It was Marie Callender's turkey and dressing dinners to be specific. But I expect we'll be seeing the Pillsbury Dough Boy popping up any day now, right?
Honestly this gives me the willies! With these two rotating girlfriends floating in and out of here every-other weekend, who knows what kind of confused and conflicted social season this will be. This house has already been ostracized, to a degree, since the divorce. What now?
Do these women expect to have holiday cocktail parties and sit-down dinners for their friends, to show off their new situation in life? Which has been my experience with all the new comers.
Like suddenly the house will fill up with all kinds of
Or, if you lay out an exquisite table for these nice folks with eight-or-ten eating utensils and four drinking goblets - red wine, white wine, water and a champagne flute - just stand back and get ready for some good laughs. (Did that sound judgmental?)
The thing is, if these two women can get their party dates straight without intersecting one another, will the caterers be able to accommodate? This is the stuff nightmares are made of.
In self defense I've learned to keep plenty of beer in the wine cellar and frozen pizzas, hamburger patties and buns on hand - in case I need to fire up the grill without any help from caterers. The thought has actually crossed my mind to buy some paper plates and plastic forks, but I'm afraid Nelda, our ancient executive housekeeper, would have a stroke. So I guess it will be frozen pizza served on Flora Danica china, with sterling knives and forks and a linen napkin - served down at the pool to people in their birthday suits. 👀
However, the nice thing about this particular ilk is that they tend to eat pizza and burgers with their fingers, so there's really no need to polish the silver afterward. And they also have a unique and appreciated tendency to help clean up - which lets us get out of here quicker.
Please don't blame me for mentally retreating into more tranquil times (before the divorce) when the Missus would throw a small gala for four-or-five hundred people, all dripping in diamonds and haute couture, fully catered of course - and no one running around butt naked!
Happy Hour, here I come! Thanks for stopping by this evening.