Parents Met!

After much long and painful debate, I decided upon a cotton frock in Moroccan blue and met my boyfriend's parents. Well, that's a bit misleading; I'd in fact met his mother briefly early on but obviously things are far more weighted now.

The day (which I'd taken off from the store) dawned hazy and humid. We chartered a Northsider and picked the folks up from some relative's pied a terre in the East 30s, then hightailed it to Barney Greengrass, which struck me, in its Jewishness, brusqueness and iconic UWS Woody Allen-ness generally as a suitably exotic jumping-off point.

Of course I was odd; "he's been loved by many a worse woman" and many, many bits of trivia about my family's comprehensive history of mental illness may have issued from my lips. No matter; it was well. From there (eggs and novie, OJ coffee, toasted bagels - I recc'd, also defined "bialy") we walked the Reservoir, hit the Turner show at the Met, took the obligatory rooftop picture, headed up to Sabarsky for strudel and Wiener Melange, perused the Schieles, went back to the pad so his mom could change shoes, met my parents downtown at the West Village trattoria recc'd by Chowhound in response to my query (the whole day was very by committee), dined amicably, went to the White Horse (next door) to watch the USC game (blowout) and parted ways on mutually satisfied terms. All glibness aside, my feelings about the whole thing, philosophically and otherwise, transcend relief into real happiness.

What else...? Well, there's the possibility of legit employment, never a bad thing in an economy that I'm told is precarious. I have launched into my fall look - Early 80's Harlequin Romance Heroine Pre-Makeover, crossed with Kewpie Librarian - in earnest. Obviously this incorporates the glasses chain. Need to take a really comprehensive look at what I have with my inspiration folder in front of me. Vanity, vanity, all etc.

(Slim's friend Jim, an aesthete, has hit town. Last night they came around so I whipped up a tomato pie and some bacon. I attempted to acquaint him with the self-perpetuating Barbie Dream House that is The Scene, but since I'm not in The Scene I saved him some time be sending along that essay Jessica Roy did on The Scene that got picked up by The Scene.)