brass balls

Have I moved to the Iron Range? Christ, it’s cold here in D.C.

We had a whirl of a soiree over the weekend that may have appeared at first blush to an outsider as a birthday party. In fact, it was cover for survival fears concerning Amy’s trip to Picachu, Peru this spring (Amy being the genetrix that apparently raised the girls). In passing by the window you may have noted lobster newburg on toast points, souffli (is that right?), a jumbo salad, mushroom broth/soup/stuff, and a key lime pie. I think some wine was lurking around the dining room looking for a date by the time the evening wrapped. Don’t be thrown off by cards with twamps fluttering out, the wrapping paper, or the conviviality: think survival needs. I deemed it necessary to participate in order to secretly pass off a Camelback, a mini-leatherman tool, and ‘save me’ light beam prior to her departure. Hydrate or die. Often when I hear that someone is off on walkabout I think about just how much H2O they will need to lug on their back – maybe it’s my love of safety. Suddenly I’m converting weight to kilograms, mapping out water usage, weight distribution, altitude, and running it through the algorithm of my mind. My results are pretty accurate. Maybe this is another of my manly traits. The Wonder Twins thought about alpaca sweaters and scarves – what can be done?

Speaking of the dinner – I didn’t do squat but the toasting of the points. It’s a skill like anything else. Actually, I also did the hunting (manly, eh?) and managed to use my understanding of the intricacies of the Sound to catch the lobster and bring it back for the celebratory evening. It was a cold blustery day, the sea was angry…

You say birthday.

That’s what I’ve got.