A couple of weeks ago, Lu took swimming lessons at Tom's Dive and Swim. She learned to float, (sort of) do the elementary backstroke, and only have underwater tea parties when her teacher wasn't looking. The funniest part: the goggles. Every time she puts them on, I laugh.
Mexico was perfect, even with the added cost and heartache of the passport drama (it may have even made it that much sweeter). Here is where we stayed:
All we got for Lu was this lousy hat:
I knew you'd come through! I just wish you'd warned me, girlfriend to girlfriend, that after very little sleep, it's best to wear makeup in a picture that needs to last ten years. 
Not trying to get all "Fatal Attraction" on you. I'm just freaked out, you know? It's my vacation. I'm a voter. I need a vacation. Of course, I didn't vote for you, or anyone in your administration or general vicinity. Except Colin. You know you miss him. I do, too.
There's nothing you can do. I mean, I don't want to be all show-offy, like "my best friend is the secretary of state." Because you don't know me (except through our correspondence, which has meant SO MUCH to me).
I am having some kind of free speech epiphany here. I almost deleted this whole post about OUR FRIENDSHIP because it occurred to me to be afraid that my concerns about my much-needed Mexican vacation, as expressed to you, the Secretary of State, would be held against me in my passport renewal process. I hope that is not true. I have not had enough sleep. But things are going great, Neocons. We're good. All good. Go peace. Go passport.
Sincerely,
Barbara K. Donaho
I know you're just trying to do your best up there at the State Department. Keep the bad guys out and all that. And I know that my trip to Mexico is really low on your radar, what with Iran and the Scotland business.
But, Condi (mind if I call you Condi?), I am soooo low on the radar. Right? I just want to go to Mexico. I just want to lie on the beach, while my deserving husband plays 72 holes of golf. I have no bombs in my shoes (BECAUSE THEY'RE FLIPFLOPS). I am guessing that when the courier/expediter dude comes to Chicago tomorrow, he's not getting your signature or anything. I just wanted you to know about my situation. So, anyway, good luck in the Middle East.
LYLAS,
kate
Or at least proof you have applied to renew your passport. Which you can't get until 7-10 days after you apply. Which is really inconvenient when you discover this 3 days before you need to leave for Mexico. So you might have to fly to Colorado, which is the only passport office accepting appointments. Or maybe, if you're lucky, you can pay someone a whole bunch of money to handle it for you. But you won't know until morning how it's going to work out.
Every morning at 7:37, for as long as I can remember, we've heard the strains of the Elmo's World song. Lu will stand at attention: what will Elmo be doing today (besides speaking about himself in the third person)?!! He's always having fun! He's the star of his own segment that takes up one-third of the show! Elmo epitomizes both toddler interests (bicycles, families, fish, cats, hurricanes) and the toddler superego (deep emotion, short attention span, intense self-focus, absent parents). Elmo has been Lu's idol, her guru, her BOYFRIEND.
Except she broke up with him today. Maybe she did not break up with him today, but like any slowly declining relationship, today was the day of clarity. The day of "Oh, by dating other people, you mean...dating people other than me."
Today, at 7:37, she said, "Turn this off. I wanna watch Dora." This, from a semi-sick child who would have previously used Elmo as a poultice on a wound if she could have.
Turn this off. The end. Goodbye. And don't let the door hit you on your furry red ass on the way out.
We had our first (and only) garage sale on Saturday. We lost $960 (when you consider the gross profit of $240, minus hours invested, based on a very conservative freelance potential of $75/hour). We also lost something much more valuable than money and time. OUR RESPECT FOR HUMANITY. I have some words to the wise about garage sales, some of which involve profanity (and make me sound like not a very nice person):
1. People will show up at 7:40 and lurk like annoyed vultures, even when your cute sign says "8 a.m.! No early birds!"
2. People will insult your stuff. To your face.
3. People will switch stickers and try to steal. Even if the item only costs a dollar to start with.
4. If it rains, people will want a discount because stuff is wet.
5. The bitch-ass manager of the vintage store where you paid a lot of money for the clothes will come and buy them back from you at a fraction of the price. The best ones.
6. Craigslist is the new garage sale. Invite the jerks to paw through your stuff on a one-to-one basis.
Scene from a garage sale:
Confused man wanders up at the end of the sale and inquires about the rusty, filthy sad mountain bike. Its price ($20) has fallen off and truly may be too much. I say, "Dude, it's your lucky day. Five bucks." He laughs in a polite, confused way and keeps shopping. He wanders back to me and asks about how old the bike is. He shops some more. He comes up and asks about how long the bike has been sitting outside. How to take the back wheel and derailer off. Finally, I say, "Dude, it's free. Just take it. You can have it." And he feels bad and says, "I feel bad. I'll give you a dollar." I hate him so much in this moment. I say, with feigned levity, "Hey man, I don't need your charity. What I need is for you to get this bike out of here." At which point Maggie advises him, "Um, I think she just wants you to stop talking to her."
All of you, stop talking to me. Yes, fifty cents is fine. No wait — for you, forget it. I would rather give it to Goodwill. I would rather watch it rot in my living room, shedding paint, staining my floor, scraping me with its rusty scales than sell it to you. Now leave. LEAVE.
Lucy is interested in knowing what every word means. She recently asked me to define the word "weird." I had a hard time, because then I had to define the words "strange" and "normal." Sometimes it's best to define things visually:
Dear Any Women in the Z'Tejas north location restroom around or after 7:45 p.m.,
I am sorry. I am sorry for what you heard and smelled. I am sorry for the soiled Hello Kitty underwear we had to leave in the trashcan. I am sorry you saw my daughter's butt.
Sincerely,
Kate
p.s. To the attendant who has to empty that trashcan, I am so very, very sorry.
