Had the crimsonest, tequilaest annual Red Dinner last evening, a soiree of red foods, guests in red, house lit with all red bulbs, passion-inducing music. Awoke to a few of those after-party memories that have one simultaneously feeling mirthful and regretful. One involves a gift from artist Gerald, a kitschy suburban mom novelty dusting glove replete with bedazzzzled engagement ring and big nails. So I took it out of the bag and began pretending it was a Dr. Strangelove kind of device, then switched into sextoy mode with it, waving it about suggestively. Well I hadn't realized my hardcore Catholic pops was about five feet away, had spun away (perhaps my sister was embellishing but she - suggested - that at the spinning away moment he spat out one of my infamous hard-boiled eggs stuffed with red caviar, etc.). As I am wont to say, Oh Velcro.
We can drink too many an alternate glass of white wine and then strawberry margarita and please and not condescend or scandalize some of the people all of the time or we can people please none of the time.
I rest my grad-school-honed debating skills. And case.
H.O. Love.