Trials of the Tramp

I am long out of vodka, and the only liquor in the freezer is that sissy Captain Morgan. I don't care for him, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

We are to have dinner this evening in my mother-in-law's perfect garden. My contribution? Stuffed mushrooms. I don't really make "dishes" as much as I make hor'dourves.

She is the epitome of royal ladyship. Her slightly upturned nose is just the right size. Her blonde hair is flawlessly cut and her green eyes are wide, clear and lovely. She never skips her makeup in the mornings. I've never seen her slouch.

Her home is an ideal magazine spread - and she does it all herself. She recovers her own furniture. She makes her own window treatments. She faux paints her walls to look like expensive wallpaper. Unlike mine, her home is always immaculate.

She is always generous and kind. I've never heard her have a rude or harsh word for anybody. She goes to great lengths to make sure everyone is comfortable. Everyone who knows her ends up adoring her; it's inevitable. She reeks of unconditional love.

She is influential, beautiful, kind, talented and intelligent. She possesses a seemingly unending well of energy. She is a fountain of goodwill. She is perfect.

I don't know if she was ever disappointed that her only child got hitched to someone like myself. Someone dark and sometimes brooding with black hair and harlot red lipstick. I sleep in on Saturdays. I don't organize my pans by size or frequency of use. My favorite dinner consists of a lonesome fireplace, a bottle of champagne and a bag of potato chips. I almost never wear underwear.

When I see her tonight for dinner, and she cooks delicious food grown from her garden and fresh fish caught by her barrel-chested husband -

- and when I arrive with scarlet and Captain Morgan on my lips...

- and when I hand her my feeble, mushroom contribution...

She will smile. She will offer me a drink. She will hug me with transparent adoration ... and tell me she likes my lipstick.