Genevieve Visits the Louvre, I mean IMA

Yesterday was snowy and boring, so Trinity and I loaded up our family of 3 and headed out for some culture.

We took Genevieve to the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

She loved it.  

She gazed at all of the paintings and drooled with amazement over the talent.

Maybe she just drooled.

We got busted in the Asian exhibit for sitting on a bench and bottle feeding her.  A very nice female employee came over and told us she could not allow us to feed her in the exhibit, unless I was breast feeding, then that is permitted.

I wanted to scream DISCRIMINATION in my best Fiddler on the Roof impression.  You know I love to scream things.

Thanks, lady for reminding me of my failure to boob feed my child.

As we shuffled out, I was just appalled.  Trinity explained that it was much less likely for a woman to spray milk from her boob all over a painting than it was for it to spray out of a bottle.  

Whatevs.

I got one picture. 

*Yes, I'm wearing nonpants.  In my defense, I picked up my family after attending a yoga class, but not before driving through Starbucks and then circling my neighborhood repeatedly while talking on the phone to my mother and relishing my alone time.

When we entered the museum, we were greeted and asked if we wanted a map.

Did I want a map?

Apparently the greeter didn't recognize me from my frequent days of wandering through the IMA, hoping to meet my future husband in the European art exhibit.

No one told me then that I wasn't starring in a romantic comedy produced by Nora Ephron.  

Everyone else knows that now you meet your significant other on the interweb.

Or you are set up on a blind date in Nashville, get tipsy and dance the night away at honkey tonk bar while your future husband tries to impress you by doing knee slides across the vacant dance floor.  Then you seductively whisper, "you can stay the night in my room at the Comfort Inn tonight, and not drive back to Manchester."  He happily agrees.  Then you sober up when he's in your room, and totally embarrass yourself by having an awkward conversation where you explain that you're really Sandra Dee, and not Rizzo.

He marries you anyway.

That's not remotely similar to how my love story played out.

It's exactly how my love story played out.

We have such a beautiful tale to tell our daughter when she gets older.

Oh, and to think, I thought of all of this while showing her beautiful art.