After a swift round of free whiffies, Bettie announces her departure to her stepsister, Muffy, and finds that – guess what! – mother wouldn’t approve.
Do you know what really pisses me off about people, diary? Those that think just because they can spell Châteauneuf-du-Pape, they’re good enough to drink it. Y’know, the sort who name their daughter ‘Lasagna’ because it sounds exotic. And at the Courtney Pines Golf Course Gym and HydraSpa, the place’s just full of ’em.
It didn’t start good.
As I swaggered into the lounge, I spotted my stepsister immediately. Muffy was surrounded by her usual playboy set. I recognised nobody, but guessed the gang included Skip, Chip, Kip and Blip, followed by a couple of Binkies, a few Jockies and a Bunny. How’d I know this? Because a duffer without a stupid nickname is like a Kennedy without a criminal record. I tried to act casual, but blew it all when I ordered everyone a round. Hey, how was I to know that the “Free Whiffy” they were pushing on the sign outside was a geeky Web connection, not a drinks promotion?
As I said: it didn’t start good, and it didn’t get any better.
Cosmos in both hands, Muffy looked me up and down and commented how I was looking tired and bloated. “Let me sign you in upstairs for a session at Salon Tanfastic,” she suggested, ever the queen of the passive-aggressive put-down. I told her nah, sorry, I don’t do tanning – which is true as I’m one of the few people who think they were actually born the right color.
Seeing this was going to get ugly, Skip and the gang vamoosed, giving some reason I can’t quite remember. Best guess? Probably to de-lint the Lyle and Scott lambswool from their navels. Perfectly alone now but for the cocktail waiter, sommelier, maître d’, and three busboys, I announced my imminent departure as casually as if I were ordering vegan at a LongHorns. The Muffster looked gratifyingly shocked. And you could so tell she’d never heard of the Isle of Man. Probably thought it was some all-male harem in Casablanca. Still, no way was I going to let her geographical ignorance slide. Ut-uh. I’d brought a map.
“Mother will never approve,” Muffy said at last, after several minutes squinting at the tiny green blotch on page 146 of The Reader’s Digest Atlas To Places Americans Have Never Heard Of. I hate to admit it, but she was 100% correct. My stepmother never approved of anything, ever. It was her defining principle. The contributing fact that her-mother-not-mine was currently chained to a table at the Lake Erie Facility for the Terminally Bewildered loudly proclaiming she had been abducted by shape-shifting aliens and replaced by a plant-based replica meant sis was certainly odds-on with her current bet that, no, the USS Invincible would not approve.
Still, I couldn’t let it go at that.
“Mother’s on another planet,” I said. “All I’ll be is on another continent. Get over it.” Just with a touch more color.
I came. I swore. I conquered. Mission accomplished.
Knocking back my third Cherry Bitch, I said my ciaos and set off for the Cleveland Frequent Flyer cocktail fiesta. Because, after an afternoon in the bar with the Muffinator, boy, did I need a drink.
