I also heard that Lewis told Janelle that I think I’m hot shit because I bought a house without a husband. Mama made a big mistake of telling Charlotte it was a mansion—which it is not. It’s a five-hundred-thousand-dollar, four-thousand-square-foot semicustom home in a typical northern-California middle-class subdivision. We don’t even have a pool. Every sixth house looks pretty much like mine. Apparently, I’m one of the last ones to landscape my backyard. I’ll get to it when I can.

When I get to Mama and Daddy’s, I’m telling them, once and for all, to cut me some slack; to give me a break. I’m tired of apologizing for who I am. I like who I am. I like what I’m doing with my life. I love to cook, which is why I cater for a living. And have a lot of fun doing it. I love the power of food. The beauty of it. I want people to enjoy the entire experience—using all five of their senses—I try to create an environment that is visually intoxicating—full of color, scents, and aromas that seduce you until you leave. I see what I do as art, and I offer it like a gift. I also meet tons of interesting people and get to travel all over the world. Folks seem to appreciate my culinary talents, and it makes me feel good when they do. That’s all I want: is to be appreciated for what I do. Doesn’t everybody?

The budget. Oh, forget the budget for now. The schedule is easier: 3:00: I arrive to start preparing the food. 5:00: service staff arrives to set up bar and service area and assist; 6:45: all hors d’oeuvres service begins; 7:00: guests begin arriving; 8:00: guests seated on floor at round tables (guests should bring their own cushions); 8:15: belly dancers perform at beginning, during salad course; 8:30: second course, belly dancers finish; 8:45: main course served; 9:15: champagne service; 9:30: men and women separate for strippers, and show begins; 10:00: dessert; 10:30: music and more partying. Staff (not me!) stays until last guests leave, for cleanup.

On second thought, maybe I should just go there and apologize, because I grew up and did what Mama and Daddy encouraged all of us to do: went to college, graduated, and found my place in the world. I can’t help it if Charlotte opted to make her mark at the post office. Or that Lewis got his bachelor’s in Jail 101 and is now working on his master’s in progressive alcohol. Janelle is apparently still on the lookout, but how many Tarot cards does it take?

My sisters and brother think that I think my life is perfect because it looks good on paper. They’re the ones who don’t want to accept the fact that I have problems just like they do. But since I have a little extra cash in the bank, they assume I can buy my way. If they didn’t watch so much TV, they’d know the cliché that most intelligent people understand: that money does not guarantee happiness or peace of mind. It can take your mind off of things, distract you, but it can’t replace the generic stuff a person needs. If I could go to Neiman Marcus and put some love on my charge card, I would. If I could get a prescription for good health from my local drugstore, I would. If I could walk down the Feminine Needs aisle at the grocery store and pick a husband from the shelf that would complement me, my life-style, and my son, I’d have done it by now.