I’m vacuuming.
I haven’t smiled since the chive blinis with creme fraiche*.
I haven’t refilled your wineglass for the last hour and when you ask me for some water I say, “No.”
I’ve shared with you the main tenets of Chinese Ancient Wisdom for Healthy Sleep, which prescribes one to be asleep by 10 o’clock to maximize the repair of energetic organs.
I excuse myself to take a shower.
When my husband suggests we get out the good whiskey, I slap him upside the head.
After I come out of the shower, I’m in my bathrobe and refuse to look you in the eyes.
When you speak to me, I say, “I can’t hear you, because I’m vacuuming.”
Earlier in the evening, I joked that my shy son should marry your gregarious daughter, but now I renege on the offer and explain that if I ever had in-laws that didn’t respond to social cues, I would scheme tirelessly until the kids divorced.
Your rack of lamb gremolata is accompanied by a note with magazine cut-out letters that read, “UHav 24 Min Left.”
I’ve set off the fire alarm sprinkler system.
I’ve just accused you of being an anti-Semite despite your years of service on the New Israel Fund’s Board of Directors.
I thank you for the offer to help clean up and hand you a compost bag along with the directions to a community garden in Staten Island.
When your glass fills with water from the activated sprinkler system, I grab it and gulp it down to ensure you remain thirsty.
I ask if you’d like to borrow the new Donna Tartt novel and when you say yes, I toss it out the window and tell you to go get it. Read More