I haven't smiled since the chive blinis with creme fraiche*.
I haven't refilled your wineglass for the last hour and when you ask me for some water I say, "No."
I've shared with you the main tenets of Chinese Ancient Wisdom for Healthy Sleep, which prescribes one to be asleep by 10 o'clock to maximize the repair of energetic organs.
I excuse myself to take a shower.
When my husband suggests we get out the good whiskey, I slap him upside the head.
After I come out of the shower, I'm in my bathrobe and refuse to look you in the eyes.
When you speak to me, I say, "I can't hear you, because I'm vacuuming."
Earlier in the evening, I joked that my shy son should marry your gregarious daughter, but now I renege on the offer and explain that if I ever had in-laws that didn't respond to social cues, I would scheme tirelessly until the kids divorced.
Your rack of lamb gremolata is accompanied by a note with magazine cut-out letters that read, "UHav 24 Min Left."
I've set off the fire alarm sprinkler system.
I've just accused you of being an anti-Semite despite your years of service on the New Israel Fund's Board of Directors.
I thank you for the offer to help clean up and hand you a compost bag along with the directions to a community garden in Staten Island.
When your glass fills with water from the activated sprinkler system, I grab it and gulp it down to ensure you remain thirsty.
I ask if you'd like to borrow the new Donna Tartt novel and when you say yes, I toss it out the window and tell you to go get it.
I yawn, nod off, jolt awake and then hiss, in a Tourette-like outburst, "Your dog isn't even that cute!"
I say, "Let me get your coat for you," and then I pretend that your coat is a talking puppet begging you to put your arms into it and leave.
Earlier, I offered you a black bean and goat cheese quesadilla and flirted shamelessly. Now, as you reach for a baked brie tart with pecans, I'm talking about inflammatory bowel disease and Ayn Rand.
After my husband invites you to see his digital music editing program, I get out our prenup which specifically prohibits the prolonging of dinner parties.
When you ask me where the bathroom is, I tell you on 79th and Riverside, which is your address.
I excuse myself to go check on the baby even though I haven't been fertile for a decade.
While you sample an almond macaroon galette, I fiddle with my smart phone, severing all social media connections with you and disseminating a rumor that you have become a fanatic Muslim obsessed with Jihad.
I tell you that your daughter just phoned to say that she needs you to come home immediately. When you point out that no one has called me, I explain that she's a louse and a Telepath.
When you compliment my lemon ginger bundt cake, I stuff it into a ziplock baggie with cab fare and throw it at you. It knocks over your empty wineglass.
*Menu inspired by Martha Stewart
Previously: Expansion of French Women Don't Series