My brother-in-law E is in town for work so last night we went to dinner at his friend's house.
E is a photographers' assistant and has a glamorous life of travel and celebrities (and crazy long work days. But still. In my book, celebrities in your close vicinity on a regular basis = glam-or-ous.)
His friend is a "stylist" and I have no effing clue what that means except that given my dazzling array of black yoga pants, my penchant for wearing clogs and my New Jersey high school yearbook photos, I am prohibited from ever, EVER working as one. She lives in a groovy house on a hill in LA filled with mid-century furniture with delicate wooden slats and white cushions. Also: glass lamps on the floor.
The perfect place for a pushing-way-past-her-bedtime toddler, no? How about for a sweaty, nervous mother who forgot to bring toys? (Toddler friendly back-up food, diapers, pajamas, even books- check, check, check and check but no toys. Oy vey.)
All in all, Z did fine. I've already forgotten the food spit out and flung on the floor and the red-faced grunting from a squat while she, um, meditated during dinner. Plus: I think we managed to get out of there without breaking anything. She even ate some lamb sausage, asparagus and the grainy, expensive mustard that only serious grown-ups eat. Except she ate it with an orange plastic mini-fork so I guess she's still officially a kid.
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