It had only taken three bottles of 1983 Offley Porto Boa Vista Vintage from Portugalto convert Mary Wellington into a complete waste of human aptitude. Everyone was flailing around her knowing their roles in the 3rd Act of the Play as the waited for the inevitable disruption and the pathetic contortions of a phobic wonton woman. They were not disappointed.
Mary began wailing at the top of her lungs. “They are rotten, they are all rotten. Get them out of my house.” She swallowed another glassful of Port in one gulp. Mary’s eye make-up smeared down her cheeks casting the darkened persona of an aberrant misanthrope.
Madeline, her best friend tried to comfort her. “There, there Mary, we have booted those rascals out on their ears. They can’t hurt you anymore.” Madeline gulped her 2004 Rutherford Ranch Estate Cabernet quietly as she nodded to the guests surrounding her.
The guests lifted their wine glasses in assurance, knowing that the little white lie would make things better and the party would continue. With Mary Wellington calm, the expensive wines would flow freely and all would be well. The Brie de Meaux stuffed with truffles and Comté paired well with the 2001 Riserva Ducale Oro Chianti Classico, as Mary Wellington continued to grip her face in agony.
“I want Charleston here right now. Get him here right now,” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Charleston was her husband of 18 years. As usual, he grimaced with embarrassment. He became intimately familiar with Mary’s party behavior and like everyone else knew his lines well. The drinking clique acquiesced quietly to his request for calm. They sipped their wines and munched their fine cheese and crackers in complacent communal harmony.
“Now, now Mary, you are going to be alright. We have taken those bad guys out of here and put them in jail where they belong.” Charleston’s eyes rolled back into his head as he looked around at the sympathetic circle of friends knowing that she would have to sign the caterer’s check before she conked out. It was the most difficult part of the evening. Mary Wellington’s money was crucial in allowing the party’s to continue. No one dared interfere.
Mary Wellington was a spoiled, beautiful, late middle-aged woman, well-heeled, old-money aristocrat with a need to be the center of attention. Freud would have misdiagnosed her condition as psychosomatic maladaptive repression. Most everyone that knew her dubbed it pathetically neurotic or as Sherman Henderson referred to it as “self-centered bratism”. She mistreated everyone around her, clamored for attention in a pitiable way, reeking of a mental stench that fogged every move she made.
What made Mary Wellington tolerable was the fact that she had money. No, she had a boatload of money and liked to throw parties, very expensive parties, with very expensive accoutrements. She created the “Social A-List” of Evanston County. No one of any social standing would dare miss a Mary Wellington party.
Over the years, Charleston became a cheerless wreck of a man, lost in a delirium of hopelessness and despair. His heart fluttered helplessly, his hands shook violently aided by $100 bottles of Glenmorangie 18 Scotch funded by the deep pockets of Mary’s trust fund.
A noted psychologist, who witnessed one of Mary Wellington’s desperate episodes, wrote about her in one of his articles.
“Mary X’s behavior is symbolic of a gross narcissism that doesn’t allow anyone in their world except themselves. If there were a cure for this parasitic ailment, it would lead to world peace. Our modern technological society has inadvertently created the Mary X’s of the world, and our civilization suffers as a result. God help us all.”
Mary Wellington continued to host cocktail parties and people continued to come to them knowing there would be a dreaded show of misaligned behavior mixed with excellent wines and cheeses. They knew being on the Social A-List of Evanston County was more important than Mary’s shenanigans, so tolerance was the order of the day. One of her devoted and life-long friends, Alfred Cummins created a toast for those special occasions: “Long Live the Queen of Cognitive Dissonance. Long Live the Social A-List.”
THE COMPLEX NOW 