Friday, March 6, 2015

The Real Ravers ...

I introduced The Girl to her first Shamrock Shake. After some initial confusion, she took the single longest slurp ever drawn from a straw. I paired it with her first McDonald's cheeseburger, which she seemed to instinctively know to love. McDonald's is controversial, man, and I think it all comes down to whether you like maggot-baby sized onions. I do. So, seemingly, does The Girl.

"Eat. Cheese. Burger," she said.

I was on the elliptical, low-impacting my way through an episode of "The Good Wife," (I hope to revisit my passion for this show at a later date) and I had the hugest hankering for an Old Fashioned. Not Gatorade. Not Water. Not Tang. An Old Fashioned. I simply could not wait to finish the workout, record my results, spend a few minutes stretching and wondering How to Be More Like Kalinda (Fitted leather coat, Great Mysteriousness), so I could wring the back sweat out of tank top and sink into an Old Fashioned.

And so, when Chuck got home, that is what we did and it was super fun. I could have have had 10. Then I wondered how a person could get lots and lots of that taste without necessarily drinking lots and lots of that drink. N/A Old Fashioneds, yo (TM).

It was snowing when we all got up, so it seemed perfectly acceptable to quickly cram some Oatmeal (Opie) into The Girl so that she could settle into the couch and watch "Frozen" (Frowitz). I got super-sucked into it -- comfy pajama leggings, sweatshirt, coffee -- and I could have stayed there all day, no prob.

Instead I had the song "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" stuck in my head well beyond lunch, when I went to Subway and met A New Employee who knows no moderation when it comes to jalapenos.

Chuck started a new daily obligation. Wee! It is, curiously, three desks away from my daily obligation. Chew on that, Reader(s).

One of those seriously awful Target trips where one person throws a hundo at the cashier while the other football carries The Girl to the car. Then, when we got home and she realized that we had bought her a booster seat so she could sit at the table instead of in a high chair like an incompetent infant, she didn't even apologize for being a total jackass back there.

She did, however, look at us both and beam mightily.

The restaurant was full, so we sat at the bar. He ate goose, but to me all slabs of that shade of pink are just steak. I had trout with fennel shavings and chorizo something and a glass of white wine. We split the bete noire. We were too late for the early movie so we waited it out for the late. Chuck experimented with top shelf whisky and then we played "Guess how much your drink was" as we walked out of the bar.

The movie, "Maps to the Stars," was okay-ish. We were the only ones in the theater. Some lost "Birdman" folk wandered in, sat down, wandered out. The hinges on the door need some WD40.

Earlier in the day we went to Gooseberry Falls and Split Rock Lighthouse.

Brother Pista and Ma and Pa Pista came to town. After the hockey game, Chuck made us all a drink called a Hunter Cocktail, which included bourbon, Heering Cherry, maraschino liqueur and orange bitters.

Brother Pista slept in The Chair (have I mentioned yet The Chair) and I have to assume had his head used for a launching pad for the cats repeatedly through the night. (They're real ravers.)

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