All of Friday went something like this:
Calvin: I'm going to play with Chris ALL DAY on Saturday!
Me: I'm going to play with Kristin and Timi.
Calvin: Awwww! No! I want you to just stay here.
Me: But I thought you were planning to play with Chris all day?
Calvin: I am.
Me: Well, Mommy gets to play with her friends sometimes, too.
Ruby: No. Mommies don't play.
Well, I like them. Their spherical nature speaks to my heart. They offset the stripes of my soul.
Sometimes when we are driving, Silas will randomly yell, "Piggy Punch!" He has no idea what it means. He only knows that the cool kids yell it in the van. I always ask him what color it is. It is always, always green.
Furthermore, just as I was taking this photo, a black SUV almost backed into a lady in the cross walk. Homegirl went all kinds of maniacal. She ended her tirade with, "Why don't you get a DRIVER'S LICENSE!" It was really quite a scene. A good 20 seconds in length, which is an eternity in the world of Being Screamed at Publicly by A Woman in Capri Pants.
I wanted to intervene, like the time my sister and I were sitting at a red light and a man on a bike started screaming at another driver and I felt compelled to scream back at him, "Be Nice! Be Nice! Be NICE!"
Admitedly, I started getting nervous just as the light turned blessedly green. He had a flinty look in his eyes.
I don't know what came over me. All I'm asking is, Be nice, people.
It shouldn't be hard to be nice when you live 3 minutes from this.
That's right. I was at tilapia tacos with pico and purple cabbage on the patio. I was at Michigan berry cobbler, split three ways.
Dinner could have only been more perfect if I had passed on the chilled gazpacho. But now I know. I don't dig it. It's salsa eaten with a spoon. It's salsa without its Santita. It's just. not. right.
We shut the night down with 60 minutes on a beach with a cold drink and sandy toes. We watched the sun set and the world seemed just as it should be, with the exception of my pasty finger-toes. Why do I keep painting them Clean Machine? Why?
Behold: Pretty Ladies.
Pretty Ladies who like rusty junk.
If I told you I left a tiny piece of my heart at this place, would you understand?
I wanted to bring home eight new sets of old hotel dishes.
I threatened to break up with the Ladies if they didn't buy something. And they didn't buy something.
I'm thinking they took an out where they found one.
For spite, I refused to break up.
Two days of fantastic junk and I came home with the following:
8 old faucet handle thingies. You know, the roundish things. 7 black. 1 green.
3 greeting cards.
1 book to be given as a gift.
1 biscuit cutter.
1 box of tablets that you drop in water to make faux grape "pop".
I also found a back-issue of House Beautiful with a gorgeous cover along with the text, "Living Large in Small Spaces." I couldn't find a price, but I knew it wouldn't be much.
Then the guy refused to sell it to me because it didn't have a price on it. He didn't want to upset the owner of the booth, who had an entire box of back-issues and didn't price a single one. Let me repeat, he wouldn't sell it to me.
Sweeping into the scene as if an angel, a wise woman appeared and said, "Sell it to her. Two dollars."
I'd like to raise a toast to Common Sense!
{clink}
I understand that we can't always skip town for the night. But if you have the opportunity to high-tail it? Promise me that you will. Even if it's not usually your thing. Even if the thought of it makes you nervous. Even if you're the new girl. Even if you have to mostly just window shop. Even if your kids beg you to stay.
Talk to some ladies and eat chick food. Or maybe you're a burger kind of girl, and that's allowed, too. Gab into the night even thought one of the ladies took a unisom and is trying to sleep. Eat an ice cream cone. Shoot the breeze. Live it up.
Then come home and see all over again why home is your very favorite place on earth.
