This is Bossy’s mom’s house, and last night the family was invited over for a special Mother’s Day dinner, and what made this Mother’s Day dinner special was the fact that the meal was catered entirely by Bossy’s brother and Bossy’s husband:
The two men planned and shopped and schlepped and chopped and cooked and assembled:
But what Bossy failed to realize about dinner cooked entirely by two men, was how much free time Bossy would have available to sit around and chat with her mom and sister-in-law. And drink wine. Lots of red wine.
After a melon and prosciutto appetizer, the family sat down to their meal: spaghetti with meatballs and sausage, and a mixed green salad with blue cheese and apples:
And for the next hour Bossy ate like the thirteenth starving child in a family of fourteen. And she drank wine like the thirteenth starving child in a family of fourteen—assuming starving children from large families drink wine.
And then Bossy scarfed a bowl of bread pudding and a dish of chocolate ice cream and more wine, wine! And why won’t the wine come out of the bottle when it’s empty?
By 11 p.m. Bossy was home in bed, where her troubles were only beginning. The first problem was this:
It’s an article in the New Yorker, and Bossy decided it would be a terrific idea to read it as she was falling asleep. It’s about a very promising young chef who found out he has tongue cancer and radiation treatments have ruined his taste buds and now the poor fellow can’t taste his creations and what is this sore on the inside of Bossy’s right cheek?
To cheer herself up, Bossy stayed up even later reading the following article in the same magazine:
It’s about a famous photo retoucher named Pascal Dangin, and when you see all of those perfect women in all of those perfect magazine layouts you can blame Pascal.
The article details Pascal’s ability to seamlessly reshape shoulder blades and redefine cheekbones, and before Bossy knew it she had drifted off into a dream, and in this dream she was a photographer.
And in this dream, Bossy’s assignment as a photographer was to shoot photos of a very wealthy man, because when you are a photographer more famous than Annie Leibovitz you don’t take pictures, you shoot them.
And speaking of the wealthy man in her dream, Bossy has no idea who he was but she will now attempt to capture his essence:
And then Bossy awoke to the tortures of a bedside lamp still on, her eyeglasses crumpled under her throat, and her liver enzymes breaking down the complex sugars of last night’s Fetzer Merlot.