The Cocktail Hour Pt 3

(Continued from The Cocktail Hour Pt 2)

One steamy afternoon last summer, I trudged home from a particularly grueling and frustrating day of work to find my husband and several of his Botox and Restylane obsessed lady friends enjoying an impromptu after school pool party/cocktail soiree. What a cool and breezy idea they all must have thought - what better way to while away a muggy and dirty Los Angeles afternoon than by sipping Magic Margaritas, getting buzzed and nonchalantly checking on their screeching children who were dangerously racing around and diving into our wildly unsafe pool?

When George and I conceived our swimming pool design, safety was not at the top of our 'must have' list. Like many of the over sized, stage set looking vintage homes built in our area of Los Angeles in the 20's and 30's, the imposing front facade of our house promises an 'estate-like' setting that the greedy developers did not feel compelled to deliver. Our backyard is surprisingly small and required a great deal of planning in order to accommodate my selfish, wanton desire to own a swimming pool. In the end, George and I designed and built a pool that serves beautifully as a backdrop for a an intimate afternoon of adult conversation, cocktails and quiet introspection aboard a rubber raft. It never occurred to us that our aesthetic choices of highly fashionable, yet insane razor sharp glass liner tile, quicksand-like pool plaster, in addition to a veritable minefield of cement channels, fountains, and extraneous 'water features' might at all be hazardous. George and I often marvel that even to this day, not a single child or adult has seriously injured themselves cavorting in our sparkling, dangerous pool. Even the youngest, most inexperienced child intuitively knows that our viper-like pool, while beautiful and alluring can also give you a nasty bite if you run too fast or have the hubris to violate the 11th commandment: "Thou shall not go swimming less than 30 minutes after eating."

Upon my arrival, the boisterous party was already in full swing. My husband George was dutifully manning our blender and was in the midst of drunkenly and cavalierly regaling the guests with the rather sordid tale of how he and I originally met. Like many gay men of the time, George and I met under less than ideal circumstances. Let it suffice to say that at our first 'introduction' our real names were not exchanged and it was REALLY, REALLY, dark. Already three-sheets-to-the-wind, the guests were already on their fourth round of Magic Margaritas when I made my angry entrance. Not a single attendee glanced in my direction, acknowledged my presence or daned to offer me a Magic Margarita. When my presence was finally acknowledged by my drunken husband, I was offhandidly asked to scoot over to the 7-11 and pick up some ice as he had just run out.

As the color drained from my face and the hair on the back of my neck rose in fury, the ghost of missing and presumably dead Sylvia cackled maniacally in my ear. It was certainly she who encouraged me to murder my intoxicated husband with the ice pick that he had just been using to chip the ice for HER particular brand of Magic Margarita.

(To be Continued)