Tea Party: When it's Time to Go
I attended an afternoon tea party on Sunday at the home of one of my friends who has what appears to be a fortune. None of us know where she got or how she made her money, but it's pretty obvious she has a lot of it.
It was all ladies, most of whom are straight and over 50, yet four other lesbians and I were invited because it's apparently chic for rich, single ladies to have lesbian friends.
The food was fabulous, the weather was perfect, and our hostess must have had her gardener working overtime, because her yard was festooned with every flower that can grow in South Texas. Gorgeous.
All in all, it was a lovely, relaxing afternoon... until Mary the Republican who smells like a ten-pound block of Camay soap came over to say hello.
At the time, I was talking politics with some rational, Bush loathing folks, one of whom had just attended a fundraiser for Hillary Clinton and found her charming.
I was dying to ask her more about the meeting, but then Mary the Republican sort of squeezed herself in between us and started yammering about how she still thinks Bush is doing a fine job. She even said she'd vote for him again.
I felt my jaw clench and tried to remain in a suitable tea party disposition, but my date was making crazy eyes at me so I'd keep myself in check.
Just as my voice started to amplify a bit about gas prices, Mary the Republican butt in and said, "Well, you'll be happy I didn't vote in the Republican primaries because I am voting for Kinky Friedman for governor."
Instantly, the ice melted and we actually high fived.
My date and I used the detente to slip into the next room, where we found seats at a nice, isolated table.
Alas, we were quickly joined by a 65-year-old British lady who loves to tell and retell the same stories in excruciating detail. Her appearance was followed quickly thereafter by Mary the Republican who smells like Camay soap.
We were cornered.
We'd just gotten cups of scalding hot coffee, so we couldn't exactly gulp and go.
But then when the British lady started telling us for the third time about the wrought iron planter her husband had gotten her for their patio, we developed asbestos mouths, downed our coffee in two gulps and got up to leave.
I was just glad the event was alcohol free, because between the cheap soap using Bush lover and the British Jabberjaws, I would have told one she was crazy and the other that she needed to shut the hell up and stop telling the same stories.
Otherwise, it was a lovely afternoon.