Last night, a moment of panic at the Italian restaurant, as we gorged gratis and celebrated some nice young men who've done well. Last night, it was all about the ho, ho, mazel tov on your new company. It was all about the kibbitzing with folks I don't know, but hubby does, so it was my wifely duty to schmooze along and smile a bunch. According to my personal Yelp review, I got three out of five stars for social graces. I deducted two stars for what happened, post-calamari, pizza and pasta. As I sat there, waiting for our tiramisu, my lips conveyed an urgent message. They felt unlovely. They felt naked. They felt neglected. Well, no problema. All I had to do was reach into my evening bag and produce my lipstick and gloss. But bad things happen when I go from day to night and switch bags. I forget things. Like my lipstick and gloss. Hence, the moment of panic. I whispered to hubby, "I don't have my lipstick." "I'm sorry," he said, for he knows how much a thing like this pains me. "Can we leave?" "No." "But honey..." "Your lips look fine." "Don't lie." "I'm not." "So, they look okay?" "More than okay. They look lovely." "What about the teeth? Anything stuck in there?" "No, the teeth are good." At this juncture, dessert arrived. "One bite of tiramisu and we're out of here." "How do you feel about three bites?" "I feel better about two." "Two bites each." "Fine. Two bites and -- oh my God, this is good." "We might as well finish it." "It would be rude not to."
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