Cheese Pie and Canned Cherries

Everyone worries about single people at Christmas. Co-workers feign concern, family members fret, married friends attempt to include you, and the other singles rally and have parties for the similarly situated.

Last night L hosted one such party. It was to be the quintessential singles potluck in which there is always more wine than food, more small talk than meaningful conversation, and more likelihood of repeating the event in 12 months than meeting someone great at the party that you'll be able to spend the next Christmas with.

Hopeful that something blogworthy would come of it, I signed up to bring mashed potatoes and headed out. I brought along MM. I don't know why I brought him along but I was glad I did to at least have a witness to the series of non-events that was the party. Mashed potatoes in hand, I acted the part of potluck overachiever by making snickerdoodles as well. After all, who doesn't love a good snickerdoodle? Even if you don't like them, it's fun to say the name.

As we arrived R was pulling out of the driveway. R is a thirty-something, chain-smoking, large, insecure bleached blond with a bottom-of-the-line black 2001 Mustang whose personality traits include acute overreaction, self-absorbedness, scoffing at others, and accelerated offensibility. Her last relationship consisted of spending two years giving blow jobs to a married co-worker in a car during lunch hour. As we approached the door she cheerfully waved hello and said she had to get bread and would be right back. Truth be told, R was unhappy with her chosen outfit for the night and was racing home to change clothes before other guests arrive. You never know when you're going to meet Mr. Right...

That left MM and I as the first arrivals. Awkward moments in which L directs the mashed potato placement and then forces me to taste her stuffing. It was really mushy and I convinced her to put it in a pan in the oven to crisp it up. Another stuffing fiasco avoided.

Soon Mk and Mt, brothers from next door, arrived. They brought a few bottles of wine. Mi, L's roommate, finally emerged from her room to join the party. Meal preparations, small talk and table setting ensued. Mk had brought his dog, Pearl. L's dog Tammy was loose and did not like Pearl. Note to guest: if your dog is growling in another dog's house - take it home or put it in the car. Better yet, don't bring your pets to dinner parties unless invited. I imagined bringing Hogitha, my pet pig at a dinner party. Could be fun, especially if it's a non-pet person's party...

R returned and dinner commenced. R refused to sit at the table because she felt too cluttered. I later learned that she found Mt repulsive and smelly. He had similar comments about her, I am sure.

After everyone stuffed themselves the struggle for pleasant conversation began. Unfortunately, there was no common ground among the attendees and no one seemed interested in anyone else. The two dogs sat begging at the table, owners oblivious to the irritation it caused among the guests. Mk assumed the role of pompous, disinterested party-goer by repeatedly yawning and looking at his watch. L was well on her way after a few glasses of wine and began discussing Mk with his shirt off and then proceeded to tell tales from my life, which are far more interesting than tales from hers. Seizing the moment, R exclaimed it was time for her special dessert. I wasn't done with dinner yet but nevermind that, the masses needed their cheesecake.

What's that? It's not cheesecake - it's cheese pie? R had brought the cheese cake/pie/whatever and insisted on use of proper nomenclature by the party-goers. She then opened cans of blueberries and cherries in sugar slop from the 99 cent store to put on the cheese pie. So much preparation, how thoughtful. Fishing for compliments on the cheese pie. "It's cheese pie, not cheesecake, there is a difference", she kept repeating. No one listened. You say tomatoe, I say tomato, get over it. Upset at the collective refusal to call it cheese pie, or possibly needing to change clothes again, R left.

Mi left soon after - to go to a dinner party at a restaurant. She didn't have any money to buy food at the restaurant so it was just perfect that she could eat at the potluck and then go to the other dinner party. She didn't bring anything to the potluck either, other than her own diet coke. Gotta love the moochers.

That left the drunken L, quiet Mt, clock-watching Mk, bewildered MM, and bored me. The conversation reached its peak after a story about my good friend Karen being spit on by Rick Springfield at a concert years ago. We went on with our favorite colors, favorite cars, blah, blah, blah until I could take no more and announced the departure of MM and I.

The point of this post? It's cheese pie and some things just aren't even blogworthy.