A lunch date with the girls...

Well I'm not totally alone. My kids do call me every Saturday and Sunday after I get home from church (I'm Episcopalian by nature, but I've been to a Jewish synagogue and frankly, the Jews make better dishes when it comes to pot luck.)

And my husband haunts me every Tuesday night. And can you believe? That dead beat still wants to go at it?! Men! They never lose their craving for you know w-h-a-t even in death!

Well, so today I had lunch with the girls, Betty and Agnes. We always go to this nice little Bistro on Jackson and Main. (Hey, when you're loaded and old you've got to spend it all so the kids don't get a damn dime to squabble over when you're gone.)

So today at lunch I decided to be risky and get the turkey club on rye. I pop a couple of Beanos and wolf down the sucker as if it were the 1930s all over again. While Agnes is going on about her damn crocheting, I get that awful swelling feeling in my abdomen. (I swear, if I have to write another long ranting letter to those numbskulls at the Beano company, by golly I'll do it!)

So anyways, the damn things don't work and I end up spending the rest of lunch in the ladies room with my silk stockings below my ankles.

Betty eventually comes to get me, asking if I'm ok. I of course tell her yes because who wants to tell your 70 year old best friend that you got the runs from trying something new. (That's the last time I live on the wild side.)

So twenty minutes and twenty rolls of Charmin later I come back, order a bottle of wine, and sit while Agnes finishes her long tirade of a terrible story. (It's a good thing she doesn't have internet. She's 80, and dead set against getting it.) And yes, I tried to drown out her yammering with the wine...

Finally we all hail a cab and I return home just in time to have the other half of the sandwich repeat on me. Sorry to be graphic, dear children, but there comes a point in life when your bodily functions catch up with you.