Torn

How does one go about putting together an intervention? 

Last year at this time at a Christmas party, two friends and I were talking near the food table.  One remarked that she needed to find the bar, that it had been a long week, and that she needed a drink.  I cheerfully told them that I didn't drink.  [However, after rejoining the paid workforce, my tee toting days quickly came to an end.]

A few days later, one of the women called me up for a coffee date.  She peppered me with questions about why I stopped drinking.  No, I didn't have a problem with alcohol.  My doctor said my thyroid medicine would work better if I didn't drink.  That was two years ago.  [Well, three at this point.]  In our conversation, my friend told me that she was concerned about our other friend whom she strongly suspected had a drinking problem.

After running into the second friend at a local Mexican restaurant, that assumption rings true.  My friend's sentences seemed off.  Her eyes looked dilated.  And there were two shot glasses on the table, one empty, one full.  Her dining companion was her 20-year-old daughter.  Unless she's buying shots for her underage daughter, my suspicion is that she does in fact have a drinking problem.

Should I invite her for coffee and tell her that I'm worried about her?  Should my first friend and I talk to her together?  Should I talk to her daughter whom I watched grow up and who is a close friend of my daughter?

My timidity stems from a prior intervention that several female friends and I tried with another friend whose husband was physically abusing her.  We tried to convince her to leave him.  Instead she left us.  They eventually divorced but the rifts between the female friends still exist.

Is speaking up the best option?

[Title taken from this.]

Disney for Adults

Ye nevah cawll.  Ye nevah wryte.  Whot?  Ye don' luve ye muddah?

Two things that Southern mothers and New York Jewish mothers have in common are the guilt trip and the good food.  Sometimes at the same time.

Lawdy mehcy, chil'.  Ya gotta eat yawr collah' greens or yaw're gonna disappeah until dey ain't nuttin' lef' o' ya but da clothes ya wearin' righ' now.

As an aside, that reminds me of when I read the Uncle Remus books by Joel Chandler Harris.  One can only read them if one knows the real Southern dialect.  Sort of like reading A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.  It flows much better if one knows a true New Orleans accent.  But I digress.

No, I didn't disappear off the face of the earth.  Mr. Gaelic's annual conference was in Orlando.  Piggyback on a Disney World visit and Mrs. Gaelic is out of this world.  What better way to see Tomorrowland than without kids in tow!  We could smile at all the beautiful babies we wanted to and then quickly find another table away from the screaming brats.

You know all those guides with suggested touring plans for each of the Disney parks?  Don't use them.  We tried using one the first two days and realized that we would have more fun if we didn't try to do and see everything.  Just be and enjoy.  Sheer bliss.  Do you know how refreshing it is to have Fastpasses in hand to both Soarin' and Test Track and decide that you'd rather go back to the hotel and take a nice long bath?

And a word to the wise... Just because the resort bar has signature drinks on the menu doesn't mean that you have to try one.  Save your money and your taste buds.  Stick with what you know.  Some of those signatures are ghastly!

Drops of Jupiter's Moons

Whenever a gift is used, even if months goes by between uses, makes the giver feel good.  Like we scored a hit.  That's the case with Maeve's telescope. 

It was a Christmas present a few years ago.  Looking at the moon through its lens is like practically being on the surface.  All the craters and deserts are right there, big enough to touch.

After supper, she announced that she was going outside to look at the moon.  A few minutes later she asked if I would like to see the moon.  I followed her out and looked at the rough surface of the half moon.  Maeve also had the binoculars around her neck to look at the moon while other people used the telescope.

When my turn came for the binoculars, the stars were my targets.  Alas!  My hands aren't steady enough to hold the binoculars still to view the stars very well.  Until I noticed that Jupiter was rising in the east.

Bracing the binoculars against the brick wall, the moons of Jupiter were visible.  No telescope necessary.  It's the coolest thing to see the moons of Jupiter in the night sky.  Maybe when it's a bit colder outside, Mr. Gaelic will join us with his warming devices -- a heavy fleece blanket, two fingers of single malt, and a Fonseca.

[Title taken from this.]

One Tequila, Two Tequlia, Three Tequila, Coffee!

God, I love the United States Air Force!  So the guys in the liaison office aren't quite as handsome as the Navy guys (oh, those blue eyes).  But man!  Can they make a killer margarita!

The Air Force birthday is September 18th.  So the liaison office had their birthday celebration today.  Having spent over 30 minutes in the back office trading war stories with the Air Force scheduler and one of the Colonels, the birthday cake and most of the food was all gone.  Nothing else but beer, wine, sodas, water, and made-on-the-spot margaritas.  Hey, after the week I've had, one goes straight for the tequila.  That's when I noticed the chocolate Pentagon.

In chatting up the Air Force bartender, we ended up with a friendly wager of whether the chocolate Pentagon was solid chocolate or hollow.

"Solid," said I.

"Nah, it's hollow.  Just use a fork to break it up," he replied.

"No, it's solid."

"Uh-uh, hollow."

"Coffee?"

"You're on!"

Guess what!  It broke apart the minute the fork went in.  That Air Force major is getting a free coffee next week.

The Wait

Is this how it begins?  The end? 

The voice on the answering machine informs me that the results of my biopsy are in.  Yet the doctor's office will be closed for the four-day weekend beginning in the morning.  She says to call at my earliest convenience for the results.  Four days from now.

If it were benign, she would have said so on the answering machine.  I don't say anything.  He doesn't say anything.  Then he speaks,

"I'm sure it's nothing."

Does he really believe that or is that the only thing he could think to say?

He asks if I want a beer or wine.  I don't drink anymore.  I ask for white wine. 

Suddenly the weekend plans to drive to the mountains to look at property seem meaningless.  My dream retirement home vanishes before me.

I feel scared and hollow at the same time.  Is this the beginning of the end?

My Own Worst Enemy

Moving on with today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge and recapping the last three.

8.A picture that makes you laugh - Da.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - Si.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Here!

As you can guess from the title, I don't need anyone to help me in finding f***ed up things.  But, in my defense, I'm not the instigator either.  I'm the lone wolf who does an excellent job in f***ed up activities all by my lonesome.  But my f***ed things skirted the rules. 

In high school as the good girl, it wasn't until the day before graduation that I broke the mini-skirt rule.  In royal style to boot.  As the valedictorian, I was seated on the stage on the 50-yard line in the football stadium.  To the graduation run-through the day before, I sported a navy leather mini-skirt.  What were they going to do?  Not let me graduate?  Take away my valedictory speech like they took away all but one of the top academic awards?  "You scored the highest in every class.  But we need to spread the awards around.  So you're only getting one.  Which one would you like to be recognized for?"

My fearlessness increased with age.  Even today, bungee jumping doesn't seem like too big of a deal.  Except I probably wouldn't do it for the same reason I gave up roller coasters.  Headaches from being thrown around in the seat.  Sigh.

Sure, wearing a mini-skirt to graduation practice and bungee jumping aren't f***ed up by lots of people's standards.  But getting sloppy drunk and ending up, as Laoch said to one of his friends, "sun soaked, covered in beer and strippers, and not knowing where my wallet or my car is" isn't my kind of f***ed up.  I prefer meeting four men on the beach of Puerto Rico and having dinner with them, followed the next day by meeting one man on the beach and having afternoon tea with him, followed by meeting two men on the beach the next day and having drinks with them.  All while vacationing by myself. 

As I said, a lone wolf who can find plenty of f***ed up things all by myself.  Yep, I am my own worst enemy.

Aren't They Lovely?

What would you need to know about someone to switch places with them for a day?  The great thing about the loss of privacy in the past 40 years is so much is known about so many people that there is not a single person I would want to switch places with today.  In all of history is a different matter entirely.

The sixth day of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge delves into the question, but doesn't limit the answer to someone alive today.  In case you missed any, the last three challenges were:

4.A picture of your favorite night - Check
5.A picture of your favorite memory - Check
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - This is it

It's a good thing this is my Prose-Instead-of-Picture Challenge.  There are two people I'd love to switch places with for a day.  The problem is no picture exists of either of which I'm aware.

The first would be my 11th great-grandmother, Mary Horsemanden Byrd.  She was only two years older than I am now when she died on November 9, 1699.  To know how people lived back then, the mundane stuff, the boring!  How exciting that would be!  Yes, it's official.  I am weird.  I get excited over boring details like what she ate for breakfast or drank with supper or how she put her children to bed at night.  Why her and not any of my other ancestors?  With her, things are tangible.  I've walked the banks of the river that she called home, put flowers on her grave, read her husband's diary.  For someone 400 years gone, she has a real presence in my life.

The other person from history to switch places with?  Her presence in my life has lingered as a question of who she was and what motivated a simple act of kindness.  Her name is unknown to me.  As is the town she lived in or when she was born or whether she had children.  All that is known to me is that on December 24, 1944, she offered an American soldier supper and took him to church.  From old memories, I feel certain she was married and might have had children.  But those stories weren't recorded except as tales told at my childhood bedside.  For one day (Christmas Eve of 1944) I would like to be that woman in the French countryside.  The one who offered hospitality to my daddy.

[Title taken from this.]

Sittin' on the Roof of the Apartment*

Welcome to the fourth installment of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge.  To keep the list from getting too long, there will only be three previous challenges shown on each day's post.

2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest -- Check
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show -- Check
4.A picture of your favorite night -- This is it

How the night began is foggy in my memory.  Perhaps it was with dinner and a movie.  Perhaps we had been hanging out with a group of friends at a local watering hole.  That part's not too terribly important to the story.  The important part was my suggestion to take a bottle of bourbon and sit on the roof of my apartment building.

The roof was not intended to be a deck.  It was just a flat roof on an older apartment building in the direct landing pattern for the airport.  Watching planes' headlights approach from the south upped the heart rate until the planes banked with the bend in the river.  The planes looked as if they would fly straight into us.  Soon the planes ceased arriving due to restrictions on when planes can arrive and depart.  Yet the party at a close-by townhouse continued to drone on into the night.

We sat on the edge of the roof, drinking bourbon straight from the bottle.  The conversation ebbed and flowed.  Quietness was filled with vain attempts to find stars in the metropolitan light-polluted sky.  Soon voices from the townhouse party ceased.  What time was it?

Whose suggestion it was to stay up on the roof until sunrise I don't remember.  In the relative silence, staying awake became more difficult as our conversation ebbed more than flowed.  Sitting on a hard, flat roof with no back support made me crave my soft bed just below us.  Soon we were headed towards the stairs.

The length of time on the roof must have been several hours.  The before and after are lost in the cobwebbed, unused stacks of my mental library.  But my night on the roof with Matt is by far one of my favorite and most memorable nights.

*Title taken from this.

Mama Loves Days Like This*

My girl card is about to be taken away.  To me, a date on the calendar to celebrate love (February 14) or mothers (the second Sunday in May) or birthdays (for me, August 6) is not necessarily an excuse to shower me with presents.  My family knows me so well.

Since today is Mother's Day, as with most holidays, we have a family traditional breakfast.  Mr. Gaelic and the girls prepare eggs Benedict, hash browns, fruit salad, LeConte sunrise, and coffee.  No gifts, no cards, only verbal wishes for a Happy Mother's Day.  Except this year Deirdre, who has trouble saying things to me sometimes, gave me a card that expressed her appreciation for all I have done for her.

The rest of the day was picture perfect.  An hour or so of working in my vegetable garden was followed by an extended manicure.  Coffee, naptime, and a trip to the dog park with Baby, all with Mr. G, felt luxurious on a lovely spring day.  When I retired to my boudoir with my laptop for some alone time, what was delivered to my room outdid everything else. 

About to text message Mr. G to see what he was up to, his footsteps were heard on the stairs.  Looking up as he opened the door, I noticed that he didn't have a load of laundry under his arm or a look of consternation on his brow from dealing with the kids alone.  Instead he carried an antique martini glass by the stem.  One bleu cheese-stuffed olive sat at the bottom of the clear liquid.  His gift of making me a dirty martini was almost too much.  My face lit up into the biggest smile possible and my profuse thanks delighted him. 

A perfect way to end a perfect day.

*Mama said click here.

I'm Somebody! Who Are You?*

The following is not original material.  It was plagarized from Becca.  Play along on your own blog if you like.

NICKNAMES: Yes, I have two.  One my husband calls me.  One my father took to his grave with him.

BIRTHDAY: The anniversary of the first atomic bomb that was dropped.  Yep, that pretty much describes me, too.
HEIGHT: 5'10"
EYE COLOR: Hazel
HAIR COLOR: Red, strawberry blonde, titian, I'm not really sure
HANDED: Bats left, throws right
FROM: American by birth, Southern by the grace of God!
PETS: One dog, two cats
PERSONALITY: Leo
HOBBIES: genealogy, hiking, backpacking, reading
LIKES: How long do you have?
DISLIKES: See last answer.
FAVORITE ACCENTS: Coastal Georgia, South Carolinian Low Country, Cajun, Scottish

FAVORITE COUNTRY: Other than my own, Scotland
FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK: Friday, Friday!
FAVORITE DRINK: Old Fashioned, Dirty Martini with bleu cheese stuffed olives, sweet iced tea, seltzer water
FAVORITE FLOWER: Orange Gerbera daisies
FAVORITE FOODS: Soft-shell crab, beets, creme brulee, gazpacho
FAVORITE GIRLS NAMES: Caroline, Rebecca
FAVORITE NUMBER: 1
FAVORITE PLACE TO HANG OUT: My own backyard

FAVORITE SHOES: Anything with a heel over 3 inches high

FAVORITE SPORT: Tennis to play, Football to watch

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE ME
1. Snakes
2. Serpents
3. Reptiles without legs


THREE THINGS I'D LIKE TO LEARN MORE OF:
1. Arabic
2. Shuttle tatting
3. Rock climbing

*See Emily Dickinson.

The New Year's Child

It's been said that simply having children doesn't make one a mother.  Sometimes the mothering is done in the presence of one's own children but not necessarily towards them.

When Mr. Gaelic and I decided to allow Deirdre to host a New Year's Eve party at our house while we were at another party, we had our reservations.  But we wanted to give her the opportunity to show us how much she's matured over the last year.  Or to fail miserably and learn from her mistakes. 

After the talent show at the other party, Mr. G and I headed back to our house.  Suspicion was high when we heard Maeve in the back seat speaking into her cupped hand holding her cell phone, telling whomever was on the other end that we were on the way home and were presently at the corner of Such-and-such Street and This-and-that Road.

Instead of changing into casual clothes and walking down the street to watch the fireworks, we camped out in our bedroom and watched to see if anyone was going outside for anything illicit.  Sure enough, there were four boys in the garage, smoking cigarettes and climbing on Mr. G's motorcycle.  At 6'5", when he moseyed outside and told the boy to get off the bike, the cigarettes went out faster than the boy got his leg over the seat.  The high school kids don't call Mr. G the Terminator for nothing.

While Mr. G was doing the tough dad thing, I was on my knees in front of another boy who had made the mistake of going to another teen party which had been busted up earlier.  He somehow made his way to Deirdre's party.  Already intoxicated.  Three-sheets-to-the-wind intoxicated.  Deirdre sat beside him while I asked him if he knew who I was.  "You're Didi's mom."  I asked if he knew where he was.  "At Didi's."

"Can you drink something?"

"Yes."

"Take these two Tylenol and drink this water."

When another boy's mother showed up to drive her son and the intoxicated boy home, it was imperative that she knew what had happened.  Although my thoughts were the same as hers, I didn't voice them.  "You really messed up," wasn't something that he needed to hear right then.  With a hangover, he'd know it.  And he can always be told later, when he might actually remember hearing it.

Dierdre did an okay job for hosting her first party.  She could have done better.  She also could have done much worse.  Mr. G and I debriefed her after everyone had left and told her as much.  She acknowledged that and apologized profusely for not being able to stop the intoxicated boy from showing up and for not being able to stop the boys in the garage from smoking.

The lesson she learned was that, even though we don't approve of certain activities by teenagers, we're not going to berate them or throw them out when they are in need of a caring adult.  Her thanks to us for helping with the intoxicated boy were sincere. 

My lesson came when she told me during the debriefing that the intoxicated boy was the same one who was in the hospital two weeks prior from attempted suicide.  His parents had abandoned him and both blamed him for their problems.  My lesson was that I must parent any child in need.  Not just the ones that I birthed.

No, Really, Honey, I'm at Karate Class

It was bound to happen. 

A man wants to go to a bar with his friends and stays a little longer than he should.  He knows that if he calls his girlfriend/wife/significant other that she'll be mad at him for going to a bar.  He needs an alibi.  His friends will cover for him.  But if he whips out his cell phone in the middle of the bar, she'll know where he is and still be mad at him.  It's too cold/rainy/crowded to step outside to call. 

What is the poor chap to do?  How can he convince her that he's not at a bar?

Enter the Teletransporter.  Yes, it's a real thing.

It's a soundproof booth from which he can make a most convincing call.  There are different sound scenarios to play while he calls her.  There's only one catch.  The only ones available so far are in Argentina.  That's quite a ways to go for a beer with your friends just to have a cover with the Teletransporter.

The Rusty Gael

For someone who gave up drinking months ago, having one little drink is a lot.  I'm a bit rusty at holding my liquor.  Last night was a scotch tasting event in conjunction with the Christmas parade, which is today. 

At the event, distributors bring in several of their single malts.  Dewar's and Johnnie Walker were there as well, but moving on to the real scotch . . .  There was Aberfeldy, Balvenie, Glenmorangie, Macallan, Laphroaig, Craggenmore, Dalmore, Dalwhinnie, Glenfiddich, Talisker, Glenlivit, Highland Park, and a few more that I can't remember.  The tastes are served in thimble-sized plastic cups.  So not really enough to make a full drink. 

It's also used as a meet-and-greet by the local politicians.  The mayor, various city council members, school board members, muckity mucks, they were all on hand.  The food was, well, what's the word I'm looking for . . . forgettable.  Unfortunately in past years the heavy hors d'oeuvres were enough for a light supper. 

My usual ritual is to compare the less peaty ones as I work my way around the room.  Why I continue to this I do not know.  My favorites include everything from Glenkinchie to Dalwhinnie to Oban to Balvenie.  Never ever put a dram of Laphroaig or Ardbeg under my nose. 

After I determine my favorite of the evening, with two thimble fulls in hand, I make a beeline back to the Dewar's table that I purposefully skip.  In my opinion, blended scotch isn't scotch but a travesty.  At the Dewar's table, my request is simple -- two thimbles of Drambuie.  All four thimble are swirled together in a larger cup (that they have for water and sodas).  Four or five cubes of ice.  Perfection. 

That's it.  I'm done for.  Take me home, James.

Beneath the Kilt

What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt?  It depends on the man. 

Several years ago during a parade in town, several clans had been imbibing a bit too much scotch trying to warm their innards on a cold winter day.  As one clan approached the reviewing stand, an elderly "gentleman" stumbled and proceeded to roll and roll and roll across the pavement right towards the crowd of dignitaries.  In true Scots fashion, he wasn't wearing anything except his kilt.

This past Saturday night, one of our associate priests who is the dean of a local seminary held a Murder Mystery party at his house for the Beefeaters.  The Beefeaters have nothing to do with gin or guarding the Tower.  It began as a group of men at church who would clean up the church cemetery on a semi-annual basis.  They also enjoy relaxing afterwards with a grill full of red-meat products and some good single malt.  It has grown to include Lady Beefeaters who are either honorary members or actually help with the cemetery cleanup.

One of the Beefeaters is USDA-certified AAA prime beefcake eye candy.  At a pool party in the dwindling days of summer, he was the one who wasn't embarrassed in his swimsuit.  Rippling six-pack, shaved head, earring.  And the life of party, even finding a way to attach a keg to floaties so the guys in the pool didn't have to go far for a refill.

The murder mystery party was a fancy dress affair.  Although some people dressed for the role they were assigned (my role was the actress, Mr. Gaelic's was the doctor), most people wore long dresses or tuxes.  Except BeefeaterCake.  He wore a kilt tuxedo - looks like a tux from the waist up and a kilt from the waist down.

During the opening explanation and the closing accusations, we were seated in a large circle since there were 16 of us.  (Eight characters per game so we were split into two different rooms for dinner but all played the same game.  Yes, there was another actress and another doctor.  And the Gaelics and another couple were lucky enough not to be seated with our spouses - you can interact with more people that way.)  BeefeaterCake was seated directly opposite in the circle.  And he doesn't seem to know how to keep his legs together, sitting with his knees spread.

But like a thoughtful Scotsman, he wore tartan compression bike shorts underneath.  Not traditional, but thoughtful.

It Was a Dark and Blonde-ish Night

This one time, at band camp . . .  Wait.  Let's start again.

Last night after dropping off one daughter at a babysitting job and returning to find the other daughter and her friends prepping for the football game, it was supposed to be a relaxing night in.

The agenda was full of ideas:  a quick catch-up with certain friends who were online, a really long decadent bubble bath, a cup of hot apple cider and a new book, a lap for Thing 1 and Thing 2 to take turns warming.  Ah, bliss.

But Murphy's Law kicked in.  Flip on the computer.  Log into the various mail accounts.  Suddenly all the fire alarms in the house go "beep" once then the house goes dark.  Immediately, the generator next door clicks on and starts humming away.  You should see the size of that generator.  It's big enough to power the entire block.  But no!  If this was grade school, their report card would say, "Doesn't play well with other." 

A quick visual check outside confirms that the whole block is without power.  Lovely.  Somebody has to report the outage.  In the past, it's been that the neighbors assume someone else reported the outage.  But what's the power company's phone number?

That's okay.  My web browser is open.  I'll just look it up online. 

Ever have one of those blonde days even if you've got more red in your hair than blonde? 

It took me a few "Why won't the page load?" before realizing that the modem, which is plugged into an electric outlet, doesn't work if the power is out. 

Good thing the rest of last night's agenda could be accomplished sans electricity.  Bubble bath by candlelight.  Cider heated on the gas stove.  Reading by candlelight.  Thing 1 and Thing 2 on either side of me like anchors trapping the warmth under my blanket.

Ah, bliss, after all.

Sex, Beer, and Rock & Roll

Oktoberfest!  Prost!  The first Oktoberfest was 200 years ago yesterday.  Time to break out the brats, the wursts, and the beer. 

One good thing about sending my daughters on German-language exchange trips is that they come home having, legally in Europe, tasted good beer.  That's good because, when they come home and are offered typical American beer, they turn up their noses at the colored-water that passes as beer in America.

Now, just in time for Oktoberfest, one brewery has come out with limited-edition beer bottles that reveal special designs under black light.  If you're lucky enough to visit the select bars (I couldn't find a list of which bars) in Hotlanta, Beantown, the Windy City, Vegas, L.A., Miami, NYC, Palm Beach, Philly, San Diego, San Francisco, or Washington, DC, and you order yourself a Heinie in an aluminum bottle, be sure to ask the bartender to flip on the black lights.

But be careful who you're standing next to and just how low-waist her jeans are.  It seems that some women are getting black-light-only vattooes.  Really, now!  Who has a black light in their bedroom? 

The last time I saw black lights anywhere was at Wetlands, a club in TriBeCa that also had a Fisher Price Chatter Telephone on the bar.  That was a great place to see uber-talented musicians start sets around midnight and play until 4:00 a.m. at times.  R.I.P. Wetlands.

But I never ever heard a good German drinking song on the Wetlands stage.  Without jumping on the next Lufthansa to Munich, does anyone know where I can find a good German band?

Burping Abba, Father

If your kids are of a certain age, you will undoubtedly remember the book "Everybody Poops".  It explains that pooping is a normal part of life.  It's a must-read for parents with children of potty-training age.

Someone needs to write a book called "Everybody Burps".  Burping is also a normal part of life.  Granted, most times we try to stifle the burps.  Yet in some countries burping is considered a sign of appreciation to the cook, so I've heard.

My drink of choice is water.  Not just plain, flat tap water.  I like my water with those sparkly effervescent bubbles.  Seltzer.  Soda water.  Fizzy water.  Call it what you will, but it's easier for me to down my eight glasses of water a day if there's a little fizz.

Drinking carbonated drinks, even zero-calorie good-for-you fizzy water, causes bubbles in the tummy which come out as burps.  Unfortunately, my burps come out as vowel and consonant sounds.  Something along the line of ahh-BUH.

My kids were the first to mock the spoken burps.  I would burp ahh-BUH, they would repeat back "Abba".  It spread to Mr. Gaelic who takes a more literal translation to my burps.

Invoking a paternalistic view of family life where even the wife refers to the husband and head of the house as Father, now whenever I burp, rather than repeat "Abba" or console with a "Bless you", he answers with "Yes, dear?"

Pickled Ballerina's Feet

With my current job search bullying my dance craze to the backseat of the bus, attending ballet class has taken a nosedive.  Tuesdays and Thursdays are my buckle-down-and-just-do-it days to work on applications for the entire "business day".  Mondays and Wednesdays are spent doing my other full-time occupation of being a housewife.  Believe me, if there were any way possible, I'd keep my current job.  But it doesn't pay enough for college tuition.  In fact, monetarily speaking, it doesn't pay at all.  Except in the love and affection of my family.

That leaves Fridays to relax into a physically exhaustive exercise routine.  My only ballet class of the week these days. 

My ballet teacher is a wonderful woman.  She danced professionally from age 16 onward.  She was a Rockette at one time and danced in Sweden for a while.  Now she teaches ballet to pre-schoolers through pre-pointe.  Plus her adult class, her gal pals.

She's somewhat eccentric in certain ways.  She refuses to see Western doctors until she can barely walk.  She drinks Listerine before class every day.  And recently she's taken to drinking water mixed with cider vinegar. 

She's also gotten on the green bandwagon by buying a metal water bottle to carry her vinegar water.  Apparently, she just bought it.  At my last class I walked in and found her swearing about how her bottle had leaked all in her bag.  Both pairs of ballet slippers were soaked.

But she had nothing else to wear and, with her gnarled feet from years of pointe shoes, she won't dance barefooted or sock footed.  She just squished her way through class, leaving puddles where she stood too long while mentally choreographing each piece. 

The good thing about ballet slippers is that, even after all the blood, sweat, and tears, they still smell like leather.  Rule Number One in ballet is never to wear your ballet shoes anywhere but in the studio.  So they're not on our feet for more than a couple of hours at a time.

Still.  One has to wonder how the vinegar will affect the suppleness of the leather and thereby a dancer's ability to arch her foot.  Inquiring ballerina minds (me) want to know.

Wouldn't You Like to Have a Pepper Too?

WARNING! ADULT CONTENT
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There’s an old joke that says . . .

Q: What do blowjobs and eggs benedict have in common?

A: You can’t get them at home.

A recent survey says that 45% of men really enjoy fellatio while only 17% of women enjoy doing the honors. My money says that those 17% are single women because once the wedding ring goes on, the urge (need?) to please her partner in that manner goes off.

My problem is that I’ve developed a bad habit of needing a cold Dr. Pepper chaser to be able to complete the act. If you know what I mean. Unfortunately, I don’t drink sodas anymore. Except at possibly the movie theatre. And if I’m at a movie, I’m there to watch it, not make out.

So when Mr. Gaelic met me at the checkout line at the grocery store over the weekend, he had not one but two cases of Dr. Pepper under his arm. I tilted my head and looked at him wide-eyed exclaiming, “You can’t be serious!”

“No, no. They’re made with real sugar. That would just be icing on the cake,” he said without even having to ask what I was thinking.

Apparently men and women both think about sex quite frequently. Just more than men think we do.

Gone With the Gin

It’s been a rough seven days. Late last week, an extreme storm with a 70+ mph wind microburst knocked down enough trees in its path to leave us without power for 48 hours. After wearing a bright green shirt to the gym on Monday, my armpits still have a green tint. While trying to mow the yard, the mower ran over a rock or something and bent the blade so that they won’t rotate. My driveway looks good but the grass in the back is tall enough to lose my dog in.
I gave up after the mower incident and raided the liquor cabinet. Three different single malts, top shelf vodka, and run-of-the-mill vermouth. And no olives. Except the Kalamata olives that my kids snack on. Grocery store or liquor store?

One friend suggested going to both. Grocery store for olives and liquor store for gin. “For a proper martini.” But I'm not a "proper martini" kind of girl. I like my martinis dirty. Like I like my men. Yum, olives stuffed with bleu cheese, a splash of olive brine, a whisper of vermouth, lots of gin. Stirred, not shaken. You don’t want to bruise the gin. Too bad the liquor store closed before I could get there. I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another weekend.