically clueless about life, but I stayed out of trouble thanks to Campus Crusade (read: God), graduated, and had a great time.  That's ages 18-21 in a nutshell.  As Britney says, I was "not a girl...not yet a woman."

Sorry for all the teeny bopper quotes.  Such is my brain.  Sometimes Britney and Miley stumble on some true stuff.

My second grown up robe is a to-the-floor creme satin robe lined with fleece. It's warm and pretty.  My sister noted that it's a nod to Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. (Go watch it if you've missed it.  Classic witty repartee).  That robe took me through my young married, before-babies years to the 1am & 4am graveyard shift of newbornhood with Jeremiah.  The pocket's torn, probably from a bottle being stuffed inside, and it can be obnoxious to climb the stairs as it drags.  But it's special to me.  It marks my passage from girl to young woman to woman.

My third and favorite robe enters here.  I received it when Sarah was born.  It took the lionshare of hard work-- two babies under age 2! And now, three under age 5.  It has literally grown with me and my stomach over the last few years.  While I have an ever-vascilating pant size (as my closet will attest), my pink robe always fits.  My most recent robe is a knee length number, great for spring and summer.  Sarah likes to use the belt as a tug-of-war/tie 'em up/jump rope.

At its best, for me, being a woman means a growing sense of community with fellow believers.  Women I admire and respect, even and especially if we do things differently.  Isn't that a nice change?  As girls, we get so bent out of shape if we aren't  j-u-s-t  like our best friend or the prettiest girl in class. And it turns out that the person we put on a pedestal was just as insecure as we were.

I don't think marriage or children or even age make one a woman.  Biblical womanhood, as I understand it, is a reflection of God's character-- his tenderness, care, and compassion.  Again, while neither marital status nor motherhood define womanhood, those experiences have certainly provided opportunities for me to experience God's heart.

At this point in my life, I'm comfortable enough (most days) in my own skin to compliment myself when I've made an effort to dress up and look nice.  I'm okay to introduce myself to a stranger and try to make them feel welcome.  I don't have to be the "it" girl, the one who has it all figured out, scheduled, color coordinated, and cross referenced.  Though if she exists, I think we'd be friends. I think that's growing up. Women in community.

A community made even better if your friends stay in their robes til 10 a.m. Women who pray for you, unprompted, who text and call, who give hugs when you start snot-crying in public. Secure women. Flawed. Genuine. I'm so glad to wear this new garment.

Claymation Realization

I was watching a claymation movie, The Miracle Maker, as I did a last ditch clean-up before Christmas Eve.  I put it on for the kids, but kept stopping the vacuum and getting pulled into the story.  The movie tells the story of Jesus' life.  In one portion of the movie,  the narrative flashes back to the time Jesus was tempted during his 40 day fast.  The movie illustrates the devil taking Christ up to look down at the earthly splendor that could be his if he denied God. For every twisted Scripture the devil used, Jesus rebutted.

This came to me as clear as day, so I know I didn't think it up on my own:

If the SON OF GOD  used Scripture to fight against fear and temptation, who am i not to?

Making Scripture a more active part of my life is the first real New Year's resolution/goal I've ever kept.  I posted 24 Scriptures last year in an effort to memorize Scripture.  I will be reciting 10 in a few weeks as part of the Siesta Scripture Memory Team Celebration in Houston, TX.

The Scriptures I recorded and recited this year are a record of my year.  I have hidden them in my heart and spoke them out.  I have USED them!

I participated in this group not because of my spiritual maturity, but because I NEEDED to.  I continue to need a renewed mind and a steadfast spirit.  When I recite those verses it in a few weeks, it won't be an exercise in piety.  I will be an exercise of pure joy!  God's Word is powerful.  It has fought many battles for me in 2011.

I look forward to sharing all about my Siesta trip!