Saturday, May 5, 2012

Leg up

Last night I got to host a bachelorette party. The big SNAFU was that Mary and Anna couldn't figure out why they couldn't go.

"But if it's for girls," Mary said, rather reasonably, "why can't we go?"

"It's for grown up girls," I clarified. "Mostly because we'll be drinking?"

"Drinking what?"

I read in some parenting book that when a child asks you a question, you are supposed to provide complete, clear answers.

"Wine, beer, tequila-"

"Grown up drinks," Tim hastily interjected.

"Juice? I want some juice," Anna piped up from the backseat.

Come to think of it, I think that book was talking about sex, not parties, but live and learn.

Actually, I lied, there were two SNAFUs. That was the second one. The first was when I was heading out to get Tim at the train, dressed for the party that was to happen after I picked him up, and tripped on the wet stairs and fell down three concrete steps, baby in arms, onto the front walk.

The baby started crying. My first fear was that she had smacked her head on the steps. She was not bleeding, so my second, rather real, fear was that I had broken my leg, which hurt like no one's business. Fortunately, my nurse practitioner neighbor (and the corrections officer who lives on the other side, but his particular skill set was less in demand at that moment) heard me fall and rushed into my yard. Both parties proclaimed the baby was fine, just scared. I determined that since I could stand, my leg was not broken. And then Bob, the corrections officer, looked at the ground.

"I blame the heels!" he joked.

And then my third fear became that my gorgeous patent black stilettos were ruined. You don't even understand. They are Via Spigas, something like $300 retail that I had gotten in an incredible deal (I think I paid about $75, maybe less) for a friend's wedding the year before, and I adore them more than one probably should a pair of shoes.

Fortunately, sometimes the adage that you get what you (should) pay for rings true and they are a bit scuffed but still really hot.

I know you care.

For the record, I am really good at heels, so we should blame the rain, not the beautiful shoes.

For the second record, I didn't even think of the shoes until the baby was no longer crying and was happily trying to eat my necklace, so try not to judge me too hard.

Tim dropped me off at the bride to be's house and took the girls home, and we went to dinner in Providence, which was fun and entertaining and we made sure Miss Meg sampled all kinds of non-juice beverages.

A snapshot from dinner:

Meg is poking her salad with a fork. "Why, if salad is so good and so good for you, is it impossible to get on a fork?"

I look over. "It's a lettuce defense mechanism. That's evolution, muthafuggas." (Yeah, I'm classy.)

Meg cracked up. "When I when the lottery, I'm flying you to Texas to meet the bloggess. Because I think you two would have a lot of fun. And there would possibly be explosions."

I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Meg.

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