Home >  Lifestyle

Can a young woman find witty new friends at an alumni get-together?

Thursday, October 17, 2002

By Jennifer Angelo

"Your alma mater chapter wants YOU. Join your alumni friends and watch The Bumbling Blues play football on television." I am reading this on a postcard while trudging to the house from my mailbox.

	Diane Juravich, Post-Gazette

Hmm, I think, maybe I should expand my circle of friends beyond the two I have. Sherrie and I met at work. She helped me dump a boyfriend, a graduate student. Our dates had consisted of going to the library: He studied, I read novels.

My other friend is my dog. One time over drinks, I told Sherrie, "My dog likes me. I mean, really likes me."

Sherrie responded, "Jennifer, your dog likes everybody."

I think I could really benefit from meeting some alumni. I check "yes" on the RSVP card and mail it. I feel better already.

The day of the party, I peel avocados for guacamole and dream about the witty new friends I'm about to meet. I arrange fancy chips on the blue, Billy Badger crystal serving dish that Mother gave me for graduation.

The home is a mini-mansion. A dog as big as a moose, with a tail the size of a half-eaten hot dog, gallops out from nowhere.

"Hello," a woman in the doorway says. "Please come in."

Moose-dog sniffs my guacamole while keeping me in place with a muddy paw on my shoe.

"Gunnar!" she scolds. "Stop it!"

The open-plan, hardwood-floor design sets off the red, blue and black Persian carpet. Children's laughter floats up from the basement.

The hostess introduces me. I remind myself to smile. A couple with matching blue shirts relaxes on the couch. They mumble a hello without taking their eyes off the pre-game show. I keep smiling. Those people are the television crowd, I tell myself. There must be others who want to mingle.

A dirty-diaper smell reaches my nose. I glance down. A smudged imprint of Gunnar's paw clings to my shoe.

I panic about making a bad first impression. I search for a bathroom. The door I open leads to the basement. Moose-dog bolts past, slowing down just long enough to leave drool on my white woolen pants. He appears to have eaten something red. Ketchup? Maraschino cherries? The heart of a small chipmunk?

After cleaning my shoe and slacks, I return to the living room. OK, I tell myself, start a conversation. I take a deep breath, grab a drink and sit next to a blonde wearing a "Go Bumbling Blues" sweater.

"So where do you live?" I ask.

"In the country."

"Where?"

"Dudtzville."

"How long have you been there?"

"Not long." She looks out the window after each answer.

Giving up on making her my best friend, I get up and pour another drink. In the kitchen, the host introduces me to the blonde's husband. From him I learn that they live on a small farm with five cows, three cats and two dogs.

From the kitchen, I gaze through glass doors to the back yard. In the back yard Gunnar perks his ears, ready to be let in. Dog slobber embellishes the doors. The host sees him, opens the door and shoves him downstairs. The host and the blonde's husband retreat to the living room.

My mouth hurts from smiling.

Alone in the kitchen, I browse the titles of cookbooks, "Cooking For One," "Cooking For Two," "Cooking for a Bazillion."

Children burst from the basement waving their hands in front of their noses. Gunnar has done something very bad. The host strides downstairs, paper towels fluttering under his arm.

I leaf through "Cooking For One."

"What are you doing? You're not supposed to be in there!" the hostess blurts. I snap shut the cookbook before realizing she is shouting at Gunnar. He somehow slipped into the laundry room near the kitchen and ripped apart a trash bag laden with chili meat juices.

Shaken, I return the cookbook to the shelf and shuffle past clusters of my alumni chuckling over something witty. I head to a side table and pick up my guacamole. It's heavy, still full of dip and chips.

I put it in a bag, thank the hostess for the party and leave. No one else says good-bye.

Moose-dog gallops from behind the house and rams into me, making me lose my balance. I fall onto a muddy, wet driveway.

"Gunnar!" I yell, rolling around, gravel jabbing my behind. He races around the house and disappears.

I struggle to stand up and then assess my clothes, torn pant leg, dirty coat.

Placing the bag on the car seat, I hear shards of glass scrape against each other. That stupid dog broke my favorite dish.

I drive home and reassess my relationships. I think I'll just keep the two friends I have. As I open the door a blur of fur runs to greet me. The phone rings. It's Sherrie. She wants to know about the party. I tell her we'll talk about it over guacamole.

Jennifer Angelo is a free-lance writer living in Pittsburgh. E-mail her at jangelo@jangelo.com.