“What can I tell you, Perri, it was definitely not Our Type of people”

“HI, Perri, how are you?” It was Mommy Weiss on the phone. From the background noise, it sounded like she was in the car. That meant plenty of time to schmooze.

Supper was already cooking and the kids weren’t home yet. What could Perri do to keep busy? Right, there was that bag of tablecloths that someone had just returned to her gemach. She liked to refold each one before putting them away — you could never trust people to fold them right.

“Baruch Hashem, we’re doing great,” she told Mommy Weiss. “How’s everything over there?”

Mommy Weiss sighed. “America is going down the drain, what can I tell you. Did you see what AOC said yesterday? Forget about a closet communist, she’s starting to sound like Stalin! It’s unbelievable that anyone could still be pushing socialist ideals. I mean, we adults saw Cuba and Venezuela fall apart. We know it doesn’t work.”

Perri put the phone on speaker and pulled out the first tablecloth. “Hmm,” she said. That was usually all Mommy needed to fuel her soliloquies.

“But I’m really calling about something else, Perri. I’m worried about Chaya Rivky.”

“Chaya Rivky? Why are you worried? She seems really happy in seminary, and she has a nice bunch of friends. She brought a few of them over last Shabbos — they seem like quality girls.” Quality was very important to Mommy Weiss.

“You’re sure?” Mommy sounded concerned. “Because the last time I spoke to her, she was telling me about this wedding in a yishuv somewhere — she was all excited by it. What can I tell you, Perri, it was definitely not Our Type of people.”