Last weekend we went to a holiday party for the clinic where AK is interning, which means almost everything about the party was top secret for reasons relating to the intricate traditions of psychoanalysis. Can I say that I got a nice scarf in the white-elephant gift exchange? I don’t even know.
Can I say that the host’s house was super posh, in a way that was one part early California mission, one part Buddhist monastery? The host herself was wearing a non-sheer version of the dress below, and we had a good time.
|Rastafarian or dirty hippie or seventh grader who raided her mom's sewing supplies? The late eighties in the 'burbs were a confusing time.|
Anyway, I think it’s okay to blog about punk rockers. Even if they have their own intricate traditions.
They were dressed in their finest button-studded jackets and many-zippered pants. They gathered on the back porch of Todd’s house, which he bought with twenty years of savings from people who’d let a massive ant colony live and bury its minions under the carpet.
I didn’t know many people, but thankfully a writer named Brodie—whom I also met at Skylight but had since developed one of those internet-disconnect relationships with, where I was like, “Oh, you’re @Fair_Dig!” and it took me a minute—proved to be the friendliest person ever, and immediately introduced us to his friends, who included an awesome and funny ESL teacher/real estate blogger named Bianca and a girl named Simon who kind of acted like she was in a mosh pit the whole night.
There was only one baby at the party, and she wasn’t wearing anything with a skull on it, I’m pleased to report, just a little bonnet and polka-dot socks. Her dad carried her around so she could stare at things.
“She’s at this stage where she really fixates on things, and I’m glad,” he said. “I’m like, ‘Yes! You’re not blind!’”
|Not that there's anything wrong with blind kids! Or guide dogs with...bunny ears? See forthcoming article about prosthetics, etc.|
“I love that,” she said. “Someone’s like, ‘Let’s put some sunflower seeds out, but not even in a bowl.’”
We agreed it was a welcome contrast to last weekend’s party, at which all the food was a little…Pinteresty. Gluten-free chocolate cookies and what appeared to be mini macarons, dusted with flecks of peppermint or pistachio powder. I should add that the big vat of guacamole at the Razorcake party was heavenly, because great food doesn’t have to be ready for its Instagram close-up.
|Macarons are the Jenna Jameson of food porn.|
“I guess there are lots of ways to be a grown-up,” I said, looking at the plate of sunflower seeds. There were also some of those addictive salt-and-pepper potato chips, which I ate straight from the bag.