Pass the antibacterial gel

I'm going to go ahead and predict that three people are going to post on December first. Damned overachievers. I will likely not be joining their illustrious ranks, because I am a Slacker and also plan on spending the day examining the backs of my eyelids, on the beach, or at a movie. My one-year blog-aversary is on Sunday, and I plan to briefly hit 'Publish', and continue hanging out with the SightSpeed guy and his wife, eating at some fabulous Bay area eatery/drinking wine/wishing I still had a camera so I could post pictures of us in the City together.

Today I joined Christie and her family and our friend Jen for blueberry pancakes at Sambo's
(because we like potentially offensive stereotypes with our morning tea, clearly.) After a thouroughly syrup-soaked time, we headed up State Street, browsing all the way along the few open stores, en route to a pleasant nowhere. The big people exchanged eye-rolls and looks of frustration as the little ones squabbled over who got to push-push-push-push the crosswalk button, who got to hold Mommie's/Maya's hand, and anything else they could think of.

I am not a germ-phobe, but the something about the sight of Bella doing the little kid, 'let's run my hands over EVERY single surface I go past, la-la-la-la' made my stomach twist, curl and revolt. Christie laughed, rolled her eyes (good moms are able to do this) and said, "Yeeeeaaaah....I try to keep her from touching everything, but I figure what the heck, she's going to get filthy by the end of the day, so...whatamIgonnado?"

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore, so I pulled her into a bar - yes, I am hereby admitting it, I brought a four-year old child into a bar. Again, I am a) unfit for parenting b) headed to ruin. Thankfully, the nice English lady who was pulling taps for the early afternoon drinkers was happy to let us into the facilities. I pulled myself down to her height, looked into her little cornflower-blue eyes, and said, "Ok, now look. at. my. face and listen to me, ok?"
"Oh-oh-o.k."
"What color are your hands?"
"Graaayyyy."
"You're right. They're GRAY. GRAY with DIRT. Let's wash them, now, ok?"
"OOOK!"
"And no. more. touching stuff, ok?"
"OK!" (Considerable enthusiasm for washing shown)
"Thank you - you're being a very, very, good girl."

Five minutes later: "Stop. touching. the. g.d. walls, fortheluvapete! GAAAAAAAH!" This was the point at which we decided that Jen, Scott and I would be touring up to see the top ridges of our mountains. We stopped at Cold Springs Tavern for a beer, and ended up at Harry's for their turkey dinner. Guess who met us there? The gray-handed monster(s) - and I wouldn't have had it any other way.