Darlings, you are looking at the winner of the Ridgeway Golf Course Play for Pink tennis round robin. Or not looking at, but thinking about. Or not thinking about, but ignoring. No, if you’re reading this you’re not ignoring me, you’re interested in me, you want to know more about my tennis triumphs and even, should I say it? my tennis failures. You were there for me for my defeat to Joyce in the semifinals and you’re here for me now.

How did I do it? I played ad side and poached a lot. I put a lot of pace on the ball. I came up to net on deep shots. It goes without saying that I stayed focused, and didn’t let the bad points get me down. That’s key, not getting down. Not letting the stupid shit decisions you sometimes make on the court get into your head and affect how you think about yourself. You are the point you are about to win, not the point you lost.

I tried not to serve on a bad toss.

For lunch I had poached salmon with a subpar green sauce, shrimp salad, hearts of palm and artichoke slivers in balsamic vinaigrette, and several Arnold Palmers. I didn’t waste time with the low-cost buffet items. I finished up with a few cookies and a piece of pineapple. The served dessert was banal, and I ignored it.

The goodie bag included socks, pink tennis balls, and a bottle of perfume. I don’t know yet what my prize was, because I left the luncheon early. Amy C. is going to drop it by later.

So congratulate me!

I’m trying to get over losing in the semi-finals three weeks ago. I thought I had. I thought I didn’t care. But now I realize that I do care, and that it’s bothering me. Yes, Joyce, my opponent, was a very good player. She was undefeated for the season. Whenever anyone heard (and everyone seems to have heard) that I lost to Joyce, they all said, “Oh, she’s a very good player.” Someone said that to me at the supermarket.

There were other external conditions that contributed to my defeat, like that fact that she was left-handed and was able to neutralize my inside-out forehand that fades to the ad side. And it was incredibly humid and I put suntan lotion on someone else's back and thereafter couldn’t keep my racquet in my grip. I didn’t play very horribly. I had my serve. Still, I’m pissed I didn’t step it up and win. For the first four games I was in a fog. And for the last four games, also. The courts were in the middle of fields of dandelions and their fuzz blew across us with a kind of Feminine Product effect and I drifted off as well. Now I’m pissed about it. I’m so pissed I think about doing things like taking lessons and training. Running, and eating right. Ha ha ha ha ha.

2-6, 2-6. It’s depressing.

Anyway, did I report back on the team party? It was very nice. I received pink socks as a parting gift from my captains. Thank you. I wrote notes on pictures of the captains that were then framed. My notes were banal, unfortunately. Or fortunately. Because if they’re not banal, they’re inappropriate. The person who was going to bring sangria was told not to, because they made peach punch instead. I had a glass of it. I was careful to eat snackies, so I wouldn’t get drunk and start free-associating or overeating.

Or anything. Lately I've been wondering how I would know that I was no longer free. Because, with an eye to the neighbors, I control my own behavior so effectively.

Maybe I'm overstating things.

I know you’re all excited, wondering, What is going to happen at the tennis luncheon today? Will Carey’s salade niçoise be the success that it should be? How much sangria will everyone drink? I want to know the answers to these questions, myself. And I will, soon.

Meanwhile, I thought I would tell you the menu for the luncheon as if it were one word:

CruditewithhummusBacon-wrappedfigsVegetablespringrolls-SpicytunarollsSpanikopitaandtiropitesSpinachpistachio-andstrawberrysaladSaladeNicoiseFruitsaladPoachedsalmon-MarinatedsteakChickenandvegetableshiskabobsGrilled-shrimpwithpineapplesalsaRoastedcornsouffleBuffalomozza-rellaandtomatoeswithfreshbasilCouscousLemonLulucakeCoff-eeblondebrowniesChocolatemousseAssortedrugelachorminitarts

I wonder if there is a tune I can set this to. I always want to set everything to “If I Were a Rich Man.” Although this morning a mother at Johnny’s school told me she was working at “Safety Town” this week and I immediately thought, “Let me take you to [beat beat] Safety Town!” It’s a place where children learn not to kill themselves with electricity or drown or be run over or abducted. It’s run by the Junior League.

Where was I? Borges. I’m reading a collection of short stories by Borges called Doctor Brodie’s Report. If Borges stories were jokes they would all have the same punch line: Then he was killed by a knife. That’s life as an Argentine gaucho for you. So what’s the punch line around here supposed to be? Then she protected herself and her children from accidents for the rest of their lives and they were killed in old age by disease.

My tennis team, which calls itself The Pinks, is having a party next week, to which you are not invited. Everyone has to offer to bring something, or their contribution will be assigned to them. So far people have offered to bring:

Fruit Salad
Roasted Corn Soufflé
Spinach, Pistachio and Strawberry Salad
Salade Niçoise
Sangria

I am the salade Niçoise. I will let you know as more dishes are added. I think the series of events that made up the season, beginning with try-outs, including matches and emails, and concluding with us assembling this food, bringing it to our captain's house, eating it, and taking the leftovers home, is a work of art of some sort. I am not making little of this or joking about this. And I am not this kind of an artist.