Good Greek Girls Don't by Georgia Tsialtas

long.

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    I still can’t believe I let myself get roped into this. I need my head read. I do not want to be at a barbecue at Katerina’s. I do not want to be set up with some dope who can’t get himself a date. Actually, he’s a decent looking guy so I can’t understand why he can’t get himself a date. There’s obviously something fundamentally wrong with him. Maybe he’s gay and Katerina wants me to confirm it. That’s got to be it. Why am I not convinced of this? Why do I know deep down in my gut that this Chris isn’t gay? Why am I so nervous about this whole thing? All I have to do is go in there and, if the situation calls for it, be my sweet, sarcastic, smart arse self and put an end to it all. That’s what I’ll do. Be myself and finally put an end to Kati’s ridiculous matchmaking attempts. It’ll serve her right when this all blows up in her face. After all, I’ve been up since six this morning making fried rice and a cake and it’s her bloody fault that I am now sitting in the car outside her place trying to figure out just how the hell I am going to make it up the steps without dropping everything. I know I’m talented but juggling is one skill I forgot to master.
    Okay, I can do this. I can get out of the car and carefully balance the dishes. Here I go. Amazingly, I make it up the stairs and I even manage to knock on her door without loosing the rice or the cake. God I’m such a wog. No matter how hard I try to deny it, I am what I am: a wog. After all, I’m here with a tub of rice and a cake and I didn’t even cheat and get my mother to make it. In fact, I think my mother almost had a heart attack when she saw me making a walnut cake in the kitchen. I think she thought I didn’t actually know where the kitchen was or what it was used for. I swear she was crossing herself when she saw me. You’d think she just witnessed a miracle or something.
    â€˜What the hell are you wearing, Des?’ What sort of a greeting is that after I have slaved in a hot kitchen all day for her?
    â€˜Jeans and a tank top, Kati. You remember those from your pre-pregnancy days don’t you?’ Okay, I’m a bitch, but she deserved that one. ‘You want to help me with this stuff.’ At least she has taken the rice from me so now I can juggle the cake and my handbag.
    â€˜Couldn’t you have worn a skirt or something? Y’know, dressed up a bit?’
    Geez, what sort of image of me does she want to present?
    â€˜Kati, last time I checked, jeans were perfectly acceptable for a barbecue. Besides, I may be stuck in the kitchen with you, but I am not dressing like a 1950s wog wife.’
    â€˜I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Deep down, you’re just a softie.’
    â€˜Shut up, Kati.’ God, it’s a good thing she’s pregnant otherwise there is no way I would have taken the bait. ‘I’m only here to help you out. Soon as the major stuff is done, I am out of here.’ Bitchiness in the voice is so evident. Katerina just laughs at me. I can’t believe that she finds all this amusing. And she knows as well as I do that the major stuff won’t be over till at least two in the morning. God, it’s only just gone four. It’s going to be a long night.

    Okay, we’ve chopped salads, the meat is ready to be thrown on the barbie, the tables are set and the cutlery is wrapped in napkins. Everything is done. My mother would have a heart attack if she could see me. Everything that I don’t do at home I have done here. Okay, so I am a little bit lazy at home, but that’s only because I know that everything will get done eventually, so why kill myself over the whole domestic scene of life?
    Looking over at Katerina, I’ve got to ask.
    â€˜So how much time have we got before the masses arrive?’ It’s six-thirty; I know I don’t