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This weekend, I met some girlfriends in New York City for dinner. God, I love Manhattan. The air is so filled with energy and potential. A feeling I don’t always have as four children whirl endlessly around me, often whining and sobbing with every turn.

But tonight, they are all tucked in their beds or at least no longer under my care. And I’m meeting two of my closest friends for a civilized girls dinner at Fig & Olive.

And then my friend Jordana walks in and I am a bit startled because she looks like… well, she looks like this:

I did not expect that hat. Is it a hat? It’s not her hair. It’s not a hair piece. It’s not an animal. Well, not anymore. Yes, definitely a hat. Turns out it belonged to her great aunt Florence.

Bold head piece Florence.

Dinner is fabulous. With old friends. The kind of dinner that you never edit anything you say. We talk about how often you really have to bathe your children. No one votes for every day. And whether a girl’s private parts show the effects of age (sadly, yes). And the balance between children and work and sanity.

Finally, after withering glares from women who want our table (and no one can glare like New Yorkers), we step out into the street.

My friend Alex tries on the hat.

Okay, give it to me. I want to try it on.

This dead thing on my head might be growing on me.

24 Responses to that’s not my dog. it’s my hat.

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kelcey kintner