"Ohh, my bunion is killing me," she moaned as she plopped into an overstuffed chair and kicked off her clodhoppers.
"Hi, Mom. What's up?" Sheila asked.
Mark glared at her out of the corner of his eye. "Perambulating poodles! Your mother wears Army boots," he gasped in astonishment.
"I'm planning a dinner party for tomorrow. Drop everything and give me ten...books with recipes for Bat Segundo."
"Mom, you don't really cook bat?"
"No," she laughed. "I substitute terrapin and snark. No one knows the difference. It's such a muddle anyways. We're going birding tomorrow and at 4:30 in the morning all you can spot is will of the wisp and galleycat. After we're tired from the roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd they'll all stop here for dinner. We can announce your engagement then."
Mark rolled his eyes. "I see what you mean about our upbringings being a little different. At least my parents won't be here until tomorrow night and they'll miss all this," he sputtered.
"Wait until you see what we have planned for their arrival!" Mom gloated triumphantly.
Miss Snark searches for her subscription pad to write a prescription for Modern Bride.
Scores to come