Being Socially Correct

I take my cues from Bree on the television show Desperate Housewives when it comes to entertaining and being entertained – she is sort of my role model where socializing is concerned. I bring this up because, a couple of years ago, my ex-husband (of 38 years)  called one of my brothers and told him that he and his Internet bride (who shall be called Buffy  during the rest of my story) had invited Tom, my new husband,  and me to Thanksgiving dinner (Liar, liar, pants on fire!!), but he didn’t know if  we were coming or not. Even though I wouldn’t have gone, even if h---  was freezing over, I have thought about what it would be like.  Here’s how I see it going down: I am, as always, gracious. We arrive on time, and I present the host and hostess a nice chocolate pie that I have lovingly prepared using Ex-Lax instead of chocolate. Of course, I tell Tom to stay “very away” from that pie. After the formalities are over, I say to Buffy: “I really like what you’ve done with what used to be my house. What do you call this? “Abundant Plastic?” “Rural Redneck?” “Vinyl Fantasy?”

During dinner, I am very careful to exhibit my finest manners. At some point, I turn to my ex and say: “Would you be a dear and pass the mashed potatoes?” I also converse with Buffy because to not do so would be rude, and I certainly don’t want to be that. Annoying, perhaps, but not rude. I glance her way and say: “So, tell me, Buffy, how have you and my ex solved his pesky little sexual problem that I recently heard about?” As a guest, I see it as at least partially my responsibility to create and engage in stimulating conversation. Now that I think about it, stimulation may be exactly what the ex needs . . .  h-m-m-m. 

After dinner, we sit and make small talk that means absolutely nothing. At some point, I  excuse myself and go to the bathroom – the one off by the utility room. While in there, I find the ex’s stash of Playboy magazines and I rip all the centerfolds out. I flush them down the toilet (stopping it up in the process.) Tom and I then say our goodbyes, and there is some hugging, which is totally fakey. It takes everything I’ve got to not . . . well,  just imagine the shower scene from the movie Psycho and you’ll get the picture. I make my exit with all the grace and dignity that I can muster.

Life is too short to not accept the offer of a free meal, especially with those two pillars of the community. After all, Bree would go, and she’d be d— gracious in the process.