From the mail-gods yesterday came a cute little Flat Stanley from my neice Morgan (Flat Morgan) for us to dress and cart around the city.
We took a million pictures of Flat Morgan. Flat Morgan with B, Flat Morgan with N, Flat Morgan with our insane view of Brooklyn, and Flat Morgan with Peter Pan (who promptly removed Flat Morgan's flat pants).
Then we took Flat Morgan to our friends' apartment on the seventh floor to eat the flattest, greasiest, best-pizza-after-Grimaldi's which always has a two hour wait even on a Tuesday night pizza.
These friends happen to have a 2-day-old squishy human that I'd been dying to spread mushy kisses over, so we slipped Flat Morgan into the paper bag next to the pizza, where she traveled down the elevator in style with flat parmesan cheese and red pepper flake packets. Hours later, we embarked back home on the elevator back to the magical land of the seventeenth floor, whereupon we realized we had left Flat Morgan in the flat paper bag in the greasy flat-pizza box.
We rescued her just in time to avoid a flat pizza death.
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