Screw you, Wanda
“I don’t like Wanda,” I told my partner Paul. “She’s so disapproving of everyone. Like everyone is going to hell, and she’s the judge.”
Paul laughed. “Don’t be like that, she’s not that bad.” He reached down to pat our dog, Rusty.
“Yeah, she is.”
“Well, you’d better wear a smile because they’re coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed a shopping list. My partner Paul worked with Wanda’s husband Joe. Wanda also knew my aunt from church. Maybe it was their connection that Wanda had already decided she didn’t like me. To put it mildly, my aunt was difficult to get along with.
Roast chicken: check. Salad: check. Dessert: check. Wine: check and double check.
The next evening, Paul tidied the house while I prepared dinner. Roast chicken and a salad isn’t too difficult. I’d deliberately left out roasted potatoes because try as I might, I could never do them properly. They were either uncooked in the middle or burnt on the outside. It’s my superpower.
The lettuce leaves came off nicely. I washed and ripped them roughly to create a rustic salad. Add Roma tomatoes, cubed marinated feta, cucumber, salad onion and just a splash of dressing with more in a tiny jug should people want it. The chicken was just right. Tender, moist, lovingly seasoned with the secret ingredient: a cut lemon inside. Perfect. Rusty sat at the edge of the kitchen, watching intensely should a scrap fall to the floor. She was our vacuum cleaner, devouring food scraps from the floor often before I even noticed I dropped something. But she knew her manners: don’t get underfoot, don’t come into the kitchen while we’re cooking, don’t beg for food.
We didn’t often have people over despite Paul loving dinner parties. First, I’m a terrible cook. Secondly, we don’t know that many people. Due to lack of well, everything, I didn’t own a tablecloth. I cleaned the dining table thoroughly, using the least-chipped plates and the new cutlery we’d bought to replace the mismatched ones received when we moved in together. Salad in a fruit bowl because that’s all we have, a single daffodil in a tall vase, and old bamboo placemats was the best I could do.
I was watching TV when Wanda and Joe knocked on the door. Paul excitedly let them in. I liked Joe. He always wore a smile and had a dad joke at the ready. He was witty, full of puns, which their teenage kids didn’t appreciate. No one had ever seen Joe in a bad mood.
Rusty bounded around the living room while Joe and Paul joked and Wanda inspected our humble abode. It badly needed a coat of fresh paint, but as it was a rented house, it wasn’t our problem. I loved our front window; it was bay-style. People often sit there in movies, but I had my collection of crystals displayed there. My favourites were the rose quartz zoo: a rabbit, elephant, penguin, dolphin, and tortoise all carved from blushing pink rose quartz. I also had a clear crystal pyramid, a green fluorite pyramid and obeslisk, lapis lazuli bracelet and a few other assorted pretty things that I liked just because I thought they were cool.
“So these are the crystals,” Wanda said disapprovingly. I noticed she’d tucked her hands closer to her as she walked past, as though my heathen symbols would reach out and grab her, damning her to the fires of Hell. I stifled a groan and resisting an eye roll, choosing to sip my win and stay silent.
Once we were seated at dinner, Rusty sat politely next to me hoping I’d drop something tasty. She’s not wrong. I’m a messy eater. Normally she sat under the table but it was too crowded there tonight.
“This lettuce is quite chunky, don’t you think?” Wanda said, spearing a leaf. “It’s so much nicer when it’s chopped nicely. Fits better on the fork, and also in your mouth.” She used her knife to cut all her lettuce into small pieces. I blushed, feeling shame flood my face. Only Wanda would complain about how lettuce was served.
“Lettuce today our daily greens,” said Joe, breaking the tension. Paul laughed while I could only manage a small smile. In defiance, Joe stuffed a whole piece of lettuce into his mouth, showing Wanda she was being silly.
“I don’t like the way that dog is looking at me,” Wanda said a minute later as she cut into her chicken, even though Rusty was looking at me.
Paul didn’t say anything. He just grabbed Rusty’s collar and dragged the poor dog outside. “Sorry about that,” he said when he returned.
“She lives here, you don’t,” I mumbled. Only Paul heard me. He shot me a warning glare. “What?” I whispered. “If she doesn’t like it here, she shouldn’t have come. It’s not like she didn’t know I have crystals and a dog.”
“Once our dog dies, we won’t get another one,” Wanda said, spearing another piece of cut lettuce along with her chicken. “The kids are too old now, they’ll be moving out. And a dog is just like family, but a dog-part of the family. They’re still wild animals, bred to live outside.”
I was fuming. Rusty was about as wild as a baby. She slept on her own bed next to my side only because Paul had ‘allergies’ and didn’t like her sleeping on the bed. Already I could hear Rusty whine at the door, gently scraping her paw against it as she tested to see if it was properly closed.
I refused to serve dessert, but I cleared away the dinner plates, angrily dropping one when I shoved it too hard into the dishwasher. I hoped it was Wanda’s plate. Paul refused to speak to me as he dished out custard tart with ice cream. I’d wanted chocolate to offset the vanilla custard, but Paul argued vanilla would be best. This, along with Wanda’s attitude, defeated me. All I wanted to do was retreat into my bedroom with Rusty and cry.
“That was a great dinner,” said Joe as they were leaving.
“Wish I could say the same,” said Wanda with a fake smile.
“Screw you, Wanda,” I blurted. Everyone glared at me but I was beyond caring. “If you don’t like my house, my crystals, my dog, or my cooking, you’re not invited back.”
Paul attempted a laugh. “You’re on candid camera!” he said awkwardly. Even Joe had nothing to say. I turned on my heel and went to bed, letting Rusty in the back door.
Fifteen years later, I am slicing lettuce for my lunch salad when Wanda’s words filter into my head: “You’re doing the lettuce wrong.”
Screw you, Wanda.
