We spent St Patrick's Day at one of those superficial, artificial church groups of people. They were people pushed together, who had virtually nothing in common, created to compensate for a large church where anonymity was the general rule.
I felt we were intruding, even though we were guests.
I was put on the spot with questions like, "Since you're teaching in that district, are you part of the corruption the local news is reporting?"
To which, I replied, "No," and "you're taking the word of the new superintendent and her perspective."
A senior lady began to relate excitedly, the story of her recent trip to Hawaii, and the host disdainfully countered her with, "I already been there," cutting her off and walking away in a huff.
The men walked out on the veranda. My husband followed.
"Excuse me," said the host, "this is only for golfers."
"Surely, you don't mean that."
"Yes, I most certainly do."
That explained why my husband came back into the room.
The green beer was accessible to the hostess. Her husband, who had returned, took her into the corner to admonish her for her alcoholic behavior.
As we ate, the strawberries on her cake were, not surprisingly, rancid.
After which, she climbed upstairs, where her teen-age daughter and my ten-year-old one were playing at the computer.
The hostess took out her frustration on the dog.
"Sammi, I told you, over and over again, not to poop on the floor!"
I'd heard St. Paddy chased the snakes out of Ireland. That night, we walked away from them, never to return again to the mega-church.
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