complimented him on his selection.
“Nothing but the best for the ladies.” He smiled at each of us.
Tara leaned toward him and said, “ Gimme sugar.” She had puckered up, but Paul walked away and came back with the sugar bowl.
“What’s that?” We cracked up laughing and settled into the chairs, realizing how good it felt to take a load off after that run.
“Have you ever noticed that when wine is bad, you drink a lot of it to make it taste good, but when food is bad you just push it away?” I asked the table. “The ladies” started nodding their heads, and uh huh - ing . Dr. Paul, however, tilted his head to one side and then the other, the way Abby does when she hears a noise for the first time. I’ve taken a lot of kidding from my husband and everyone else I know about my questions. Once I asked my husband why you say Home Deee-po , but it’s Army de- po . And how about that expression, cusses like a sailor? Do soldiers have a broader vocabulary, since parents always say that’s why people cuss? Natch , being a soldier, he agreed with that hypothesis. Or are sailors tougher? He didn’t agree with that.
“Tara and I would like to get together with you and your husband when he’s back in town. Right, Sweetie? I’d love to hear what he has to say about what’s going on in the Middle East.” This non sequitur was probably just because he couldn’t think of a response to my bad wine versus bad food philosophical remark, but it made the hair on the back on my neck stand.
He went back to the kitchen and brought iced tea out to us. “So, how was your run?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Paul decided to return to the kitchen and finish the salad. No sir- ree , no flies on Paul.
I leaned forward and whispered, “Did you notice the lack of furniture in the Taylors’ living room last night?”
Victoria nodded. “Since she said the problems started when they moved into the new house, do you think they had money problems?”
Then Paul returned with the salad. “The leaves are spectacular this year, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Oh, yes,”
“Oh, yes.” And back to the kitchen he went.
Tara waited until he was out of hearing. “I spoke with Kelly’s mother. The service is on Monday at eleven o’clock with lunch at the house afterwards.”
“That soon? They’re performing an autopsy, right?” The tea was so good, I took more of a drag than a sip of it.
“It’s just a memorial service,” Tara answered quickly because Paul was coming back in with two bowls of homemade salad dressing. She patted the chair next to hers, and he sat down, beaming at her. We tied on the feedbags, as they say. In this case the feedbags contained garden salads with grilled shrimp.
I looked over at Paul. It was obvious he hadn’t quite recovered his equilibrium. I felt bad because, let’s face it, we are a lot to handle. “I think Dr. Paul wants to report us to Dr. Phil.”
Just then Stephie ran in, and Tara leaned over to pat her head. “He could start with our unnatural devotion to our dogs.”
“Easy now. You make it sound like we have sex with them.” I looked over to Paul. “Which we don’t, because they’re girls.”
Victoria threw her head back and laughed, and Tara snorted tea out her nose. I was cracking up at my own joke and dabbing my eyes with my napkin. Someone was missing. Oh, yeah, Paul wasn’t laughing. “Get it? They’re dogs!” He was trying, really trying. “We don’t have sex with them because they are dogs!”
“Like they say, it only seems weird the first time.” Tara patted his arm, and we went into hysterics again. Paul blushed.
The Tiara girls moved the conversation to safer ground, that of aging parents, a familiar topic. I recounted a piece of advice my mother had given me last week. She had looked at my watch and said, “Leigh, dear, only a party pooper wears a watch to a social function.”
Tara said, “Up North, when you turn
“Nothing but the best for the ladies.” He smiled at each of us.
Tara leaned toward him and said, “ Gimme sugar.” She had puckered up, but Paul walked away and came back with the sugar bowl.
“What’s that?” We cracked up laughing and settled into the chairs, realizing how good it felt to take a load off after that run.
“Have you ever noticed that when wine is bad, you drink a lot of it to make it taste good, but when food is bad you just push it away?” I asked the table. “The ladies” started nodding their heads, and uh huh - ing . Dr. Paul, however, tilted his head to one side and then the other, the way Abby does when she hears a noise for the first time. I’ve taken a lot of kidding from my husband and everyone else I know about my questions. Once I asked my husband why you say Home Deee-po , but it’s Army de- po . And how about that expression, cusses like a sailor? Do soldiers have a broader vocabulary, since parents always say that’s why people cuss? Natch , being a soldier, he agreed with that hypothesis. Or are sailors tougher? He didn’t agree with that.
“Tara and I would like to get together with you and your husband when he’s back in town. Right, Sweetie? I’d love to hear what he has to say about what’s going on in the Middle East.” This non sequitur was probably just because he couldn’t think of a response to my bad wine versus bad food philosophical remark, but it made the hair on the back on my neck stand.
He went back to the kitchen and brought iced tea out to us. “So, how was your run?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Paul decided to return to the kitchen and finish the salad. No sir- ree , no flies on Paul.
I leaned forward and whispered, “Did you notice the lack of furniture in the Taylors’ living room last night?”
Victoria nodded. “Since she said the problems started when they moved into the new house, do you think they had money problems?”
Then Paul returned with the salad. “The leaves are spectacular this year, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Oh, yes,”
“Oh, yes.” And back to the kitchen he went.
Tara waited until he was out of hearing. “I spoke with Kelly’s mother. The service is on Monday at eleven o’clock with lunch at the house afterwards.”
“That soon? They’re performing an autopsy, right?” The tea was so good, I took more of a drag than a sip of it.
“It’s just a memorial service,” Tara answered quickly because Paul was coming back in with two bowls of homemade salad dressing. She patted the chair next to hers, and he sat down, beaming at her. We tied on the feedbags, as they say. In this case the feedbags contained garden salads with grilled shrimp.
I looked over at Paul. It was obvious he hadn’t quite recovered his equilibrium. I felt bad because, let’s face it, we are a lot to handle. “I think Dr. Paul wants to report us to Dr. Phil.”
Just then Stephie ran in, and Tara leaned over to pat her head. “He could start with our unnatural devotion to our dogs.”
“Easy now. You make it sound like we have sex with them.” I looked over to Paul. “Which we don’t, because they’re girls.”
Victoria threw her head back and laughed, and Tara snorted tea out her nose. I was cracking up at my own joke and dabbing my eyes with my napkin. Someone was missing. Oh, yeah, Paul wasn’t laughing. “Get it? They’re dogs!” He was trying, really trying. “We don’t have sex with them because they are dogs!”
“Like they say, it only seems weird the first time.” Tara patted his arm, and we went into hysterics again. Paul blushed.
The Tiara girls moved the conversation to safer ground, that of aging parents, a familiar topic. I recounted a piece of advice my mother had given me last week. She had looked at my watch and said, “Leigh, dear, only a party pooper wears a watch to a social function.”
Tara said, “Up North, when you turn
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