Getting dressed for an event always worried Liz.  She knew the basics: match your colors, dress for the temperatures, don’t be too risqué, don’t be too plain.  Dress for the occasion. She stood in front of her closet trying to decide what to wear.

The closet was full of clothes. Some blouses and slacks with jackets—these were the result of working in offices. But these seemed too formal for a potluck lunch.  There were a few casual sweaters, some light-weight dressier “sweat-shirts” with nice embroidery across the chest, and there were some very colorful flower-print silk blouses. There were also some stylish, but possibly outdated tops with collars or cuffs that set them back about a decade.  They were still nice, but would she be making herself look old? Out of touch?  Doubts and questions swirled in her head.

The event was a potluck lunch being held by the local women’s committee. “Women of all walks of life,” the brochure said. “Coming together to support the good work of our communities.”   It seemed warm and friendly enough. Liz had just moved into the community and after finally settling and finding all that her family needed: a good grocery store, a dentist, an allergist for her daughters and a foot doctor for her husband, she was ready to explore the women’s community.

“Ok, my choice will be a pair of blue slacks and this blouse with the blue and yellow flowers,” Liz said to herself. She pulled the blouse out of the closet and looked it over. “Perfect, pretty, comfortable, cheerful and inviting.”

It was Liz’s standard rule to take a salad whenever she went to events of this sort.

She soon busied herself with slicing and dicing tomatoes, cucumbers and celery. She tore up the lettuce and tossed in some finely chopped onion.  Next, she went to the cabinet and grabbed the bottles of salad dressing.  One each of French, Italian and Ranch. Surely everyone had at least one of these as a favorite. She tossed the salad into a big plastic bowl and snapped on the lid. She tucked the bowl into a box with the dressings. Now she was ready.

The drive to the potluck lunch was pleasant. She admired the beautiful homes with their front lawns and flower beds, and their big graceful trees.   Checking the address again, Liz realized she was getting close. It would be interesting to see what the home was like where the potluck was being held. Finally, she turned in at the address.

From the driveway she could see the backyard.  There were several picnic tables topped with red and white table clothes. Numerous women were already standing around, some holding trays of food.  Big graceful maple trees cast shade over the lawn.  It was so inviting.

Liz grabbed the box with her bowl of salad and three bottles of dressing and headed toward the backyard.

            “Hello, hello, welcome! My name is Mary," said a short stocky woman.

Liz smiled and replied in her friendliest tone.  But in her mind, she marveled at how poorly the dress fit the short woman standing before her.

            “Come to our sign-in table and get a name tag,” Mary explained.

Liz did as she was bid to do.  Pressing her name tag on her blue and yellow flower-print blouse just below her right shoulder, Liz looked around at the other women.

            “Put your dish here,” another woman explained as she pointed to a table already set with many dishes.  Her name tag said “Judith.”

Liz put her salad bowl in an opening on the table and put the three salad dressing bottles next to it. Her eyes scanned the other dishes on the table.  They were noodle casseroles, pastas in tomato sauce, pierogies, empanadas, samosas, potato latkes and Hot Pockets.

She set her box under the table, then stood to look around the room.  Was she crazy or were the people on the East Coast all sort of plump and short?  Liz was from the Mid-west and people there seemed to be tall…mostly, it seemed like.

Liz saw the wine table and decided to break the ice.  She got a small glass of Chablis, not that she liked it, but it seemed like no one ever carried Reisling.

A few women gathered near Liz and asked about her hobbies. 

“Photography, writing short stories, gardening, bird watching,” Liz replied.

“Any kids? Husband? How long married?”

Liz gave answers. A few of the women explained themselves. The more confident looking women included organizations to which they belonged.  Some proudly told of being supervisors or business owners.

As Liz listened, a woman went over to the food table with a plate and fork in her hands. She stood next to Liz’s salad bowl and frowned.  Her gray hair seemed to stand up on her head, like an angry dog’s would if it felt threatened.  She raised her arms and in a loud voice she growled “Wouldn’t you know it.  The skinny woman here today brings the salad!”  She leaned forward toward Liz as if she were ready to bite. 

Liz looked around at the other women.  They seemed to be replicas of each other.  The woman “pit-bull” seemed to be representing most of them.  Soon they were all glaring at Liz. No one stepped forward in Liz’s defense, nor in defense of healthy salads.

Liz was dumbfounded for a moment then she apologized, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to offend you.  Salads are healthy. Good with other foods,” Liz stammered.  “No problem, I’ll take it away.”  A feeling of rejection overcame her. She didn’t even want to be there.

Liz put the lid on the salad bowl, grabbed up her three salad dressings, put the whole works into her box.   She looked around again with hope, but seeing no one willing to break the grip of the mad dog, she carried her box back to her car.

The drive home was time lost and passed in a state of confusion.  What had just happened?  The polite invitation of the brochure had vanished.

Liz got home and put the salad in the refrigerator. Her family would have it for dinner. They all loved salad with a choice of dressings.

A week later Liz got an email inviting her to a special planning meeting of the Clifton Women’s Club.  She decided to wait and watch, and see what would become of them. Biases created false divisions over small issues; it seemed. Liz would have to look elsewhere for friends.