All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm Ready for My Close-up

L's school shoots family portraits for their directory and tonight was the night for our session. I got home from work to find everyone dressed and (relatively) ready, but L seemed fussy and out-of-sorts. She was hot. She was cold. Her tummy hurt. We pushed her into the car and drove her amid her gripes and complaints to her school. N, on the other hand, was all excited about the prospect of saying "cheese" on command.

We got to the school, filled out all the paper work and went out in the fresh air to await our turn in front of the bright lights, all the while listening to L's overdraw moans and histrionics. Until, of course, that fateful moment when she decided to prove once and for all that she wasn't dramatizing. She stood stock still, her eyes got big and then, with a sudden head-bob, she let it rip. Pink pasta-laden projectile spewed all over the patio, all over her shoes, and all over her dress. In one fell instant she pretty much obliterated all family fashion color coordination efforts.

We sheepishly told the photographers we'd have to reschedule, found a bathroom and did what we could to clean up L, who was now chit-chatting away about her ralphing as though it was just another day's adventure. We summoned a janitor to once again make up for our environmental obscenities and took off for home. About half way there we pulled up to some innocent Torrancian resident's house to leave a separate gastric present in front of their curb. I'm happy to say that by thus inflicting our indignities on unsuspecting exteriors, we managed to keep our own car spiffy clean! (Though Stacy's shoes did take a mortal blow.)

As we pulled into the driveway L was whimpering softly and N was sobbing loudly. "We didn't take our picture! We didn't take our picture!" The only consolation to be had was in an improptu photoshoot in our hallway. Good thing they haven't developed digital scratch and sniff pictures yet.