Friday night, every idea I suggested for something to do Saturday met with agitated resistence from Em. Every idea I had was an irritation or an outrage.
She said the Kemper museum is too small, the Great Mall was boring, and so on. Kaleidoscope was objected to with an exasperated, ‘I was just there, Dad.’
Even the Nelson was shot down in flames.
Then, out of the blue on Saturday morning (in a much better mood), she asked, ‘Can we go to the Nelson?’ As if the previous evening had never happened.
Little tastes of what she’s going to be like as a teenager, I know.
It was raining, so we couldn’t really do the outside stuff, but there was still plenty to wear our legs to nubs. And of course we had to do the Buddha shot that's become de rigeur.
Here's food for thought: to modern kiddos, is it more puzzling what's in her hand* or why she'd stand there with a boob hanging out while a guy doesn't just take a snap shot, but makes an oil painting of her?
And look! We found the 17th Century version of the Velvet Elvis!
*For you 20-somethings: she's holding a record. Not an LP, either, the painting is dated 1938, so that's a 78 RPM disk, a big, heavy, fragile thing that barely held a three minute tune. You played it on a big-ass, sationary iPod. No, I don't remember 78s being current, contrary to the notions of certain women I've asked out lately. I remember when there was no such thing as email, it doesn't mean I remember the Louisiana Purchase.
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