© Stephan Andrade

I went to a Christmas party at the home of one of my husband’s friends, even though I was close to backing out at the last minute. Backing out of things has been my m.o. for most of my life, but I’m making an effort to get out and socialize. God knows I’m sick of my own company.

The host was a lovely and talented young man who can play any stringed instrument and cooked up an incredible feast, including a salmon mousse. His apartment is right beneath the Hollywood sign, and was cozy and festive. I greeted him and his family and went straight to the food.

I met his mom for the first time and fell in love with her. She confided that having retired, all she does is read 19th century novels and watch murder TV! THAT’S ALL I DO, TOO!!! She has read all of Trollope, twice. I would marry her if I could.

A guy named B overheard us talking and later came up to me to say, I know you like 19th century novels but do you also read any modern novels? I replied that I have no interest in contemporary fiction because I’m too much of a book snob. You’d think that would be the end of it but no.

He proceeded to mention a few writers I’ve never heard of but even their names were middlebrow. He asked, Don’t you want to know what younger people today are thinking about? I said, “No, I have younger friends so I already know their perspective.” He didn’t like this answer and then told me about Jennifer Something, who has written three novels, and went on to describe the plots of each one.

I stood politely trying not to have a heart attack from anxiety and frustration. Why was he torturing me? When he finally paused, I asked him if he likes short stories, thinking maybe we had that in common. He said he occasionally reads the fiction in the New Yorker. Now here was something I had an opinion on! I said, “Don’t you think that the New Yorker fiction is always” but he turned and walked away.

I sat down next to a nice woman I’ve met before and we talked about the stress of being online. We agreed that the current climate is especially tense and divisive. She noted that it annoyed her how many people denied there was a “genocide going on in Palestine.” As a Jewish Jew, I countered with, “Yeah, and the people who don’t believe Israeli women were raped and tortured!” Luckily, we agreed that miniature donkeys are adorable.

Later, I met a lovely couple who had family in Jerusalem. The husband, who was French, confided, “I hate Netanyahu” to which I interjected something like Duh, it’s a given, “but I hate Hamas more.” We talked about the worldwide explosion of antisemitism. They both has interesting jobs and asked me what I do. I blurted out, “Nothing. I am nothing.” Luckily my husband was in earshot and he leaned in and said, “She’s a writer.”

I noticed a very thin woman dressed in black and wearing a big fedora. Women who wear hats are one of my pet peeves so I instinctively disliked her. I heard her say, “This is my husband, Steve.” Suddenly, I recalled an awful woman on Instagram who used to keep referring to her husband Steve. I remember that Steve bought her a $10,000 engagement ring. I sat down with my phone and went to Instagram. Yes, it was that awful woman! I was so pleased with myself that I looked around to see if there was anyone I could gloat to. Obviously, I restricted gloating to my husband.

Back at the food table, I started talking to a debonair looking guy in a black shirt who had silver hair and a matching beard. I asked him if he was a musician, since most of the guests were musicians as well as the host. He said yes, and we started talking about song lyrics. He was saying something about how you often didn’t know what your lyrics were really about until you performed the song. I went on a short rant about how a bad lyric. or even a stupid word in the lyric, ruined the whole song for me. I ended with, “a stupid cliched lyric is like an electric shock!” He looked kind of bemused.

While driving home, my husband praised me for ignoring a guy named Richard, who I hate with the force of a thousand suns. I was flabbergasted. I said, “WHAT? RICHARD WAS THERE?” I  was stunned. I couldn’t believe I never noticed him!

I asked my husband if he knew a guy named Jackson, who I discussed lyrics with. He said, “Yeah, that was Jackson Browne.”

What a night! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and even to those who don’t. xo

Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading  The Story of the Lesbian Stick.

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* Heartfelt atheist blessings to all you people who come here and especially you special ones who have given me so much. xo

Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading  The Story of the Lesbian Stick.

~

* Heartfelt atheist blessings to all you people who come here and especially you special ones who have given me so much. xo

Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading  The Story of the Lesbian Stick.

~

* Heartfelt atheist blessings to all you people who come here and especially you special ones who have given me so much. xo

Let us all follow the Christmas tradition* of reading The Story of the Lesbian Stick.

~

*This year it’s dedicated to Max. Thanks, honey! You know how much I treasure that stick. xoxo

Awww, Little Sister Wolf at 3 years old.   This picture is up on a bulletin board in the living room, with masses of other family photos.   I always thought it was cute until one of my friends deemed it “Tragic.” You know who you are, mister.

My alltime favorite response, from quite a few people: “Why is Max wearing a dress?”