Blast-off

Last night, the president of a club my husband has joined invited the members and their wives to a wonderful supper replete with anything you wanted to drink and delicious food. There were some shrimp that were to die for.

To my consternation, an announcement was made that all the women would sit in the living room "to get to know one another", while the men gathered outdoors in the pleasant garden. I thought maybe this was a temporary arrangement, but as the evening wore on and we women had more or less shot our conversational bolt with topics such as how nice the house looked, people we know (not me, I don't know anyone in the rancid aristocracy of the neighborhood, at least not women), and other burning topics, I noticed with horror that there were two tables set up--one indoors and one outside. My head was beginning to ache and I was getting angry at the primitive social arrangement that might have been great in Yemen or Saudi Arabia, but not in my 21st century world.

Finally I decided that even at the risk of being thought forward and rude, I'd had it. Either I went out and joined the men, or I would not be responsible for what came out my mouth. I was not feeling particularly spry anyway, having ridden that morning in a sitting trot until I drew blood. I was also slightly dyspeptic.

So I excused myself, got up, went outside and announced to all concerned that I was going to sit with the men. There was a great, though quiet, rejoicing, since it seems the men were not thrilled with the arrangement either. I told the men they need have no qualms about cursing, either--I'm a clinical psychologist and I've heard it all. In fact, I could probably teach them a few choice phrases.

My compadre Armando then went in and brought his wife out, who was near a comatose state from terminal boredom. She had a kind of fixed smile on her face that she really had trouble removing--her mouth was going into rigor mortis thanks to the living room excitement. And a really good time began to be had by all, especially me. At supper we were not segregated by gender, and the other women seemed relieved to be out of the harem too--one, a financial investment expert, must have been near death by negative numbers of mental stimulation, poor thing, but she perked up and had us fascinated with her travels and ideas.

The evening was so entertaining that my tiredness dissipated, but not my dyspepsia. A few bites of the excellent food and my digestive system went into terminal flatulence. I may have sunk my chances of being invited to join the club, the first woman member, by the fact that the explosions were not under my control. My husband said the conversation was so lively that surely nothing could be heard over it, but I told him that if you were in the northern hemisphere, you knew what was going on.

On another front, however, things weren't quite as serious: in the garden, a number of those anti-mosquito smoke bombs were slowly simmering, so at least I didn't gas anyone. Well, at least not anyone at a certain distance. I'm tempted to ask my comadre if she noted my problem, since she was right by me, but I'm afraid she might say, "Jesus H., yes!!! What was wrong with you??"