I was afraid to move, for the decor (but I managed to squeeze in six meatballs, anyway).
We were at a baby shower–of all things!–in a house where no baby should trod, a house cluttered with curio after curio, fairies, ceramic rabbit miniatures, mermaid paintings, fur rugs, live cats that looked like fur rugs, leather chairs, wall draperies over dragon paintings, china tea sets on low stools, plastic-covered oriental rugs, a stringless harp, a sparkly purple cabinet, a glass table mounted on a marble-looking dragon wings pedestal near a marble-looking hearth, and a rumored full-blown sports bar upstairs.
Thankfully, N was absorbed with a celery stick and the muted NASCAR on the TV and wasn’t too unsatisfied with her lap confinement, which allowed us the leisure to overhear that the hostess cleans every Saturday for six hours, and that she’s told her mom and friends to stop giving her trinkets because she’s tired of them.
Our bibelot is of a completely different feather:
