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December 18, 2006
Pandora's Box.
Saturday evening my husband and I attended a holiday party in the neighborhood, five houses down from our own. Which is nice, because we could walk, meaning we could drink as much as we wanted without being concerned about getting ourselves home safely. Although my ability to walk in heels greatly diminishes after a couple of glasses of riesling.
One of the things I noticed at this party is that most of my neighbors have an older child in the house, like over ten years old, meaning if they're at a neighbors house for a party, they feel pretty comfortable leaving the kids by themselves knowing the oldest child can hold the fort down and dial their cellphone should a problem arise. I really look forward to this. My husband and I are the youngest couple in this neighborhood, which is fine, except when everyone starts talking about their 40th birthday party, and then they look at me and say, well, I guess you wouldn't understand, little Miss 34. Its gentle teasing, but deep down they are a tad bitter, I think.
Anyway, we had a blast. But while we were getting dressed and waiting for the $12/hour baby sitter to arrive (did I mention I look forward to leaving the kids home alone?), and I was flailing around my closet in a mid-level panic, I realized the bra I needed was downstairs on the drying rack in the laundry room. So I called downstairs for Drew to retrieve it for me. The conversation went like this:
"Drew, can you run in the laundry room and bring me that bra hanging there?"
"Um, what's a bra?" (This is where it dawned on me maybe this wasn't such a good idea...)
Pandora's Box.
Saturday evening my husband and I attended a holiday party in the neighborhood, five houses down from our own. Which is nice, because we could walk, meaning we could drink as much as we wanted without being concerned about getting ourselves home safely. Although my ability to walk in heels greatly diminishes after a couple of glasses of riesling.
One of the things I noticed at this party is that most of my neighbors have an older child in the house, like over ten years old, meaning if they're at a neighbors house for a party, they feel pretty comfortable leaving the kids by themselves knowing the oldest child can hold the fort down and dial their cellphone should a problem arise. I really look forward to this. My husband and I are the youngest couple in this neighborhood, which is fine, except when everyone starts talking about their 40th birthday party, and then they look at me and say, well, I guess you wouldn't understand, little Miss 34. Its gentle teasing, but deep down they are a tad bitter, I think.
Anyway, we had a blast. But while we were getting dressed and waiting for the $12/hour baby sitter to arrive (did I mention I look forward to leaving the kids home alone?), and I was flailing around my closet in a mid-level panic, I realized the bra I needed was downstairs on the drying rack in the laundry room. So I called downstairs for Drew to retrieve it for me. The conversation went like this:
"Drew, can you run in the laundry room and bring me that bra hanging there?"
"Um, what's a bra?" (This is where it dawned on me maybe this wasn't such a good idea...)