The Waterfeld's two houseguests had arrived: Ward Senior and ... ugh, witchiepoo, her mother-in-law.

Wifely duties...ugh!  June could barely stand that cold-eyed woman.  She gathered, the feeling was mutual.  Dora, though not outright, made it clear enough, that she was of one class, while her daughter-in-law was from another.  The inenudos, over the years, they just hurt.  But what really griped June's griddle up one side and down the other was, how the old bat took little time for either Robert or Molly.  Fortunately, both kids, more less, let it ride.  Their Grandma Shafley filled that void with stories about the farm, and apple pie.   June had to be honest, the woman intimidated her to the core.  If mom was in June's shoes... she would console herself, mom wouldn't put up with the mind-gaming, "no way, no how!"

June reached into the refrigerator for a plate of about eight gobs, which her daughter had made during the previous evening - there had been twelve, but Robert ...  She turned toward the den, but didn't quite make it, before the "oooollll" monster had spotted the incoming treat bombs.  Between the two Wards, maybe Dora, Molly and herself might each get to enjoy one.  Maybe.

After brewing another pot, and reloading the silver tray, June returned with the plate.  There were two gobs left.  Just then Robert passed, and latched onto them both.  "Thanks Mom!"  He took off.  She stood there dumbfounded.  What would she offer Dora?

"Oh do sit down." Dora gently placed her cup upon the saucer.  "I would have declined anyway."  Dora smoothed the silk folds of her blouse, then added, "they put on pounds."  The woman's steeley gaze lit upon June's waist - which had, over the years, thickened just a few inches.  Hurt feelings again, even though Ward had never implicated - let alone said - anything.  Oh sure, he wouldn't be pleased with a blubber-ball, but she knew, that he knew his wife well enough to know the care she took to remain attractive to him.  

Needless to say, the botox-buffed old woman launched into a litany of her preferences, her accomplishments, her associations with the who's who, her career.  Gaagg!  June glanced at her crochet basket, but didn't go for it.  Witchiepoo, during her last invasion, had made a snide remark about a cousin of hers, who "confused keeping house and knitting sweaters with actually doing something."  June didn't know the woman, only that she was the wife of Senator Rowan?  Or whatever the jerk's name was.  Christian Right Wing...my.big.bee-stung.toe!  Ugh, the condescending old flatulence was putting it out to...whomever was his current temp.  June's heart went out to the geezer's wife. 

Half her foot was swollen.  Not so much for it having stepped, some hours earlier, into the backyard, but because of the purely simple commonsense FACT that any sore foot needs at least some inactivity.  It was going to be a long weekend.