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olives with an imported Irish linen towel
    7) Remove glasses from freezer. Drop in the olives.
    8) Pour vodka mixture carefully into glasses. Sip or gulp as needed.
    The best thing about a martini is that I usually only need one to make everything all better. That day, I knew I was in for a long, wet afternoon.
    “So, tell me, Mona, when did this happen?” Patricia speaks in a very low and well-cultivated voice. She can also go into what I call her Junior League mode, when she barely moves her lips and her jaw is frozen shut. She can have lengthy conversations this way, without ever really opening her mouth, even for vowels.
    “This morning,” I croaked. The first jolt of vodka tends to cause my vocal chords to seize up. By the third sip, I’m usually all right.
    “What? This just happened?”
    I nodded. “Yes. He came home in the middle of the morning to tell me and to pack all his stuff.”’
    “And her name is really Dominique?” Patricia asked, her eyes bright. Being the gracious person that she is, she poured my drink first, then her own. She can fill her glass to the absolute top and never spill a drop picking it up. I don’t know how she does it. She always holds her martini glass the same way, with the bowl resting in her upturned palm, held slightly away from her body so in case she’s jostled by some clumsy oaf she won’t suffer any damage. Just like June Allyson.
    She took a quick sip. “You poor thing. Does MarshaMarsha know?”
    MarshaMarsha is my next door neighbor and another one of my very best friends. I call her MarshaMarsha to distinguish her from Brian’s sister, MarshaTheBitch. MarshaTheBitch used to be plain old Marsha, a tolerable sister-in-law, a kindly older sister to Brian, and a very generous aunt to the girls. When my father-in-law died ten years ago, Marsha realized she was Jewish and decided to do something about it. The Bermans had always been members of the Ultra-Non-Observant Temple, which means they remembered the High Holidays, but didn’t necessarily do anything about them. But when Marsha decided to embrace Judaism, she wanted the rest of the Berman clan to join in.
    Phyllis, the new widow, patted Marsha’s hand gently and explained that for over forty-five years she had been faithfully praying to God that she would die before her husband, or, better yet, have them die together, hand in hand, and since God had chosen to ignore her, she wasn’t going to start making the extra effort now. Rebecca, the younger sister, who was a practicing Wiccan and had been for almost ten years, may have done something involving burning herbs grown at the waning of the moon, because Marsha developed a mysterious and nasty rash that lingered for weeks. Brian laughed, the girls balked, and I, being a non-observant Catholic, refused to get involved in any way. Of course, Marsha blamed me for the family’s eventual descent into hell, and she began referring to me as the Goy Slut who Brian had (insert heavy sigh here) married. This after being in my wedding party all those years ago. So, she became MarshaTheBitch
    But MarshaMarsha remained MarshaMarsha. She didn’t mind, although I’m sure she inwardly winced at Brady Bunch reruns. Her real name is Marsha Riollo, and she is an absolute doll.
    As I shook my head, Patricia went to the back door, yanked it open, and yelled for MarshaMarsha. MarshaMarsha, having four boys under the age of twelve and the reflexes of a Navy SEAL, was in the house before the echo died away.
    “What?” she asked. “Did something happen?” Her eyes went quickly to the martini glasses. It was a familiar sight in my kitchen, actually, but since it was barely one in the afternoon, she realized that something must be amiss.
    “Brian left,” Patricia announced. “Can I get you a drink?”
    MarshaMarsha sat beside me and grasped my hand. “Oh. Mona, really? Is that why the car was here this morning? I saw Brian drive up and I thought, well…” She shrugged. I know