Katie & Milo's Retrocade Dinner Evening

Its important for us to remember that the 1950's were anything but the clean, commercial steam pressed, wholesome decade as it was prjected to be. Racism stayed common throughout the decade, street gangs gave the posers of today a run for their bandanas, and communism burned everyone in Hollywood at the paranoid schizophrenic stake. But through it all, we managed to kick back with a nice casserole dish, an episode of Father Knows Best, wear pearls while we cleaned the house, and slept soundly in our double beds by 8:30 PM.
While those standards may not have played fit at Katiebug and Milo's party, rest assured the guests arrived in full gee golly whiz.
Katie, Milo, and myself congregated at their precious little cabin house, just on the border where Portland meets Beaverton. Until 7:00 it was business before pleasure, or in Milo's way of doing things ethical scratch-its and cuddling. Careful M, you may be the gambling type but Bingo is not your game.

An hour before the guests arrived, the kitchen was in full market crash sweep. Katie peeled apples to my left, while Milo OCD'ed the dishes to my right. And through my middle stood I, making my signartue veggie casserole. The dish best used as my weapon to win a man's heart. But since Jesus couldnt attend, I held back on the crushed aphrodisacs. ;)
By seven the party commenced. Jessica a.k.a. "Mille," arrived in a petite Minnie Mouse number, while Katie's former employer arrived in the Arthur Miller role. Since Marylin was nowhere to be found, I placed my character in the signature waif role. Hi-ho captain.

My camera was my eye for the night. My lenses folding from technicolor to black and white. An array of food was bedazzled in front of us. Cocktail weenies and velveeta cheese sent our throats a gagging, while my casserole was the tip toppitty. Katie's chocolate dissentary pudding went beyond delicious expectations, and no one would touch the giant fruitcup centerpiece. As I juggled water, wine, and Tang, my arms twirled the skirt hems of a few leading ladies.
And you know it wouldnt be the 50's without a nice piece of juicy gossip to exchange between neighbors. While everyone was shone around the house by the party's leading golden couple, your very own Cereal Man was out of the veranda. A ciggarette clasped between my lips with a firm Bette Davis clutch. Though it may not have been kosher to incorporate a cell phone into the 1950's swag, my fingers were in full swish at the text clicks aimed at the last temptation...
Ciao,
Cereal Man.