Tell You [a] Little Story

This weekend we are hosting (in order of stress-inducement level, from least to most): --three kids I'm babysitting. They are easy and it's for a short time. --Steve's brother. He is easy and self-sufficient and fun to have around, but in serious danger of being bored out of his mind . --the beloved truck of a guy we know who is out of town. He is paranoid that people will break into it if it's left at his apartment complex, and is only slightly less paranoid that it will be harmed "by the neighborhood kids" while parked in front of our house. Irony ensues: no car has ever been damaged while parked in front of our house before, until this morning when Steve noticed our van has egg residue all over one side of it. (What? Why?) --a dog while a friend goes out of town. Our friend's admonition: "The only thing is the dog has to sleep in bed with you." Steve's and my identical responses, given at separate times upon hearing this admonition: "...

The day started with a bang when my 2-year-old woke me up asking for his "baba." I went to the fridge and poured him some milk, but he grabbed a glass bottle of Orange Fizzy Lizzy and it slipped out of his hands onto the floor. I, half-asleep, barefoot, with blurry vision, disturbed the sleeping household: "STEPHEN!! Wake up! I need help. I'm bleeding! Wake up!" Shards of glass everywhere, orange soda with no added sweeteners or preservatives, also everywhere. My foot, victimized. My husband, rudely awakened. Then--all of us still clad in pajamas, and me trying to arrange a last-minute cousins' gift exchange--the cable guy called. "I'm running early. Can I come over to fix your internet connection now?" Um, give us ten minutes. Eight minutes later, dressed, but just barely, we opened the door to find the cable guy AND the cabinet guy who was popping in for some last minute touch-ups. Wow, everyone was working on Christmas Eve, and really early...

We're 16, going to see U2. We're 17, doing what we do best at Sunday night get-togethers. We're 18, with a funny hair sticking out. We're 19, yo. We're 20, and we live on different continents. We're 21, one week before we get married. We're 22, and pregnant. We're 23, and it will take us six and a half more years to get rid of this ugly couch. We're 24, and living in Tucson. We're 25, with larger-than-life Christmas lights. We're 26, and you can call him Esquire. We're 27, and expecting Boy #3. We're 28, and this is the only picture I could find. We're 29, and I am one lucky girl. We're 30! Happy birthday, Stephen! I love you!

Good: My first fishing trip ever! (Not counting the time my mom took us kids to a stocked lake at Neil's insistence. Don't remember catching anything. Or the time last year Steve decided to start fishing with the boys so we bought licences and gear and went to an urban lake in Tempe and the boys' attention span lasted about 5 minutes. Didn't catch anything.) Good: Very fun extended date with Steve and our funny, classy, wonderful friends David and Jami. Very good: David and Jami did all the hard work--planned it, made reservations, drove, prepared lunch. It was heaven. Good: Knew our kids were in good hands. (Thanks, mom.) Good: Fun game night in a great little two-bedroom apartment hotel room. Good: An entire, lazy day on a river in a stunningly beautiful Arizona canyon. Bad: An entire day on a river when the air temp did not get above 39 degrees. Good: My fabulous sister let me use her really warm ski clothes. Good: Once in a while the sun came out. Good: Our fishing ...

Eating peanut m&m's. Lots and lots of peanut m&m's.

preschool p week unpreparedness presents popcorn playdough? picture frame ornaments poetry playtime perseverance pictures pretty please prayer parents pulchritudinous prevail perfect place police officer perchance parade (p)russian chocolate prevention pa-a-a-a-r-ty

I like to think that if I were to ever run into a famous person, I would totally give that person his space and privacy and not be all rubbernecky and pointing and whispering. Not so. I am a complete pointer and whisperer, as pathetic as that is. This summer, I saw this man in the Prado in Madrid: Only he looked older and maybe had some facial hair and he was wearing a baseball cap. Having never in my life seen a complete episode of any crime drama, I did not know who this person was, just that he was getting a lot of attention from the Spanish school children. I pulled some of them aside and asked, in English, if this guy was on tv there in Spain. Si, si, was their answer. What is the name of the show? Casi Miami was the response. Hmm, that must be some local Spanish show. Clearly this guy with the red hair giving out autographs is an American. If I get the chance, I will strike up a conversation about how that is being an American acting in a Spanish tv show. I almost got the chance....