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Two words: Crazy eyes.
When you first meet her, you wonder why she's still single - she's pretty, successful, has a killer bod.You invite her to your next dinner party and invite your hot co-worker (the one you'd bang in a heartbeat if you weren't married yourself). She arrives after you've stalled the salad course long enough, and can't plaster your other guests with yet another apertif. Her mascara's smudged, and her spare hair doesn't quite blend in with her own thin, brittle cobwebby mane. Two glasses of white zinfandel (her own "hostess gift" contribution) later, she's laughing like a banshee at your husband's kitchen anecdotes. He's not a funny guy, really. Why does she have to lean over like that every time, practically laying her big silicone jugs in his plate? Sheesh... this is getting embarassing. Hot Co-Worker politely compliments her on her TV success and apologizes but he's got that thing early in the morning so thanks and it was great meeting you, Sandra!
Two more glasses of zin later. You hear a crash from the dining room as you're rinsing plates, wondering how to get this crazy bitch out and who the hell can drive her home? Oh, god. You thought it couldn't get worse. She's fallen off your husband's lap, or maybe he pushed her. He's trying like hell not to stare at the fake boob that's popped out of her jack o' lantern themed sweater. Please, please, don't let her cry... oh, fuck! Too late. Don't worry, you say, we all have a wee bit too much sometimes. Go splash your face, I'll get you some coffee. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Hesitantly, you knock on the bathroom door, getting pissed instead of feeling sympathetic when you hear the retching and sobbing over the running water. Just a minute! she says.
Finally she emerges, sans spare hair. It's been lovely, you say, sorry you have to get going.
You call her a taxi. The next time you run into her, she pretends she's never met you.
