Neanderpundit

Well, THAT’s over.

Last four weeks we’ve been preparing for the daughter’s First Communion; we worked our butts off getting ready for it all.

She looked like a doll, as Broad will attest; she also worked very hard at her catechism and did well. We put out a spread of chow and booze that seemed at least to satisfy all, the daughter’s choice as to the menu, as it was her special day. So we had corned beef, kraut and cheese and thousand island to make reubens; beans, salads, bacon wrapped shrimp, several different types of side dishes, cake, ice cream, chocolate dipped strawberries, devilled eggs.

We went fed and grazed and drank and messed about until the late hours. Just today, I polished off the last of the corned beef.

So tonight, the daughter yells “Mom! Daddy’s stepping on ducks in the library!! Stinky ducks”

We’re dropping corned beef farts all over the house, and frankly, we’re happy it’s gotten warmer, this would be no time to be stuck in a closed house.

Nice to see the backside of that- and nice that it went well. Thanks to all those who helped prepare, and thanks to all of those who helped us celebrate.

You know, as I age, and things stay sore longer, and recover more slowly, I question the wisdom of a Creator that put our most healthy years in the beginning of our adulthood. One of the most annoying changes, to me, is the redistribution of hair.

My hair has long since ceased to grow on my forehead. I still have as MUCH hair, but it’s not where I want it. It’s on my back, my shoulders, my TOES futhuchrissakes.

The worst, by far, is the goddamn nose and ear hair. I HATE nose hair, I work with a guy with so much nose hair I think it’d destroy a pair of scissors to cut it out. I cut mine every single day.

The ear hair, on the other hand, is purely evil. I have regular ear hair that springs forth from the lower portion of the ear canal, on the outside. This hair has the consistency of music wire, and is as difficult to cut; I have resigned myself to using needlenose pliers and yanking it out. This has the sensation of giving breech birth to a flaming porcupine.

I also get seasonal ear hair, about four times a year. They get to be around 1/2″ long, and they are silver tipped, black in the middle, and amber at the base.

Knowing I have ancestors from Romania, the existence of this particular type of ear hair does not come as a surprise, but it is somewhat annoying; what if my body is out at night partying while I think it’s at home sleeping? I don’t get enough damned sleep as it is. I don’t know if there is any lycanthropy in the family, but I’m not giving up any sleep for a family tradition. The hair goes. Those hairs, I can cut, but they’re so bristly, if I sleep with my head on my shoulder the freshly cut ear hairs actually poke holes in the skin of my arms.

Let’s just not discuss the greying pubes, OK?

All my life, I’ve disliked the taste of alcohol. Even beer tastes to me like something gone horribly wrong. Oh, sure, there are a few wines I can drink, spendy botyrized whites from Germany or France, but they appeal more to my sweet tooth than to anything, and frankly, the intoxicating effect is secondary and in fact, not desired, on my part.

Lately, I’ve developed more of a tolerance for the wines, and even had a mixed drink or two without too much pain, so I thought, why not. Steve H has some advice about alcohol here, and Kim Du Toit Here, speaks to his favorites. I even wrote Mr DuT, and got some personal reccomendations, and following his advice, got my hands on some 15 year Aberlour single speyside malt. Life, as my dear friend and sometimes commentor Jenny says, is too short for cheap booze. Opening it, it filled the kitchen with a wonderful aroma, and I anxiously poured a small bit into a glass. I took it into the library and sat back in my big chair, and took a tentative sip.

I really do feel as if I’ve been poisoned.

I’ve drunk lighter fluid (don’t ask. Just, don’t ask, you don’t want to know) and it didn’t taste this bad. It isn’t as if my taste buds are shot, I can distinguish between fresh garlic and preserved garlic- but this just made me feel as if I’d lit a fire in my mouth and had a golfer stamp it out. What am I doing wrong, intrepids?

Still. I will keep this around the house, in case anyone stops by for a belt. I also have a decent bottle of Polish Vodka, which I suspect will taste much (to me) like sucking on a spent shell casing.

Guess I’ll just have to confine my sophisticated taste to fine rifles.