Dinner at eight

Darlings, I'm alive, which is actually a bit surprising after spending last night at the dinner party from hell. I didn't want to go but mom forced me, literally. She knows this very strange family in Beverly Hills and takes every chance she gets to hang out with them.

Why?

Because they're rich. Super rich, really, and no one knows for certain why. I guess that adds to the air of mystique surrounding them. Mom loves it, I just find it slightly ridiculous.

The mother is a real original, one of those people who shamelessly wishes she was an 18th century aristocrat's wife who's only important task in life is to throw fabulous dinner parties and raise two perfect children. Unfortunately, she only has one and is married to a stiff accountant from Canada.

So there we are, like animals in an art deco cage. The mother at the head of the massive oak table, obviously, frantically giving orders to the butler. I'm on her left side and my mom on her right, trying to make eye contact while I try to avoid it. Across the table from me the bald, hunchbacked husband in a plain navy suit, staring moronically at his plate throughout the whole dinner. He's not the one calling the shots in that family, but my guess is he pays for everything. 

And last but not least, beside me, the doll faced daughter with her creamy white porcelain skin and puppet-like little feet in shimmering designer shoes. I hate her. Bursting with pride the mother goes on and on about her perfect daughter's perfect piano playing and her perfect ballet pirouettes. My dear mom - getting more and more drunk off of the ludicrously expensive Italian wine - smiles and adds nothing about her own failure of a daughter.

It's not that she's embarrassed, she just loves to give me a quick patronizing glance and let the following silence speak for itself.

So that's the dinner. As I try to find a suitable escape route I suddenly realize the dining room has no windows. The soothing sound of twittering birds comes from the stereo.