Tell You [a] Little Story

I was 21 before I owned a car (although I'd crashed a couple already - sorry, dad). A Chrysler Cirrus and Stephen came as a package deal. One was rather lemony, the other, pure brilliance. He called her Cheryl, she had big child-bearing hips, er, a wide back end, and she broke down on the 14 on our way down to Arizona to get married. We got towed to Cedar City where we stayed with strangers and I sent Steve off to the mechanic's with the admonition to "be assertive," presumably to get them to hurry up on our repairs so we could get to the altar on time. It ticked him off. Though she was our first car and we were grateful to have her, nary a tear was shed when we very cheaply traded her in for bigger and better things, I think 5 years later. Cheryl was red. Steve's grandparents died while we were in Tucson for law school. We inherited their ten year old, massively rusted out Chevy Lumina, Euro edition. Did I mention the rust? It was rusty. It had sat in a snowy C

We rode a cable car to church. Steve and I are pretty bad at photographing and documenting our collective life. Well, I take that back: he keeps a fairly faithful journal, so I'm pretty bad at it. We're both bad at taking pictures and his stress level rises whenever I suggest he should be good at that, because who has time to take on one more hobby? Point is, though, we have a good life together. We love each other. Our kids are pretty cute and, in spite of all their wild monkeyness, they're good kids and good people. We spent all of last week in San Francisco, which is such a magical city. I mean, it totally looks like a magical, fairy tale city when you come in across the Bay Bridge, with its hilly, tree-y skyline. People there are really good at parallel parking and they have charming neighborhoods, awesome food, and everyone is nice, even though there are cheap souvenirs and double-decker tour buses every which way. I probably wouldn't be very nice if I lived