“I can’t eat that.”
“Do I dare ask why?” I huff.
“Pineapple makes me flamboyant,” Karen says, gravitas in her voice.
I immediately knew Karen had lost control and her nervous, hypochondriac alter-ego had come out. I decided to get her away from our sweet after-Christmas party host before she turned Teresa’s antiquated tradition into an amazing clusterfuck, but it was too late.
“Hi!” Teresa says. I watch her slither over to make colloquial conversation, her Coton de Tulear at her side. “Have you tried the freshly harpooned tuna? It’s to die for!”
I try to answer but Karen did first. “Tuna makes me itchy and causes anabiosis in my corpuscular hemorrhoids.”
“How about some caviar?” Teresa asks.
“Sends my ulcer into overtime,” Karen growls.
I elbow Karen. “Any of this food leave you voiceless by any chance?”
Karen ignores me.
“Cheeseball?” Teresa persists.
Karen screams, “Gardyloo!” and ducks.
Teresa is unfazed. “It sounds like you need some essential oil You’ll find renewed balance in a cinch.”
“Blah, blah,” Karen says. “How did you extrapolate that nonsense? I can’t be bamboozled.”
Teresa finally stomps away, feeling stigmatized.