Poisoned

 

Paul, I thought, was a dream come true.  Everything I had ever hoped for, seemed to be embodied in him.  My heart soared every time I thought of him.  Zing!

Paul invited me to his beach house for dinner.  He was going to cook.  Wow.  When I arrived, fresh cut flowers were on the table, the wine was breathing and mood music filled the air.  I was impressed.  The meal was incredible.  The Cabernet tasted as if the grapes were grown for the soul purpose of creating a wine that would compliment our dinner.  I was being wooed and I liked it.

As we sat there gazing into each other’s eyes, everything seemed so right until I began to ramble.  I couldn’t help myself.  My mind raced as I tried to think of clever anecdotes about myself to impress Paul.  Instead, I blathered on with inappropriate and self-deprecating stories about my childhood pudginess and thick glasses.  Besides, I was trying to picture him naked and was having trouble concentrating.

I was dying for him to touch me.  I executed a combination hand-half-way-across-the-table with an interested lean.  This particular maneuver is extremely difficult to do successfully.  Precise angling, attitude, and timing are essential.  You must lean your upper body inward, at just the right angle (approximately forty-five degrees), while maintaining hand placement and eye contact.  The weight is shifted laterally onto one buttock.  It is crucial that the correct buttock is selected. Optimum head and face placement to receive a kiss is the goal. For maximum benefit, lower the eyelids, part the lips slightly and execute a single heavy inhale-exhale combination. 

Finally, Paul took my hand, drew me close and kissed me.  I nearly fell off of the chair and under the table.  I suddenly felt flush.  My palms got clammy, my heart was leaping and my stomach was churning.  Wait. I began to wonder. Was this supposed to be happening?  Was he the one?

Paul suggested that we go for a walk along the beach.  As we removed our shoes and placed them on the porch, I began to fantasize about the movie, “From Here to Eternity.”  Paul would be Burt Lancaster, I would be Deborah Kerr and the gentle waves would roll over our entwined bodies as we kissed in the surf.

We walked hand-in-hand as the surf rushed over our feet.  Everything seemed so perfect.  The fresh air snapped me back into reality and I realized that my stomach was feeling unusually queasy.  Was it the romance?   No.  It was the dinner.  Nausea began to overtake me.  I felt dizzy.  I started to cramp and broke into a sweat.  Oh no. I tried to think it away.  The gurgling from my stomach and the hot flashes were eventually overtaken by the crashing waves of nausea.  I fell to my knees and proceeded to pollute the ocean in my own special way.

            When I came to, I realized that I was sprawled out and the surf was lapping up my, now ruined, suede dress.  I was soaking wet and covered with sand, seaweed and various non-biodegradable items.  I lifted my head and searched for Paul.  He was sitting on a sand dune about thirty feet away.  When he saw me moving, he stood up and walked toward me.  I was hoping for compassion.  Instead, he was disgusted and angry.

 In a sarcastic tone he asked, “Now, was that necessary? You certainly know how to ruin an evening. I suppose you’re too sick to have sex tonight.”

What?  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  What a Jackass!

Without help from Paul, the king of concern, I pulled myself to my feet.  I stumbled down the beach in an effort to catch up with Paul, who kept pace about ten feet ahead of me.  I felt my body becoming chaffed by the wet suede and sand.

When we arrived at his house, Paul handed me my shoes and told me to wait outside while he got my purse.  He didn’t want me to “drip” on his carpeting.

After receiving my purse, I walked, alone, to my car, as Paul went inside the house, dead-bolted the door and turned out the porch light. He acted as if I had maliciously and intentionally become violently ill in an effort to destroy his sex quota.  Of course, at that moment, I wished that I had.  I felt another wave of nausea come over me.  I desperately looked around for a place to heave.  Then I spotted it.  With my hand covering my nose and mouth, I made a mad dash for the porch.  I took careful aim and then vomited in Paul’s shoes.

The Cocktail Party - by Randi Sherman

Cocktail Party

When I arrived at my friend’s holiday cocktail party, I looked around the room and realized that other than the hostess, Margaret, there was not a recognizable face in the crowd.  I glanced around to take stock of fashion sense in the room and then at the mirror to check my outfit.  I realized that once again, I had made the incorrect outfit selection.  It doesn’t matter how much planning I do, I have an inexplicable talent of choosing the most inappropriate apparel for any occasion.

If I were asked to select a word that best describes my appearance, I would say “pleasant.” Although, my looks do not stimulate one’s gag reflexes, I have not been presented any awards for my outstanding beauty and poise.  It is inevitable, there is always at least one woman at each party who has the ability to turn the heads of all of the men and generate instant jealousy from all of the women in the room.  She is tall and proud and magnetic.  She smolders.  I would describe myself as the semi-attractive woman who is standing just behind her…holding the coats.

So there I stood, in the foyer.  I had a choice to make. I could muster up some faux-party-confidence and begin to mingle.  I could attempt to blend in with the décor, sip a drink and hope that a party guest would happen by and engage me in a conversation.  I could plant myself near the buffet table and force people to speak with me, or at least say “excuse me,” if they want to get close to the food.  Or I could attach myself to Margaret, the hostess, who is, required by the law-of-hosting and etiquette to talk to me, or introduce me into another conversation.

While making my decision, a severe looking woman dressed in all black and who looked like she just stepped away from the Chanel make-up counter, walked up to me and introduced herself as Victoria, “Don’t call me Vicky,” she commanded.  “My name is Victoria.” 

Whatever you say, Vicky, I thought. 

Victoria was obviously killing time with me until someone more stylish was free for conversation.  She sipped her martini as she looked past me and lied to me.  Yes, lied.  I could tell.  If I had had a calculator with me and had added up all of things that she said she had accomplished, Victoria would have to be about two hundred and seventy years old.  Obviously, Victoria was not privy to the two basic rules of lying to someone at a cocktail party. First, if you choose to lie, make sure there is a recovery, if challenged.  “Really, Victoria, tell me more about water skiing on the Dead Sea.  I thought it was a sacred place and that speedboats were not allowed there. From whom did you get a permit?”  Second, lie to the party-drunk or to someone who is not really listening, who will, most likely, not remember anything about the conversation.

Without so much as a word, a ‘good-bye,” a “piss-off” or a nod Victoria sashayed away from me toward a group of porcelain faced, skinny people who seemed to be posing. They weren’t moving. They just might have worked part time as department store window mannequins.

After a minute or so, I found and joined a small group of people who were politely listening to a man named Neil as he droned on about his “fabulous” career, his incredible office, his importance, and his plans for advancement “in the firm.”  No one in the circle seemed interested in what he was saying, but they didn’t want to appear rude and walk away.  So we all stood there, helplessly and listened. He was so boring that he should have been forced to wear a warning label.  Caution: Use of his man may cause drowsiness.

My eyes began to water when I strained to keep my mouth closed while stifling a yawn.  I was tempted to grab Neil by the shoulders, shake him and holler, “No one in this room finds anything at all fascinating about you or your work.  Unless you could promise someone a high paying position, that requires minimal work and travel to exotic destinations along with an unlimited expense account, we simply don’t want to hear about it!  But instead, I stood quietly, with the rest of the group, until he finished his verbal resume.

A few minutes later, Margaret motioned me over and asked me if I was enjoying myself.

I started to lie. “Oh yes …”

She interrupted, “I want you to meet someone.  Come with me.” She motioned with her finger for me to follow her.

She then introduced me to a man named Michael.  He was also alone. He was handsome, intelligent and interesting … and spoken for.  About ten minutes into our conversation he announced, “I have a girlfriend who is out-of-state.  But you and I could get together for coffee, or something.”  Then he added, “Fortunately, I don’t find you attractive so I don’t have to worry about getting myself into trouble.”

What?  Fortunately, he doesn’t find me attractive … Was that supposed to be a compliment?  Gee, I thought.  A girl can’t hear that too many times.

When I went outside for a breath of fresh air, I met Phil.  He seemed like a “regular guy.”   We spoke for a few moments.  He asked me if I was dating anyone.  I told him that I wasn’t and asked about his situation.  He told me that he was single.

He started, “My last girlfriend was a model … ”  

I stopped him right there.  I had to know.  “Tell me, Phil,” I asked, “Why is it that every man I meet used to date a model?  How many models could be out there?”  I could never understand why a man would tell a woman about how beautiful his past girlfriends were. Although men may find this information to be fascinating and impressive, women can live a lifetime without hearing it.

I wandered into the kitchen to catch my breath and plan my escape. I looked at my watch.  Damn, it was too early to leave.  The caterers looked at me with a knowing-look that said, “Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.”

            As I sat there in the kitchen, a few other party-goers drifted in.  Some of the sat down.  Others leaned against the counters, had some coffee, and picked at the desert trays.  Before I knew it, the entire party had moved into the kitchen area. 

Over all, it had been a lovely party.  The food was delicious and guest were very nice but I was ready to leave.

Michael waved over the crowd toward Margaret and announced, “Well, I have to be on my way.  I have to catch a plane in the morning.” 

That was my opportunity, “Michael, would you mind walking me to my car?”  My question was two-fold.  It not only gave Margaret the illusion that Michael and I had hit-it-off, it also was my chance to cut out of the party.

             

Lunch With A Demon by Randi Sherman

Lunch with a Demon

A simple lunch with a friend can turn into the emotional roller coaster to hell for the victim of PMS demon.  The demon has a mind of its own and will do everything possible to have itself heard.  The victim is forced to keep the demon at bay while sorting through her erratic premenstrual thoughts and selecting the appropriate, socially acceptable responses.  She must also fight the desire to unbutton her skirt or kick off her shoes because of the pain due to premenstrual swelling.  All, while staving off an impromptu crying jag and trying to appear sane.

I looked at my watch.  Jonathan was fifteen minutes late. If he is not here in five minute, I’m leaving.  The hell with him!  My PMS mind was racing.  He hates me.  He’s doing this on purpose.  He does not have respect for my time.  He obviously doesn’t think that I am important enough for him to show up on time.  When he gets here, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

Just as my blood pressure had hit an all time high, Jonathan walked in.  “Hi.  I’m sorry that I’m late. I stopped to buy these flowers for you.”  He handed the bouquet to me and kissed me on the cheek.

My rage disappeared.  “Oh, are you late?” I melted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He motioned to the hostess and indicated that there were two for lunch.  She grabbed some menus and asked us to follow her.  When we reached our table she smiled at Jonathan and said, “Here we go.  Is this okay?”

I thought, What the hell are you looking at!  But I said, “This is fine.”

When we sat down, Jonathan took my hand and gazed at me.  “You look pretty.  I’ve missed you.”

You’re smothering me!  “I’ve missed you, too.” I put my hand over his.

He smiled and asked, “How is your day going?  Have you been doing anything interesting?”

What the hell do you mean by that?  Don’t placate me!  You’re not the only person who has something interesting to say.  I’m very interesting.  “Oh, my day?” I said, “It’s fine.  Same ole’, same ole’.  Nothing’s new.  How about with you?”

Jonathan told me about a recent episode he had with his ex-wife and the expenses of maintaining the two households. 

I was hardly listening.  The PMS demons were annoyed by the conversation.  Me, me, me.  You’re so self-absorbed. No wonder she divorced you.  I forced a smile, “I’m sure that things will get better for you. You just have to remain positive.”

He looked at the menu, “Are you going to getting the Salad Nicoise?”

What in the hell do you mean by that?  Is this your subtle way of telling me I’m fat? 

He continued, “I hear it’s great here and I know how much you like it.  I think that I will have it as well.”

Nice try, Jonathan.  No one is going to tell me what to do or what I should eat.  Then I opened the menu.  There was too much to choose from.  I was in no condition to make a decision.  “I’ll have the same.”

He noticed that I was uncharacteristically quiet and asked me, “Are you all right?  Is there anything wrong?’

My hormones were raging and my eyes welled up with tears.  It’s about time you noticed. “Nothing.  I’m fine.” I sucked in my breath and tried to hold back but I couldn’t help myself.  I started to cry.  The more I tried to compose myself, the worse it got.  I got the hiccups.  After several glasses of water and five minutes of a relaxation breathing exercise, they subsided, and I apologized. “I’m sorry.  I’m just a little premenstrual.”

He smiled sweetly and patted my hand.  “Oh, I understand, honey.”

Honey?  Don’t honey me!  You don’t understand a damned thing!  “Thanks for understanding.”

At the next table a woman was trying to calm her child who was pounding his spoon on the table.  Jonathan turned to look at the commotion.  When he turned back to me he had a big smile on his face.  “Children are so wonderful.”  He motioned to the toddler, “Isn’t he cute?”

The kid is a brat and the mother should be flogged for bringing him into a restaurant.  “He’s adorable.” I smiled.

Jonathan leaned in. “How do you feel about children?”

I was panicked. Aah! Get me out of here!  I calmed myself. “They’re wonderful.”  I changed to subject.  “Is that a new tie?” 

It seemed to be a safe subject.  That is, unless his ex-wife bought it for him.

Good-bye Whitney Houston

A true talent lost. Rest in peace Whitney