There’s a “Season Kick Off” party here at Woodfield this weekend, said to be “A bat-mitzvah on crack.” I’m on the fence about going. First, we’re not big dancers. I wish we were, I do. But, we’re not. Phil’s especially not. And then, there’s the food. Each email is more revealing than the next, with an itemized list of food promise. “Themed action food stations,” an “infamous raw bar,” and a lavish dessert display. Good God, how do I say no? Worse, how do I say, “just a little.” This feels like a date with funnel cake. So bad, so good. I’m going. That’s that. Besides, it’s fun to dress up, to coordinate, to make new memories—food or otherwise. Now, the real question of the day and night: how should I style the shop out of a little black dress with a high slung collar (necklace won’t work unless it’s long)? Hair in a puffy bun with some Mongolian lamb stole? Nude heels, nude nails? Or should I go gray nails and peep booties? Oh, to be a girl in this world.

The “After Party” did not include a Key Party. Or, maybe it did, but I wasn’t invited. The after was the day after, a carnival and family BBQ with a bunch of hungover people in search of grease-fast and sunblock, just not in that order.

Caught double-fisted. Takes after her mama.

Woodfield Sunday Afternoon Family BBQ