#dearstabby

Dear Stabby, The Glazziers hosted a winter gala “to break the ice.” Instead, they broke three mirrors, two engagements, and one poor Venoble’s ankle. Someone said the champagne froze mid-pour and shattered the flute. Is that a curse or just bad hosting? — Frosted but Fabulous

__________________________________________________________ Darling Fabulous,

Both. The Glazziers think chaos is chic. Frozen champagne is their love language; shattered mirrors are their RSVP system.

It’s only a curse if the ice cubes spell your name — or clink twice when you drink alone. Either way, keep dancing; frostbite looks divine under chandelier light.

Dear Stabby, The Blythes hosted a “Snowfall Séance” last night. The cocoa boiled itself, and by morning the entire veranda was rimed in frost from the inside. They insist it was festive. Should I be concerned my invitation said “bring salt”? — Chilled in Quillville ❄️💋__________________________________________________________

Frostbitten Darling,

When the Blythes say “bring salt,” they don’t mean for sidewalks — they mean for souls. It’s garnish for the living.

Attend next time only if you fancy being the marshmallow. Compliment their décor, refuse the cocoa, and whatever you do, don’t exhale near the candles; they’ll inhale.

If your windows frost tonight, tap once for “no,” twice for “still thawing.”

Dear Stabby, The Venobles threw what they called a “leftovers mixer.” By dawn, the punch bowl was empty, but so were half the guests. The De La Rosas say it was a “gas leak.” The Glazziers say it was “jealousy.” I just want to know if I should attend the next one — they make a killer cranberry mule. — Thirsty in Quillville 💋

_________________________________________________________ Sweet Thirsty,

If the Venobles host it, assume the mixer mixes you. Their cranberries have been fermenting since 1924 and scream when muddled. Still, I admire ambition — nothing says social climbing like surviving dessert.

Attend only if invited by name, and never drink from the glass that spells it wrong. Should the ice cubes blink, stir counter-clockwise and compliment the hostess’s veins.

If you wake up sticky, congrats — that’s not guilt, that’s glaze.

Quillville Confidential: Dinner with the Dela Rosas

Dearest Stabby, Rumor has it the Dela Rosas hosted a “forgiving feast” last night — but only two guests made it home, and one of them was soup. The Venobles are pretending not to notice. The Blythes are selling candles scented like “Remorse and Rosemary.” One witness swears a hand reached from the gravy boat and stirred itself. Love, — Still Hungry in Sector B

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Darling Hungry,

Condolences are for amateurs. Send bleach and an appetite. The Dela Rosas have been seasoning their forgiveness with guilt since 1873; every so often the family table revolts. A self-stirring gravy boat is practically an heirloom.

If you must call, do it before midnight. After that, the line crackles with confessions and moaning that’s decidedly not romantic. Should they invite you to “taste test reconciliation,” wear gloves and decline seconds.

As for the candles — light one, whisper your favorite sin, and blow it out when the room exhales. If it relights itself, congratulations: you’ve been added to the guest list for next year’s feast.

Scandal in Quillville: Lace & Lies Edition