Monica’s “Martinis and Melodrama” cocktail party is called for 7:30 p.m.
I walk up to her door and knock at 7:30 p.m.
I’m the first guest.
Her dog Eliot Epstein barks furiously. Last time I was here, he bit me.
Monica says the right things about putting him in her car for the party but of course she does nothing of the sort and we’re treated to his annoying yaps for the rest of the evening.
I head straight for her dining table and start heaping my plate with tabuli and pasta and humus. I haven’t eaten this well since LimmudLA.
Soon Monica’s two graphic designers show up and the three girls talk about martinis for 30 minutes.
I’m going out of my mind. Boring! I hate alcohol. I hate trivial conversation. I want something meaty to sink my fangs into.
