Why Wasn't I Invited to This Dinner Party?

My sister, J, lives in Memphis, and one of her dear friends is Neville, the daughter of socialites whom she calls "Muth and Daddy" (this must be said as though you were Blanche Devereaux and you were greeting a gentlemen caller).  When J first told me about Neville, Muth, and Daddy, I was convinced that she was simply exaggerating the Southern drawl to imitate how Neville talks about her Mother and Daddy.  No, no.  She actually calls her "Muth."

The story goes that Neville was engaged, and her parents were throwing her an engagement party, as socialites do.  This was, however, no ordinary engagement party.  No fancy hors d'oeuvres and champagne toast for them.  They ordered a multiple course, sit-down affair at The Club for their darling Neville.  Dress to the nines, salmon course, and probably a full bar.  You know the type.  The day of the party, Neville apparently has a HUGE falling out with her fiance, and they call of the wedding.  THEY CALL IT OFF, FOLKS.  Neville tells her mother, and Muth is tasked with the terrible job of breaking the news to Daddy.

As Muth wanders down the hall, I can only imagine what was going through her mind.  Probably something like, "Holy shit, I have to tell my husband we just spent $2,000 on salmon that nobody's gonna eat.  Plus, I look damn fine in this dress, and now I have no occasion to wear it!"  Except, you know, probably with fewer expletives, and in a more High Society manner (I may have been a sorority girl in college, and my best friend--not local--may be a Mississippi Debutante, but I admit I fall short Socialite-ism...).  ANYWAY, she breaks the news to Daddy, and he looks at her gravely.  After a moment, he says (in his best Blanche Devereaux impression), "Well.  God would want me to have a martini."  Yes.  Yes, I'd say he does.

This, however, is all back story.  This morning, while working for Jesus with the Boy Genius Organist, I receive a text message from J.  She apparently had dinner with Neville, and Neville's best friend, the fabulous Warfield Williams.  Tar, the German Shepherd was also in attendance.  J says to me:

Things said last night at dinner with Neville and Warfield Williams and Tar the German Shepherd, of "God would want me to have a martini" fame.

"That cheese souffle looks like a big cheese TURD."

"Tar, don't be a dickhead."

"Neville, why do you only like girly men?"  (Silence after this question as the irony of said question sinks in with Warfy, who asked it.)

"I just want to have a civilized dinner for fucking once so Jordan will want to come back."

I can't believe that I wasn't invited for this lovely, high-brow evening, as we all know that I am more than capable of making any dinner more civilized.  I mean, for fuck's sake, I was a Chi Omega!  That's just science.

The Beagle and I held down the couch this afternoon while watching the Law and Order SVU marathon, and now we're going to clean the kitchen and cook our own dinner (hoisin glazed salmon with red cabbage slaw).  The Beagle's a fantastic sous chef.  She stands between me and whatever counter I need to reach at that particular moment, licks the floor in front of the stove so that it's slick (until it dries, when it becomes sticky), and makes sure that I get done in twice the time.  Glorious.