Good-bye, lovely.
'Tis the end of an era: I am, at long last, selling my crazy-amazing antique lamp.
(You know, the one that I found at a junk shop for $75 and purchased despite the fact that my friend Katie declared it to officially be The Most Hideous Lamp Ever Created and literally could not believe that anyone on the planet would think otherwise?) That one.)
When I was pregnant with my son, I asked my parents whether they'd babyproofed for me, already pretty certain what the answer would be, because they did things like put me in a backpack and then drive around New York City on their motorcycles. And sure enough: "No," they said, "Why would we do that? We just told you not to touch things. So you didn't."*
Why has no one ever thought of this before?! You just tell a child not to do something, and then they simply listen to you! GENIUS.
Armed with this obviously foolproof approach, I set about doing the exact same thing with my own child, theorizing that if I let our home remain fairly adult-y, he'd be better-equipped to handle himself in other people's non-child-proofed homes, in public spaces, etc. I did the basics, of course, but I left our table edges uncovered, only locked up cabinets with actual chemicals in them, and never purchased one of those seat-lock thingies that make your toilet impossible for anyone - adults included - to open.
I miss New York City pizza so much. Whenever I go back to the city, I head straight to Claudio's on 10th Avenue not because it has amazing pizza...just because it's right there next to my parents' house, and even non-amazing New York pizza is amazing. (It's a cliche, but an absolutely true one. Even the 99-cent pizza you get from the random kiosk outside the Port Authority Bus Station? Amazing.)
Pizza in California is not amazing. I've found a few places that are good - even very good - but they're all of the personal pizza variety, and tend to be fancied up way more than I want my pizza to be. I need a medium crust. And red sauce. And a lot of drippy, melty cheese. That is all.
So I started making pizza myself, and you know what I discovered?
I think I bought our house because of the pool (okaaaaay, and the school system). Not because our pool is especially pretty - it's not. And was extra-not when we moved in thanks to a semi-terrifying algae issue that alerted us to the fact that the water hadn't been changed in eight to ten years (uggggggg). No no: the exciting thing about our pool was the fact that it existed. And was part of a property that we could actually afford. (Such a fortuitous combination is, shall we say, "uncommon" in the Silicon Valley area.)
The reason I wanted a pool so much is because I hate entertaining. (Stay with me, because I'm aware that this doesn't make sense.)
See, here's the thing: entertaining makes me fall asleep, like those narcoleptic goats on YouTube. I've mentioned this before, and it's true: all I have to do to get in a really good nap is know that I am about to be forced to interact with large numbers of human beings.
My mom - like many, many moms out there, apparently - has always collected teacups, and over the years she's passed off a handful to me as "gifts" (a.k.a. "things she has too many of and no room for"). Which means I, too, now have a lot of teacups. Some of them are family heirlooms and belong safely tucked away in my china cabinet, but others are just...teacups. I have no special attachment to them, but they're not the kind of thing you toss in the garbage, you know?
Enter Mollie's grandmother, Shotzy (which, if you're wondering, means "Darling" in German, because of course it does). Shotzy loved having a perfectly matched table, so whenever one of her teacups broke, she passed on the rest of the set to one of her granddaughters.
(Is all of this not the most charming thing you've ever heard?)
