I Love You in Spanish

The crabby winery lady agreed to take our photo. "You may have six tastes each," she told us. And by "taste" she meant a droplet that could only be seen under a microscope.

I had a fabulous weekend with my friends. We ate, drank, shopped, and ran our mouths. We sat in the whirlpool and ran our mouths some more. It was funny how excited we all were to sleep in beds without dogs in them (we all volunteer for Boxer Rescue). I think I actually slept for nine hours last night.

You will not be surprised to learn that the potty-training experiment (conducted in my absence) was a dismal failure. P put A in her Little Mermaid underwear on Saturday morning and she peed in them .0002 seconds later. He put a Pull-Up on her and she pooped in them. He gave up and put a diaper on her. The Pull-Ups are such a freaking racket. Sooo expensive. She was back in diapers completely by the time I got home today.

Speaking of The Little Mermaid, A likes to pretend she is Ariel when she is splashing around in the bathtub. She calls herself "Little Ariel" and she calls me . . . "Big Ariel." Now, I think I can speak for ALL women, regardless of race, color, creed, age, you name it, when I say that we do not want to be called "big" anything. A is always playing pretend games and she routinely casts herself as Cinderella, Ariel, Princess Fiona, etc. She casts P as Prince Charming, King Triton, or Eric (the prince from The Little Mermaid). Me? I get to be Shrek or "Big Ariel."

Today when I got home I knelt next to the kid so that I could give her a hug. She hugged me around the neck and then held my chin in her hands and looked me in the eyes. "Big Ariel," she said solemnly, "I love you in Spanish."

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