Turns Out it is Not All About Eve

Hi there, guys and dolls! I trust you had a great weekend. Yours truly certainly did. Let me tell you all about it…

Phone always rings when you’re about to go out the door..

It all started Saturday morning when I was just about to go out the door to run my Saturday errands. You know, get the groceries, take in the dry cleaning, pick up the dry cleaning, get some unsuspecting man to treat me to lunch, that sort of thing. Anyhoo, just as I was to run out the door, Blanche called to invite me to a drinks party that night. She said she was having a few people over, just a casual sort of thing, but she knew knew this rather attractive new co-worker of her husband’s who also just happens to be unattached. She said that she thought of me right away.

Now, I hear that a lot from my married girlfriends and quite frankly, I don’t know what I think of that. Every time they find a single guy they think of me…Does that mean I need pity, that I can’t find my own? That I go through them like water? That I’m a hussy? Oh, like I really care. Handsome man, you say? I’ll go! Come to think of it, that must be why…

So, I get all gussied up – tightest girdle I can squeeze into, a new pink floofy, low cut dress and brand new shiny red lipstick. Black patent heels that make me all toddery and swoony and I’m good to go!

However, by the time I got there, the party seemed a bit of a dud. Blanche met me at the door in a fluster. I followed her in to what appeared to be a hen party. Just a sea of women all looking bored and sniping at each other. I asked her what gives and she then said in one venomous drawl, “Eve,” and gestured with her empty martini glass towards the den, where the raucous din of male chortling could be heard. The visual response from all the clucking hens in tulle and taffeta was one collective grimace and growl. I gave Blanche my purse and stole, took off my gloves and told them not to worry, I’ll handle it.

Don’t worry, Eve won’t hold court for long…

Into the den I sashayed, ready for battle. I paused at the door frame and took in the scene. There in the middle of every man from the party, sat this coquettish little blonde, looking oh so cute and chirpy. And innocent? My eye! I caught the look, danged cat who had so many canaries singing, you’d think spring had arrived early. Blanche then introduced us. Her husband’s second cousin twice removed sent his daughter, just fresh out of high school and into a reputation to come and stay with them. Today. Did her husband tell Blanche the girl was coming? Oh sorry, he was so busy he forgot. (Forgot? Really? More like had he told her she was coming, poor little Evie wouldn’t have been even taken off the train in town, let alone staying there.)

That’s their problem. Back to mine. Now I didn’t really care if Blanche’s husband or the rest of the so-called devoted men were so brutally whisked away on a cloud of youth dewy wonder to this young harlot (of course, don’t tell them that), but I certainly didn’t want to let my own shot at a live one get swooped in on before I had a kick at his can. No siree!

But this required some strategic planning on my part. Now let’s not beat around that bush. We all know that yours truly is a woman of a certain age, shall we say. But with that age comes some wisdom, and that I will happily own (the wrinkles and need for a support garment I will deny to the hilt, but feminine savvy, I claim that for all the years I’ve put in on the dating field).

Before long, I was counterbalancing dim little Evie’s giggle with a throaty, know it all laugh. Her hair flip? No problem, I met it with the long gaze and look away move. Her playful touch on the arm of such a strong man? I did the long, fingertip stroke on the inside of the wrist… After about five such moves, the tables had turned. I was in the center of the room, and pouty Eve was on the phone to mother, begging to come home because no one liked her.

Alan agreed that moonlight becomes me.

I returned the other men to the party, but kept new guy Alan all to myself. On our way to my place, we dropped the third cousin twice removed at the train station heading back home. Bye, Evie!

As for Alan, I got to find out he likes his morning coffee black…

Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more posts. And don’t forget to give my Poppy Cove Mysteries a try if you haven’t already. 

Toodles, Barbara Jean

About Barbara Jean Coast

Barbara Jean Coast is the pen name of authors Andrea Taylor and Heather Shkuratoff. She is currently hard at work telling the cozy tales of the fictional town of Santa Lucia, loosely based on Santa Barbara in the late 50's, early 60's, known as The Poppy Cove Mysteries.
This entry was posted in 1950's, 1950s glamour, 50's Fashions, 50's housewife, 50's Husband, 50's Movies, 50's Slang, Alter Ego, Americana, blogaday, cocktail culture, Conversation, creative writing, Creativity, daily blog, Dating, Dialogue, diary, Domestic life, Drinks, entertainment, Etiquette, family life, Fiction, Fictional Characters, flash fiction, flirting, Historical, historical fiction, Humor, journal, long read, Love, Marriage, neighbors, Nostalgia, Parties, Pop Culture, postaday, Relatives, Retro, Romance, Self Esteem, Social Mores, Socializing, stories, suburbia, Uncategorized, Vintage and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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