About a week ago, a thick satin envelope appeared in our stack of useless mail. While Husband made dinner that night, I studied the envelope carefully.

“There is a return address on it from our insurance agent Raymond,”

Husband pointed out, gesturing with the knife he was using to chop carrots. Some couples care about his and hers closets; ours was a marriage based on his and hers vegetables.

“Raymond? Is he retiring, is he getting married, what is this? It’s not like we even know him that well. We just call him up once a year and hello, an invoice appears,” I flipped the envelope over.

“How about we open it?” said Captain Obvious, full of sarcasm. I handed it over and he slit it with the carrot-smeared knife.

The beautiful envelope vomited ribbons, crepe, embossed gold cards, and glitter. Finely cut confetti rained onto the floor – I’d be sweeping it up for months – and Husband squinted at the calligraphy.

“Our insurance brokerage has invited us, as valued customers, to a cocktail reception at the Winter Show,” he said.

“Alexa, what is the Winter Show?” I shouted.

Crickets… “Sorry, I don’t understand,”

I huffed and then… “The Winter Show is the leading art, antiques, and design fair in America, featuring seventy-two of the world’s top experts in the fine and decorative arts and held at New York City’s prestigious Park Avenue Armory,” Alexa replied.

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” I mimicked as I held the invitation up to the light. Sparkles rained into my eyes. “It’s at the Park Avenue Armory next Tuesday night. We don’t even have to RSVP. We just check in at the reception desk between five and six o’clock. It’s black tie! Damn it, I’ll have to find those heels and you’ll have to dry clean your suit.”

“It’s been dry cleaned.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s still in the dry cleaners’ wrapping.”

“And is there a clean tie?”

“There will be.”

“Yeah, right,” I doubted that. I thumbed through the cards stuffed in the envelope. “Hotels? Too rich for our blood. Parking? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What?” barked Husband. “Move the car and lose our Tuesday spot?”

“We are taking the F train. What are fine and decorative arts, anyway?”

“Let’s find out,” Husband said. “I could think of worse things to do on a Tuesday. Don’t forget to bring your boots. You won’t last an hour in those damn heels.”

“Join us for cocktails and canapes. Alexa, what are canapes?” I asked while I made notes on a yellow sticky: buy Dr Scholls, find Spanx, test curling iron. Then I remembered the last time I almost welded my ear shut and scratched off that last one.

In response to my question, everything spoke at once:

Husband said, “Canapes are French for you’ll need a burger and fries.”

And Alexa piped up with, “A canape is a type of hors d’oeuvre, a small, prepared, and often decorative food, consisting of a small piece of bread, sometimes toasted, puff pastry or cracker wrapped around or topped with some savory foods, held in the fingers and often eaten in one bite.”

Husband quickly added, “And a brownie sundae.”

“Decorative arts call for decorative food, you cave man,” I waved the invitation and glitter tornadoed around me. “Ready or not, Winter Show, here we come!”

* * * * *

The Park Avenue Armory looked like it was hosting the Oscars that Tuesday night. It even had a red carpet and paparazzi in a velvet roped pen. Flash bulbs popped at fancy dressed folk leaving limos that created a helluva traffic jam. Around the corner, I leaned on Husband and changed from my comfy boots into the damn heels.

“See that?” barked Husband at the traffic. “Not worth losing the Tuesday spot!”

I took a few steps and smiled. Dr Scholls never let a girl down! I nodded to Husband and slung the plastic Gristedes bag with my boots over my shoulder. “Let’s go! Those canapes aren’t going to eat themselves.”

A uniformed greeter with a sash and the kind of curly earpiece that looked like a phone cord from the 1980s came at us so quickly that we both grabbed our purse and wallet protectively. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Byron. We’re so pleased you could join us tonight!” she said warmly and directed us to the coat check.

“How did she know our names?” Mr. Byron whispered to me as I handed him my coat and the Gristedes bag and fiddled with the straps on my dress. All I had in my closet that could pass as an acceptable cocktail dress was my matron-of-honor dress from my sister’s wedding a few years ago. I was just now reminded that the straps are nasty bits of torture, but I was also distracted by the incredible scene around me. It was just like being at the Oscars!

I whispered excitedly, “Is it me, or does everyone look famous? We should send Raymond a fruit basket as a thank you.”

“We pay our premium as a thank you,” muttered Husband.

I elbowed him. “Lighten up, you! For one night, we are VIPs!”

“Do VIPs have to wait on line at the coat check?” said Husband. “This is fucking ridiculous.”

Nearby was a quartet of the fanciest folk I’d ever seen in real life. All trussed up in glittery gowns and shiny ties, they looked as if they had just teleported in from the set of Downton Abbey. Or maybe an actual abbey, given that their average age looked to be about 352, not in dog years. They all turned in unison at Husband’s F-bomb and scowled in dismay.

I elbowed him again. “Language, you! This is a classy place. Behave!”

He was about to fuss back at me but I caught a whiff of gouda.

“I smell canapes. Expensive canapes,” I clapped my hands gleefully and ignored a not-so-subtle eh-hem from what I thought was a statue but was actually a tall elegantly dressed old lady. Like, old lady. Blanche raised a tiny pair of silver framed eyeglasses on a glittery stick to her face and stared down the ski slope of her nose at me, even though we were the same height. I gave Blanche my best “I’m from Queens, bitch” look and left Husband to the coats.

The damn heels carried me onto thick royal blue carpet. Before me were four lanes of what looked like the world’s fanciest science fair. How was I supposed to know which lane to pick? It was like going through the toll plaza on the New Jersey Turnpike! Choose wrong, and you got behind some yay-hoo who paid their toll in nickels.

Then two cater-waiters showed up. One handed me a glass of pink champagne garnished with a whole strawberry and a fancy card that turned out to be a map of the exhibit hall. Nothing made sense except for the “YOU ARE HERE” in raised gold letters. Then the second waiter placed a tray of tuna tartare on thin sesame crackers right under my nose.
Canapes!

I tucked the map under my arm, ate the strawberry, guzzled half the champagne, and inhaled two tuna crackers before I noticed the napkin offered by the waiter’s other hand. “Oops, sorry,” I apologized as I took a napkin and the card fluttered away from under my arm. Faster than I could blink, the cater-waiter knelt down, scooped it up, and tossed it on a tray with other crumpled cocktail napkins and trash.

“WHOA!” I said loudly and slurped champagne. A fresh new card map was placed in one hand – “EEK!” – and my not-quite-empty glass of champagne snatched away – “HEY!” – and replaced with full one, again with a whole strawberry.

“Wow, what are you? A ninja?” I said to the nearest cater-waiter who smiled like a toothpaste ad and presented a tray of …

“Shredded wagyu beef on cheddar bay biscuits!”

“Ooo, like Red Lobster!” This time, I went for the napkin first but I dropped the damn map card again. While I snarfled two slabs of juicy beef biscuits, a ninja swooped in to save the card from the floor, or maybe save the floor from the card, I couldn’t decide which.

“Eh hem!” I turned to see a pair of impossibly old yet impeccably dressed ladies glaring at me. I could almost feel the pin pricks of their dagger-eyes on my skin. Then another map card appeared in my hand.

“Damn it, you again?” I said to the card and tucked it under the straps of my dress.

“Eh hem!” The little old fossils wrinkled their noses as if they smelled the subway on a hot day, and just when I was about to ask them what their problem was, Husband appeared. Double fisting champagne, he tried to kiss my cheek but missed. There was an audible thunk as our heads collided and we burst into giggles.

I knew the old fossils were gutting me with their eyes – Good luck getting through the Spanx, gals – but Husband steered me away down the aisle.

“Look at this place, it’s full of treasure,” he said, clinking his glasses to mine. “Over there –” champagne sloshed onto the plush rug as he gestured left “– are a bunch of books that date from the Middle Ages. Half a page costs more than our car. Over there –” another sprinkle of champagne baptized the floor “– is an artisan who restores miniature carousel horses. We would need a second mortgage to buy one and they’re huge, I don’t know who thinks those things are miniature! And those –” this time he paused for a sip and nodded in front of us “– are gilded spoons from eighteenth century France. Think they saw someone’s head get chopped off?”

“Speaking of chopped, eat this, it’s to die for,” I said, popping a beef biscuit in Husband’s mouth. He barely caught the gravy from dripping onto his tie.

“Wow, that was amazing,” he mumbled as I stuffed a second biscuit in his mouth and dabbed his chin with a napkin. Then he said, “There is a bar in the back.”

“Let’s go. I need something other than pink champagne,” I said, but I moved too quickly and the damn heels tried to buck me off. I nearly collided with a tall elegantly dressed man – in an actual top hat! – standing at an exhibit behind us. “Excuse me, sir,” I said quickly and realized too late that I probably should have curtsied or saluted or something.

“Quite alright,” he responded. With that accent, he was obviously an extra for Downton Abbey. He was wearing an ascot and the glass of pink champagne in his hand was untouched. How was this guy even real? He raised his glass slightly as if to toast us but didn’t clink.

“EEK!” I exclaimed at the champagne ninjas for the third time. Everyone in the crowd jumped in dismay and glared at me. My face shouted back, Whaddya lookin’ at? You just can’t expect thirty years of Queens street sense to vanish after four canapes!

Sir No-Drinks-A-Lot ignored my hysteria and said to Husband, “It’s not nearly as impressive as last year, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, we didn’t come last year,” I answered, then a ninja walked by with a stray full of something fishy on little spoons.

“Oh no?” answered the Sir, troubled by my response.

“No,” said Husband, tugging on my arm to stop me from chasing after the fishy things. “We were out of town last year. Florida.”

This reassured Sir immensely. “Ah yes, Palm Beach is exquisite this time of year, but the lady and I return specifically for the Winter Show. Surprising that I’ve never met you before, either here or at the club, but I do hope we cross paths again,” he intoned graciously with another tilt of the glass and floated away.

We choked trying not to laugh too loudly.

“The Lady? Is that his wife, his mother, his mistress, the dog, the dog’s mistress, what?” I whispered through giggles.

“Bruh, I didn’t mean Palm Beach,” Husband laughed.

“Nope, we meant Disney. Sometimes Daytona if that Holiday Inn is running a deal. Slightly north of Palm Beach,” I exaggerated a sniff of the air and a wrinkle of my nose like Blanche on the 7 train in July.

“I wonder what he meant by the club. Not Mar-a-Lago?” Husband asked.

I shuddered, champagne splashing out of my glass. “Ew, no. But not Dave & Busters near the Orlando airport either.”

Husband laughed so hard that he snorted.

My skin pricked again; somewhere the Golden Girls were eh-heming their displeasure. Before I could react, the tray with the little spoons circled back.

“Scallops over butternut squash brulee with yuzu drizzle!” announced the ninja with such pride I wondered if he had brulee’d it himself.

Husband twitched as the ninjas snatched away his empty glass. “Watch out, they are very quick here,” I told him as I fed him a scallop. “Yuzu down the hatch!”

“Did you say kudzu?” Husband asked after he swallowed.

“No. Yuzu.” I ate the strawberry off his champagne glass.

“What the hell is no yuzu?”

“Just yuzu.”

“Will just yuzu kill me?”

“Probably not, it was just a drizzle. But we’ll ask Alexa later.”

“Okay. It was so delicious, I don’t mind if it kills me.”

On our way to the bar, we had so many canapes that I felt like Queen Elizabeth at Costco. After another round each of tuna tartare, beef biscuits, and scallops’n’squash, we enjoyed a few new things like mushy cheese on tiny focaccia circles (the edges of the bread were beveled – WHAT?!), tandoori chicken skewers (I dropped two skewers while juggling map card and champagne glass – UGH!), mini shrimp and avocado tacos (we each had six – they were about the size of my pinky nail), and citrus glazed strawberries (there wouldn’t be a strawberry to be found in the tri-state area in months thanks to this shindig). We also spotted a cheese mountain, prosciutto shaved off a haunch that still had a hoof, and a vat of chocolate fondue with – you guessed it – strawberries for dipping! There were seven ninjas stationed around the chocolate fondue, and probably seven more stuffed under the table cloth with giant spoons ready to save the floor from chocolate drizzle.

I stifled a belch as we stopped near a double-wide exhibit for a breather.
“This place is like Antiques Roadshow for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We’d have to sell our house, the car, my sister’s house, my sister’s car, all six of our kidneys, drain the 401k, and maybe we could afford half a spoon,” I said.

“Yeah, the half with no gold or silver at all,” said Husband.

“What’s in here that needs so much space?” I asked, nodding at the nearest exhibit.

There was only one display case flanked by four security guards. We tiptoed as close as we dared and saw three silver link chains with one gigantic colorful gem each. By now, my education in the decorative arts told me that these were definitely not fake, not with their own Secret Service attached.

Husband squinted at the map card. “These are the Chateau Amulets.”
“Amulets? Sounds cursed. Might be a horcrux.”

“Available to you for the bargain basement price of two million dollars.”

“Each? I guess there is no extra charge for the demonic possession,” I couldn’t contain the giggles. Husband snorted again.

“I need to let some of these canapes go down or I need to find the ladies’ and loosen the Spanx,” I said after exhaling loudly.

As a few more steely stares came our way, Husband rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, we’re imposters or something. Raymond lets in the riffraff from Queens. Hey, how are the damn heels?”

I stifled another belch. “I think they’ll be calling my flight in about fifteen minutes.”

Husband nodded in the direction of the bar. “Time for one more drink and we can say ta-ta to the decorative arts and canapes.”

I belched in agreement and he led the way.

With the bar in sight, we came to a fork in the blue carpeted road and had to wait for the Golden Girls to weeble-wobble past.

I dropped my voice to a whisper. “They’re off to loosen the Spanx.”

Husband stifled a laugh. “It’s night at the museum and all the fossils came to life.”

Aided by too much pink champagne, I laughed so hard that tears squished out of my eyes. My mascara was running, my feet were numb, the Spanx were trying to contain the yuzu and strawberries, and the cutting stares I got when the hiccups started put us on display just like those damn horcruxes.

We took refuge at an ivory-draped hightop less than four feet from the bar. I was relieved to set down the champagne glass on a solid surface, along with a handful of crumpled cocktail napkins. Of course, this summoned the ninjas and everything vanished in seconds.

“Can I get one of those ninjas for the house?” I asked.

“Look who it is!” Husband nodded at Sir No-Drinks-A-Lot who raised a still-untouched glass of champagne to us.

He floated up to the bar and placed his untouched champagne glass on the edge. The bartender, recently having finished Navy SEAL training, immediately swept it away and replaced it with an inch of amber liquid in a cut glass tumbler.

Husband whispered, “Punish this champagne, Jeeves. Next time, I shall not wait so long for my unicorn placenta whisky.”

“There you two are!” said a familiar voice behind us.

“Raymond!” we sang out in unison.

“Enjoying yourselves?” said Raymond. “What a scene, huh?”

We both spoke at once. “The food is amazing,” I chimed while Husband said, “this stuff is crazy expensive. Do people really buy this stuff?” and then I came back with, “Why is everyone so old?” and Husband blurted, “Why did you invite us?”

Raymond sipped his champagne. “We sponsor this cocktail reception every year and have to give out a certain number of tickets. As long as there are no recent claims, I let my secretary pick who gets the invitations.”

“How is Donna? How’s her mom?” I asked. “And I guess we don’t have any claims?”

Raymond laughed, “No, you guys are great. Donna loves you. Her mom’s surgery went well. She’ll make a full recovery. I think the only claim ever was that chip in the car windshield two years ago, was it?”

Husband’s face turned dark at the memory. “Damn Jersey Turnpike,” he muttered. “Thanks for not raising the premium over that!”

“All’s well that ends well,” said Raymond as he signaled to the bartender and three more glasses of champagne appeared at our table. “Have you checked out the grilled cheese station near aisle four? It’s worth a visit. And I’ll see you in June to renew your policy. Good to see you both.”

Grilled cheese station?!

I was up like I’d sat in something wet. The damn heels propelled me towards aisle four. I remember nodding at Husband when he said he would get our coats and meet me up front…

A long table draped in silvery cloth attended by three ninjas had been plunked between a display of antique cufflinks and swirly porcelain teapots. Stainless steel bowls of bread triangles and cheese wedges awaited their fate. I watched in utter fascination as the three ninjas formed a small assembly line to make fresh grilled cheese wedges on a fancy silver sandwich press one at a time to place on a tall silver platter for the taking. Of all the things I wanted here, the silver sandwich press was definitely it! Maybe there was a knock-off at Bed, Bath & Beyond?

Hanging from hooks under the platter were several pairs of tiny tongs. I watched as one of the Golden Girls tottered up to the platter, picked up a grilled cheese with the tongs, placed it slowly on a tiny plate, and scurried away like one of Cinderella’s mice. I adjusted the map card in my dress straps, settled my numb toes firmly in my heels, and seized a pair of tiny tongs.

The tongs were actual silver and impossible to close. Breaking a sweat, I clamped on a grilled cheese triangle. As I raised it off the tray, the cheese spilled out of the sides in ropes. It was more beautiful than any possessed necklace. Then, to my horror and shock, the tongs somehow twisted in my fingers and the amazing triangle of grilled cheese splatted on the floor!
Acting on reflex, I kicked the dead body under the table cloth where I am sure there were ninjas to take care of it in the Jersey way. I looked up hastily and surveyed those around me. The ninjas, the fossils, the Golden Girls, everyone seemed oblivious to the grilled cheese homicide that I’d just committed.

Confident that I’d gotten away with murder, I gripped the tongs with greater firmness and went back in. This time, I was not distracted by the cheese ropes. I focused on the tongs; I willed them straight and steady. I reached my other hand towards the cheesy triangle and –

“OW! That’s hot,” I cried as the piping hot grilled cheese somersaulted off the tongs and swan dived into my cleavage. I clamped both hands over my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut as the cheese seared a path down my torso. It turns out that Spanx will not protect you from third degree burns caused by hot grilled cheese! When I felt it fall from my stomach onto the ground, I sighed loudly with relief.

As I opened my eyes, I braced for death by steely stares and a Gloria-in-excelsis-deo’s worth of eh-hems. But, again, everyone appeared to be completely ignoring me.

Glad for my spontaneous invisibility and determined to get me a grilled cheese once and for all, I glared at the tongs, glared at the sandwiches, settled the dress straps, planted the damn heels, and went back in.

What happened next was just a blur…

No sooner had I clamped the third wedge then the tongs spasmed again. This time, the devil’s wedge cartwheeled into the forehead of none other than Blanche herself!

Ahhhhh…. Fuuuuuuuuuuuck….

I didn’t wait for the tractor beams of death to lock on. I spun completely around and ran like hell. She was going to have to shoot me in the back as I was retreating! The image of the grilled cheese plastered to her forehead like a bug on a windshield propelled the damn heels forward. Every other step or so, one heel stuck and I glanced down to see a grilled cheese pasted to the bottom of my shoe.

Like Cinderella, I didn’t go back when the shoe ejected my foot. As I passed the prosciutto haunch, the ninja leaned down and hiked up the table cloth where there was definitely a panic button. Security in all their curly ear pieces would be on me in seconds! I hopped forward on one foot as fast as I could until I saw Husband, coats thrown over one arm, nibbling the strawberry off his glass of champagne. Behind him, the gaping castle doors meant Park Avenue and freedom!

“There you are!” he said. “What is wrong? Why do you only have one shoe?”

“We’ve been made! Let’s go! They are coming for me!” I grabbed my coat and the champagne glass went flying and landed on the flagstone floor with a loud CRASH. He tried to apologize to the attendants nearby but I grabbed him and pulled him down the stairs.

“Now! Before it’s too late!” I screamed.

When we were safely around the corner, I came to a full stop and perched my shoeless foot on the other like a flamingo that had to pee. As Husband handed me my boots from the Gristedes bag, I told him the whole scandal of the grilled cheeses. As he doubled over with laughter, I sat on a hydrant to put on my boots. The damn heel came off with a loud suction sound and I chucked it into a dumpster on the corner of Lexington and 63rd by the F train.

Later that night, when I was in my ratty old bathrobe, soaking my feet in a Tupperware of Epsom salt dissolved in warm water and sipping Jack Daniels on the rocks, Husband turned on the local news. Both of us perked up when we heard the reporter say…

“Tonight at the Park Avenue Armory the annual Winter Show kicked off to great success. The annual showcase for decorative arts, antiques, and design welcomes patrons and collectors from around the world, and this year’s show didn’t fail to disappoint.”

Both Husband and I watched as several clips of the exhibits played along with the reporter’s commentary. In the background of almost every shot, we were front and center, eating, sipping, guzzling, or giggling. The segment ended with an overhead shot of the entire exhibit hall, where my escape from Blanche and the grilled cheese station was dramatically visible for the world to see.

Husband and I took one look at each other and burst out laughing as loudly and as obnoxiously as we could.

“Think we’ll get invited next year?” I sputtered as the ice rattled in my Jack Daniels.

Husband pretended to type an email, “Dear Donna, thanks for the invitation to the Winter Show but the wife and I will be in Daytona…”

We laughed and drank our Jack Daniels until our sides hurt and our eyes were droopy. I drifted off to sleep that night to the sound of the white noise machine and visions of grilled cheese flying through my head.