To Your Health

Not so long ago, Mei Mei and I had some errands to run.  We left Magilla in charge of Hellhound and Fat Baby.   All that needed to be done was to take the one of them for a walk while the other accompanied them.

We came home to a man so flustered and agitated I could only assume they had been ambushed by an ornery raccoon.

No, he insisted.  He could defend himself against a raccoon.

Was it our neighbor then?  The nosy one.  The one who apparently knows everything about everyone on our block.  The one who cornered me three years ago and asked me who I was voting for.  The one who knows my comings and goings.  The one who could probably write my grocery list, she’s so in tune with my household.  The one that has inspired me to freshen up our back yard by adorning it with sculptures.

WHAT???!!!!  This was sculpted by Vincenzio de’Rossi, a student of Michelangelo.  It’s art.  We keep it classy in our house!  We fancy.

Magilla flopped back into the armchair and sighed loudly that we should ask Fat Baby why he’s so annoyed.

Fat Baby looked at us with his big brown eyes and mumbled that he had a snack.

What snack?

A salad.

He pulled a tree branch down and started chowing down on the leaves because he’s learning about nutrition in school and we had a salad and he likes salad and salad has leaves.

You see where I’m going with this right?

Magilla was just terrified by this.  He’s worried about the kid pulling some poisonous leaves out of the ground and using them as a weapon.  Magilla thinks anything green must be poison ivy.  I grew up in suburbs and farmland.  His origins were a little more urban.  Therefore, all green things can’t be trusted.  This could possibly include salad or at the very least…broccoli and definitely asparagus.

Did I mention that I wear green a lot?

Speaking of green, we landed in New Orleans on Saint Patrick’s Day.  What were we thinking?  There were two parades in our immediate vicinity.  As we walked down Decatur some dude grabbed me by the hand and started dancing with me.  Magilla, I think, was just happy that he didn’t have to dance.  He informed me after my glorious 30 second waltz, hip bump and dip that this man could’ve been the mayor/could’ve been homeless.  We just didn’t know.  I still find this assessment accurate.

So I ate my body weight in crawfish.  Had fried pickles for the first time.  Went to Willie Mae’s.  Blew a kiss to Marie Laveau.   Went to K Paul’s and bought some spices after dinner in which the total price was $6.66.  Went to a jazz club and planted my tush at the bar drinking craft beer until some dude who doesn’t shower drove me off.  The homeless mayor I danced with smelled better and he and his dog lived behind a bar.  I kanoodled with a gator.   Toured some plantations which were simultaneously beautiful yet horrifying and humbling.  And otherwise, relaxed and loved life.

Earlier this week, my husband took his mother back to her home in Pennsylvania to visit family.  They are all in their 80’s by the way.  He texted me, “Don’t get old”.  My response was simply that my plan was to go out at 65 on Bourbon Street earning my beads during Mardi Gras the hard way with a single malt scotch in one hand and some oiled hard body personal trainer named Raul’s buttock in the other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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