So, the great Ms. Kate and I are out at The Painted Zebra.While she labors away on Christmas presents for her aunts, uncles and cousins, I pore over a book focusing on the nation's poor. (Granted, not my usual literary fare but it's research for a St. Louis magazine article.) We are surrounded by harried moms and out-of-control tykes. The mothers are grabbing the hands and feet of their numerous heirs, dipping the appendages in paint and then pressing each onto a platter—all presents for adoring nannas and papas.
At the table behind us, one particularly picture perfect six- or seven-year-old starts asking to assst his mother as she puts the borders and finishing touches on their platters.
She turns a deaf ear.
Then he says, "But wait. I think you may be spoiling my perfect day."
It's my new mantra. Ask me a difficult question, make an unreasonable demand, speak to me in a harsh manner? I've got my answer.
