Shopping -- The Ultimate Escape

Honestly, I don't know why people live in St. Louis. Ok, I guess that's not fair - some people do like St. Louis and have made a home here. But I just don't understand why. It's like a city in the middle of a corn field filled with cow crap. It's hot and muggy - and it's only May - and everyone seems to be in slow-motion here. The number of times I wanted to stick my head out the car door window and scream "Move!!" is endless.

Maybe this is more of a self-reflection issue. Obviously, I was not right for St. Louis but that doesn't mean St. Louis isn't right for everyone else. My sister is doing well here, although secretly I think she wishes she were overlooking the Florida beaches, and my Grama hasn't left this town in 77 years. For some people, St. Louis works. For me, a flight to St. Louis is an excuse to escape my childhood by shopping!

Best part of the weekend? Shopping with my sister! I finally bought a pair of white pants I have been needing for summer outfits and I purchased a few fun "evening" tops for the summer. Since sis had to pick up shoes, I grabbed myself a pair, too. It's an addiction people. Check out my new Karen Scott Birch Sandals in tortoise. And a new black and white top from White House/Black Market.

I'm sitting the airport lounge -- 4.5 hours to go until my flight home...

The Art of Driving - St. Louis Style

Remember the scene in "My Best Friend's Wedding," when Cameron Diaz is driving her convertible through the Chicago freeway and convincing Julia Roberts to be her maid-of-honor? She realizes she's about to miss her exit and swerves across three lanes of traffic to exit without breaking or missing a beat? Remember the look on Julia Roberts' face? That was me at 7:50 a.m. this morning driving through rush-hour morning traffic with my sister.

As I've said before, no one in St. Louis knows how to drive. My sister is pretty good, but I realized this weekend that she's good because she has speed. Which doesn't make her good, necessarily, but certainly prompt. I clutched the side of the car during our ride this morning and as she rolled her eyes at me she screamed at the car to the right who wouldn't move over so she could merge in. Now I realize I'm not a fast driver, or a good driver for that matter, but I know a few things:

• You don't accelerate when the rest of traffic is breaking.
• You don't flip off the marine in the pick-up truck who won't slow down so you can move in.
• You don't text message and drive at the same time.

Now, I love my sister. Everyone knows that. But I fear we might die together in her car. However, she did get us to the best ice cream treat in St. Louis...

To end our day of shopping and finish off our meal, we jumped in the Suzuki and drove to Ted Drewes Frozen Custard, home of the St. Louis concrete.

Sitting at My Sister's

It's Sunday morning in St. Louis. My allergies are on high alert - eyes itching, headaches, itchy throat. The St. Louis Syndrome has begun.

I stay with my sister when I visit. Actually, it's my sister, her two dogs and the cat. I hardly slept last night, but I slept a little. When I had the bed. The bigger dog, Sasha, slept at my feet and the cat found a comfy spot on my head.

The Starbucks doesn't even open here for another hour. It's 7:53 a.m. in St. Louis. Day 1 starts now.

Destination: St. Louis

Ah, the Midwest. The heartland of America. Blue collar work by day, bonfires by night. Everything you see in the movies, TV, news and photos from the Midwest is true: corn fields, cows and a lot of land. The people are friendlier, the land is cheaper and hard work is as common as cotton candy at a carnival.

I grew up in St. Louis -- not so much the country, but we did 4-wheel around the dirt and dunes in what's known as "the Bottoms" during high school. That's for another day. It's no secret, however, that I wasn't always fond of St. Louis. But that's where Mom, Dad, sister and Grama live, and so I travel back a few times a year. Don't judge... they enjoy coming to Boston so I do see my family more than a "few times" a year.

This weekend I travel back to the Midwest. Where everything is slower. They talk slower, they walk slower, they drive slower (except for my sister, she drives like she is in Manhattan fighting cabbies) -- they live slower. I duck into grocery stores and hide my face behind the produce to avoid running into people from high school. I look twice when I pull into a gas station to make sure an ex-boyfriend isn't sitting as cashier. After 48 hours I usually start itching; at 72 hours I'm in hives. God bless my family - they always have wine waiting.