Once upon a time, a kindly professor named Melissa hopped a plane (by herself, of course) to South Florida for a four-day whirlwind tour of relatives, former colleagues, and other assorted odds and ends.
I amexcruciatingly aware that several people are sitting on pins and needles waiting to see what I will write about them.
Or if I will spare them. Please!
Let's just skip Stuart. He is perfect.
If he weren't a high-powered attorney (power being measured by the type of BMW he drives and the quality of the earpiece he wears while driving it....) he would make an amazing physician. Enough said?
Then the triumverate of Lory, Anne and Jene, the three of whom look like a poster of "after" pictures for Gold's Gym. Brilliant, successful, hardbodied women who are stuck in perpetual great hair days.
My lowpoint of the wonderful evening seven of us spent together was Lory's proclaiming "I've never weighed more than 110 pounds."
It was *HER* night, so I didn't give her a swift kick.
Honestly, the woman doesn't have a smug bone in her, so she didn't deserve a kick.
Maybe a pinch.
Or a good-natured shove.
Into a pool.
Oh, Jene? Hello? Next time I order a CD, I'd like it on a CD.
Not a zip drive.
Not on notebook paper, not on a floppy disk from the 90s.
But honestly, I didn't mean to leave it at Anne's house.
So, um, burn it to a CD (there isn't a lot of room for negotiating here) or email me the playlist and I'll visit my special music place that I know better than to list here.
Anne. Anne. When I grow up, I still want to be you.
With less kids. But I'll take everything else.
And, Nancy? Is the Lucy-shower still on? Because I'm free to come down and draw obscene pictures again. But this time, I'll be adding breasts. Have you registered anywhere, yet??
Martin. You have not been given clearance to date.
You are supposed to be working 90 hour weeks, then going home. Alone. To think about how you are too busy for women. There is no woman good enough for you. None worthy of your charm, intelligence or wit. So you're going to be alone for a long time. That's an order.
Then there's Melissa, the other Melissa. Not me. I'm not making this up. I have a friend Melissa, a successful atty who -- like Stuart -- drives a BMW and can kick your ass if she has to.
I am totally indebted to Melissa for letting me slip by with something.
She knows what I mean. I owe her one.
My Dad. I spent a bit of time on my mini-vacation at home, staring into space, listening to dad talk to customers.
They don't just call about hibiscus.
They call to flirt, to tell him how beautiful his flowers are... and how big they are... and how interesting his accent is... oh my G*** it's almost nauseating how people love to compliment my dad and shower him with money. It's a good life.
Mom is doing well. I spare her my blogging. She and Abuela are sacrosanct.
So, back to life.
Except for an email I'm about to answer in another blog.
