Don't be so quick to assume that I am evil.
I always loathed these tea parties. Tabby invites me every Sunday over for some Orange Pekoe with the girls, and most of the time I have a pretty well prepared excuse as to why I cannot make it (sore throat, punctured left lung, slipped on the soap and bruised my septum making it horribly unpleasant to drink out of cups) But this Sunday I was unable, somehow, to shake her off. Even when I explained that there was a mysterious fungus growing on the bottoms of my feet and that it could be contagious, she pulled the ex-husband card on me. I may hate these women but I do love hearing them complain about their failed marriages. Within an hour I would be in my shitty Nissan heading over for tea.
I sit quietly on the couch and keep the cup up to my face as much as possible to mask my smiles of delight when they burst into tears or go on raging rants about how he would always leave his chest hair on the soap. Then I squirm uncomfortably when they try to comfort each other; I'm always afraid this will result in some kind of group reaction, like a hug of some sort, and I will be expected to participate actively. The mere thought of hugging a crying grown woman makes my skin crawl. I often bring up the subject of these tea parties with my own husband and he is convinced that all we talk about are men and where to get a decent pedicure. If only my husband knew what I put in his coffee in the morning.
"He was always telling me how much he loved me, every morning!" Wailed Dorothy Amble, my neighbour with poor taste in flower arrangement who's daughter got accepted to Yale because her mother fucked the headmaster (I know people who talk), "But then I found out he was sleeping with the--"
At this moment, all the women in the room try to conceal their excitement. They want to know who her husband replaced her with and depending on how dramatic the choice was, they'll gauge the decibels of their "Aw! Dory we're so sorry!"
"He was sleeping with the gardener!"
I drop my sugar cube into my tea cup a little louder than I expected. Now this is a first; her act of infidelity can be excused now because she simply supported another player for one night. Her husband completely switched teams.
"The gardener? Allan!? I asked him to trim my hedges on Monday...he's gay? Really?"
"Well, a man who handles flowers so delicately..."
"He must have the softest hands..."
That was Pruda Lolowitz. She never seemed to understand the gravity of a situation and had a distinct fear of newspapers. Supposedly the ink was toxic to her airways and she would clam up and begin panting if ever you touched her with one. I'm pretty sure she had some kind of hand lotion fetish. In a month's time, we would find out that Allan is in fact bisexual and she would have tested her soft hand theory.
It always baffles me how concerned older women are about getting older. There is never some kind of plateau of satisfaction with one's appearance or age. There's always something you wish you were younger for. Naturally, the conversation would turn to younger people, namely our daughters and sons. I just can't pay attention to a room full of women gushing about how wonderful their children are when I know deep down they want to scream like banshees and steal their youthful skin.
"It's so hard to keep those boys off of my daughter," Pruda complains, "I should have known I would have trouble with her when she started cheerleading..."
"Cheerleading? That's nothing. My daughter is head of the debate team and you should see how horny those boys get watching her shoot down straw man arguments and red herrings. I can't let her go to meets in other cities because I'm sure she'll get pregnant!"
"What about you, Sarah? You've been awfully quiet all this time! How's your daughter?"
I almost choke on my tea. All of a sudden there's this cloud of attention floating over me and I have no idea how to deflect it.
"My daughter's a lesbian." I answer bluntly.
And now I revel in the uncomfortable silence I have created in a stereotypical housewife's suburban home. The five of them exchange nervous glances before simply smiling with those creepy squinty eyes that say "That's nice...and we're all fake!"
"And I keep her in a cage in my basement. I only let her out when she goes to school so I don't need to worry about people corrupting her or boys molesting her because she has very little contact with the outside world. Makes my life much easier." And I take a long sip of my lukewarm tea. It was Mirabel's turn to drop her sugar cube, but she was not as lucky as to drop it in her tea. It scuttled across the carpet and rested by Dorothy's right shoe.
All five raised their cups to their lips, wide eyed, and drank in silence.
It comes to dawn on me then that these tea parties aren't so bad...it's nice to get something off your chest from time to time.
I sit quietly on the couch and keep the cup up to my face as much as possible to mask my smiles of delight when they burst into tears or go on raging rants about how he would always leave his chest hair on the soap. Then I squirm uncomfortably when they try to comfort each other; I'm always afraid this will result in some kind of group reaction, like a hug of some sort, and I will be expected to participate actively. The mere thought of hugging a crying grown woman makes my skin crawl. I often bring up the subject of these tea parties with my own husband and he is convinced that all we talk about are men and where to get a decent pedicure. If only my husband knew what I put in his coffee in the morning.
"He was always telling me how much he loved me, every morning!" Wailed Dorothy Amble, my neighbour with poor taste in flower arrangement who's daughter got accepted to Yale because her mother fucked the headmaster (I know people who talk), "But then I found out he was sleeping with the--"
At this moment, all the women in the room try to conceal their excitement. They want to know who her husband replaced her with and depending on how dramatic the choice was, they'll gauge the decibels of their "Aw! Dory we're so sorry!"
"He was sleeping with the gardener!"
I drop my sugar cube into my tea cup a little louder than I expected. Now this is a first; her act of infidelity can be excused now because she simply supported another player for one night. Her husband completely switched teams.
"The gardener? Allan!? I asked him to trim my hedges on Monday...he's gay? Really?"
"Well, a man who handles flowers so delicately..."
"He must have the softest hands..."
That was Pruda Lolowitz. She never seemed to understand the gravity of a situation and had a distinct fear of newspapers. Supposedly the ink was toxic to her airways and she would clam up and begin panting if ever you touched her with one. I'm pretty sure she had some kind of hand lotion fetish. In a month's time, we would find out that Allan is in fact bisexual and she would have tested her soft hand theory.
It always baffles me how concerned older women are about getting older. There is never some kind of plateau of satisfaction with one's appearance or age. There's always something you wish you were younger for. Naturally, the conversation would turn to younger people, namely our daughters and sons. I just can't pay attention to a room full of women gushing about how wonderful their children are when I know deep down they want to scream like banshees and steal their youthful skin.
"It's so hard to keep those boys off of my daughter," Pruda complains, "I should have known I would have trouble with her when she started cheerleading..."
"Cheerleading? That's nothing. My daughter is head of the debate team and you should see how horny those boys get watching her shoot down straw man arguments and red herrings. I can't let her go to meets in other cities because I'm sure she'll get pregnant!"
"What about you, Sarah? You've been awfully quiet all this time! How's your daughter?"
I almost choke on my tea. All of a sudden there's this cloud of attention floating over me and I have no idea how to deflect it.
"My daughter's a lesbian." I answer bluntly.
And now I revel in the uncomfortable silence I have created in a stereotypical housewife's suburban home. The five of them exchange nervous glances before simply smiling with those creepy squinty eyes that say "That's nice...and we're all fake!"
"And I keep her in a cage in my basement. I only let her out when she goes to school so I don't need to worry about people corrupting her or boys molesting her because she has very little contact with the outside world. Makes my life much easier." And I take a long sip of my lukewarm tea. It was Mirabel's turn to drop her sugar cube, but she was not as lucky as to drop it in her tea. It scuttled across the carpet and rested by Dorothy's right shoe.
All five raised their cups to their lips, wide eyed, and drank in silence.
It comes to dawn on me then that these tea parties aren't so bad...it's nice to get something off your chest from time to time.
5 comments:
I usually funny fiction but this is genuinely hilarious. Well done! I like the last line, I love the way you use the tea-cups as props for cutting up the dialogue and the thoughts and just showing stuff in general.
I really enjoyed this piece. I was not expecting the the protagonist's reply, and I am not sure whether I like it or not. It feels somewhat too absurd to be said at the tea party, whether it was meant as a joke or not.
Other than that, I really wanted to read more.
I wanted more.
This was clever and really felt like someone's train of thought.
The only 2 things that bothered me were Nissan being mispelled and the lack of a paragraph break in the following: "He must have the softest hands..." [P] That was Pruda Lolowitz"
I really wanted more. It was so funny and disturbing. It was great. I'm glad you posted and I am pleased with this submission.
9thumbswayupkthx
@Everybody: thank you m'dears.
@Davina: Oh come on. Any socially detached human being would take great pleasure in freaking out their neighbours with such news
@Mike: I have fixed the problems.
Nissan did in fact escape me.
Ahahaha this is so entertaining. I feel like this could go on forever about all the neighbours, Desperate Housewives style, except from the point of view of this narrator who obviously doesn't want to be there.
"It scuttled across the carpet and rested by Dorothy's right shoe." Teeheehee I love this line. I don't know why. It makes the sugar cube sound cute.
I kind of agree with Davina about the lie being outrageous...I thought the other women would react more strongly than they did. But then the ending line, "it's nice to get something off your chest from time to time," made me wonder if it was a lie at all.
My only complaint is when you describe their facial expressions as "That's nice...and we're all fake!" I thought that was already pretty obvious since that was the main point of the story. But that's an easy fix, just cut out the tail end of that line. Other than that, I really enjoyed this :)!
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