i looked it up.
wiki says that a social person is basically one who enjoys spending time
in the company of others, especially large groups.
now . . . to be a good wife. a good wife if your handsome husband is
in business for himself . . . and whose said business depends on new
contacts (seemingly forever) being made . . . you need to have certain
. . . ahem . . . skills.
like social skills.
my darling bob soon discovered that perhaps that might be one of my
he did adore me. and he let me know so.
even he had to admit. entertaining large groups of people and going to
the houses of hostesses who were entertaining large groups of people . . .
well. it just wasn’t . . . nor is it still . . . my forte’.
just the two occasions i’ve shared with you here on the peanut
should tell you that.
the party where i insulted the man who walked on the moon for pete’s sake.
and then there was the one where i (non-drinker) that i was got soused
with a new lady acquaintance in the kitchen of the hostess, snooping
around her house.
( new peanut readers just go to categories and click on ‘so embarrassing!’ )
you’ll soon see the beginnings of a sad list.
and oh. i suppose that sad list will go on and on.
but back to the non social good wife . . .
i remember a time that i hosted a lovely ladies’ luncheon and tea at my
i had planned everything down to the last second. all seemed to be
WHAT ???? OH NO! OH DEAR GOD WHO ART IN HEAVEN ! ! !
please say it isn’t so. how does anybody forget THAT ???
i raced next door. nobody home. nor the door on the other side.
no car. bob had taken our only car to the office and appointments.
too late anyway to call him. the door bell is already ringing.
ladies arriving in their best dresses.
good grief charlie brown. who does that these days? their best dresses!
but they did back then.
the house was spotless. the food looked okay. the tea was made.
i am sweating like a pig. a poor little pig on its way to market.
oh . . . somebody DELIVER me! i don’t know ANY of these women.
some are nice. some are snooty. that’s always the way it seems.
well. i do what i can.
i make small talk until i can excuse myself to go to the hall cabinet.
there i take out an unopened CLEAN roll of white toilet paper.
i take it to the table in the dining room.
i carefully measure each ‘luncheon napkin’ as four squares.
yes. that’s about right.
three are too few. cheap. chincy looking.
five or six are too many . . .
looks like what they might use if they actually
are USING it in the bathroom for what it’s actually for. dear god.
so four squares it is.
i fold each little “napkin” of four squares of toilet paper and arrange
them on the buffet table as prettily as i can manage.
you ask where were the paper towels? i don’t know. there were none.
it was the first thing i thought of using too. to no avail.
toilet paper is what it was.
for my fancy schmancy luncheon . . .
of potential important clients for my darling absent husband.
there are still women to this day . . . whom (always wanted to use that
word in the proper place) . . . are talking about the fancy luncheon
where they were given toilet paper to wipe their dainty mouths.
here’s the deal.
i finally had a serious talk with my bob.
“bob. i will back you 100% in anything and everything you want to do.
you know that.”
he said. “i do know that.”
“well then you need to know this too. i have gone to my LAST fancy
cocktail party. i have given my LAST fancy luncheon. and i have met
my LAST astronaut.” X$$@!&# yes. i did swear.
i can. i have. and i sometimes do.
only for the serious stuff though. and this was serious.
he picked me up. he whirled me around.
i was his best girl.
turns out it didn’t even matter if i was a ‘social person’ good wife.
now . . . this is my kind of party.