Today after school we visited Stella, the kids' great grandma. She's fond of telling me the story about how her sister was named Eve because she was born at night. But Stella was born at dawn. Stella in Italian means "morning star." I think it's also loosely translated as "Meteor that likes to talk and drink martinis", but don't quote me.
I stretched out on her 1960's plaid couch while the kids played with the post-it notes they received from the mailman - an old mail box Stella stuck in her rock garden just for them. I was able to unwind for a few moments, as well as ponder a lamp that's slightly larger taller than Mary Kate Olsen but not as skinny. Impossible, but true.
True of Stella's style, I did not leave without pasta and nick nacks. There was the quilt by way of the hair stylist at the park beauty shop where Stella gabs... er... works... the hair stylist inherited the bedding from her daughter and her husband. Given they are newleyweds, I think I'll wash it first. I also left with magazines, some handiwipes, and what looks like a back scratcher, but it could be a plunger. I haven't investigated yet.
Word on the street is I'm missing out on the fringed white lampshade I turned down, but I think I'll live with my decision. "It's really quite stunning" she promised me. Not stunning enough for her to keep, of course, but stunning enough for me to drag home.
Let's not forget the full belly I left with: 10 Hershey kisses, a slice of raisin bread, two cups of coffee and a cracker.
If all of you were close by, I'd bring you to Stella's one Friday. We'd attempt to learn to knit and drink cocktails that could start a car. Who's in?
* Image taken of Stella a few months ago in Vegas. Her name might mean morning star, but that night, it was "86 year old hot stuff walks barefoot in the rain to avoid ruining her flats". Piece. Of. Work. Gotta love her. I do. You would, too.
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