M. came to me just now while getting dressed for school. "Can you zip me up," she requested, indicating her periwinkle track jacket, "So I look a little more immotized?"
If you can plausibly tell me what word she actually meant, I will send you my extra copy of the 1965 Fowler's English Usage with dustjacket.
Tonight the whole family is going to the opening night gala of the Big Apple Circus courtesy of NSBR's CEO. Research indicates that dress is business casual. M. is wearing this sweater with hot pink wide-wale courduroys, because you can make 4-year-olds wear stuff like that, even ones as stubborn as M. S. is wearing a navy blue argyle sweater from the Gap that is sold out so no picture, with matching knee socks, mid-calf chocolate brown boots, a knee-length denim skirt, and lacy hot pink tank underneath. R. is wearing this sweater with khakis, natch. I am wearing these pants in black with my periwinkle cable-knit cashmere sweater and black leather jacket.
So here's the question: plain-vamp buttery soft black loafers, or my black microfiber Audrey ballet flats from the apparently and sadly defunct Shoes With Souls?
As Thanksgiving Approaches
Is there any other holiday at which we are quite so surrounded with fanciful representations of the animal we are about to devour?
The Funny Part
I forgot to tell the funny part of the car accident story. My "valet" key chain ripped in half on Monday, so I was going around with just my ignition key. Our car has a safety feature that shuts off the fuel pump after a hard impact, and you have to turn it back on by accessing a really hard-to-find button behind a little compartment door in the back of the car. When the police arrived, they asked if my car was driveable and I could pull it into the side street. "Yes," I said, "but I just need to find the fuel shutoff switch and I might need your help."
"No problem, ma'am, just open up the back and I'll find it for you."
"Well, I don't have the tailgate key."
"You don't have the tailgate key."
"No. So I need to kind of climb in there from the back seat, but I wondered if you knew where the button is, because I don't remember."
"It's on the left."
It was on the right.
So picture me on all fours in the back of my station wagon, rooting around through a hole in the insulation above the wheel well, on the phone with NSBR as he tries to describe to me where the thing is, and the cop is poking his head anxiously in the passenger door, asking, "Have you found it, ma'am?"
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