Ever start a story, only to have it sputter and die and be happy to let it go? Here's a doozy!
Author Unknown :)
Author Unknown :)
I opened the burgundy envelope with a butter knife and set it on the counter while I poured myself a cup of coffee.
I wouldn’t have been so nonchalant if I’d known what it was all about.
“You’re Invited!” was written in gold script on the front of the card. On the inside it said, “Please join us for a evening of fun, frolick, food and friendship. Friday, January 12, 6:30 p.m., Mitzi & Jim’s party palace. Adults only. Wear something soft. Bring Your Own Pomegranate!”
Bring your own pomegranate? Who ever heard of such a thing? Wear something soft? I nearly choked on my freshly ground Starbucks as I pondered this odd invite that was starting to give me nearly as much anxiety as watching CNN before bed.
Mitzi and Jim lived on the other side of the block. I’d met them a couple of times while walking the dog and had seen them swimming at neighborhood health club. They were nice enough. But they seemed just as ordinary as any of us here in our cozy little suburban paradise.
Maybe I should consult a friend on the whole pomegranate thing. What must the other neighbors be thinking? Would they really bring their own pomegranate? What would we do with a whole pile of pomegranates?
I asked around and it was all very mysterious. Noone on our street was talking.
When the day finally arrived and I walked into Mitzi’s kitchen to deposit my fruit, the conversation was heated.
“Delcine, don’t be so fucking naïve.”
Helen was across the room, halfway between the butler’s pantry and the kitchen island, struggling with the cork on a bottle of red wine.
Delcine, peeling carrots at the sink for a tray of crudités and dip, looked up at Martha with a look of shock on her face.
“Martha! You don’t have to talk like that!”
“Well, it’s damn frustrating. You’d think you were a little girl.”
Helen, still wrangling with the wine, began to make odd noises from throat as if…..Oh my God, she was totally faking it. Look at that! How could she possibly think we wouldn’t know! It was so obvious. The way she was squinting her eyes too hard. The bend in the knee and the forward lean. So not real! The ridiculous noises she was making – ahhhh, ahhhhh, mmmmm, oooooh, ah-ah-ah. Oh for heaven’s sakes. We really needed to talk. I mean, there was no need. No need for this. Oh my God, there she went again, twisting her hips like a fool and squeezing her knees together.
“Ahhhh, mmmmm, yaaaaa, mmmmmph, ah-ah-ah-ah-CHOO!”
Oh sweet baby Jesus! Hell-oh! That was so NOT a sneeze!
“Get real sweetheart,” Martha barked, hyperfocused on her spat with Delcine and oblivious to the true excitement on my side of the room. “When I said, ‘the other white meat,’ I wasn’t talking about pork. Pull your head out!”
Helen’s face was as red as the old vine zinfandel she’d just uncorked between her legs.
Well then. This was going to be one hell of a garden party.