My best two girl friends – Jennifer and Christine --
recently took me out for an early dinner while my husband Ryan stayed home and watched
Baby Piper.
Christine, a cosmopolitan mom of two beautiful girls had
freshly coiffed hair and tons of parenting wisdom. As an aside, Christine and I
were roommates in the mid-90’s in San Francisco when we were so poor that in lieu
of a dresser, Christine kept her clean underwear in a paper bag. “It does get
easier. I swear!” She said waving a glass of champagne. She was talking about parenting. Not underwear.
Jennifer is currently going through a divorce with more
style than anyone I have ever seen (hello, Jimmy Choos!). Incidentally Jen and
I worked together at a PR agency, during that same timeframe when Christine
kept her undies in a bag, where we were thrown into situations that we had little
experience to handle and one time, via an unfortunate press release typo, we
almost managed to delay a start-up’s IPO. But I digress.
This particular night, Jen talked about her plans to hit
some bars on Haight Street post-dinner. I demanded that Jen send me text
message updates from the bars while I went back home to care for the baby. I
thought of it as sort of receiving messages from my former life. She obliged
and sent me notes such as:
“There is a man here wearing a fur coat!” from gay bar Trax.
“Deluxe has much better looking men. And fresh squeezed
juice!” from 50’s style hipster bar, Club Deluxe.
I wanted to return the favor to let her know what she was
missing. My update text to her:
“Ryan is watching the Simpsons. And clipping his toenails!”
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