I'm sure y'all have been waiting with bated breath for a report on the AuthorBabe
's latest saloon. As faithful readers of this blog will recall, the original gathering was meant to be a salon, but an errant "o" changed all that - permanently. And this time, I am happy to report, there was an abundance of refreshing potables of the alcoholic variety, as well as the remnants of the case of V-8 juice left over from the last (dry) saloon.
Your scribe's offering of a smooth but full-bodied Chilean cabernet sauvignon was pronounced quite drinkable by several of the assemblage, and disappeared quickly. Clearly the centerpiece of the drinks end of the table was an unopened bottle of 12-year-old scotch which had languished an additional 8 years since being smuggled in from Great Britain hidden in a box of books. A couple of us decided it was time to get on with the purpose for which the scotch was created, namely, to be imbibed. Additionally, the AuthorBabe
has a new love in her life, and since the bottle dated from the days of the soon-to-be ex-hubby, it was clearly an auspicious moment to use the STB ex's cellerage to toast the AB
's new-found happiness. And so, dear reader, we proceeded to do just that.
's new swain, it developed, had been aware of her existence for nearly a year because of her book, but being based in Boston he thought it would be a bit creepy to email her. Imagine his surprise when a comment he made in his blog in September somehow blipped onto the AB
's radar screen, and she emailed him! After that, things moved quickly, and the happy pair had a nice long weekend in Boston recently dovetailing an author shindig with their own shenanigans. The AB
wrote a long blog about it all, which unfortunately got zapped before she managed to post it; your scribe dubbed it the "Lost Blog", and the AB
promptly suggested we work on the film version, to be titled "Raiders of the Lost Blog," coming soon to a theatre near you.
Thus your scribe spent a goodly portion of the evening grilling the AB'
s swain, both pumping for lurid details (none forthcoming - he appears to be a gentleman) and ensuring his suitability as a potential mate for the AB
. Both he and the AB
protested loudly and long that matehood was not in the cards at this point, but we all know what it means when the lady doth protest too much, not to mention the gentleman. If I ran a betting parlor, I would lay odds that within a twelvemonth the AB
will be sporting one if not two rings on her fourth finger, left hand (as the old song has it).
Frank Farricker and his bride Cathy were there, along with Ed and Beth Krumeich. Ned Lamont had sent regrets, but invited the AB
to grab lunch with him sometime soon. The rest of the crowd was a motley crew (crue?) assembled by the AB
from her real-time friends and on-line acquaintances. "So that's what you look like" was a comment heard not infrequently from our hostess at the start of the festivities. Trust the AuthorBabe
to blur the boundaries between cyberspace and real life.
As FF was plucking the last bits of meat off one of the turkeys he regaled us with stories of his days as an intern in Chris Dodd's senate office. One of them concerned the senator "perving" in the mailroom with a young cutie. Your scribe immmediately questioned whether "to perve" is indeed a verb on Capitol Hill, and was assured that it is. Apparently it is used to describe skeevy behavior on the part of an older man towards a nubile intern. I guess perving is one of the senate's older and more durable traditions, to judge from some recent headlines.
The party was a rollicking success: huge platters of turkey and large quantities of lasagna, oodles of wonderful side dishes and salads, and an enormous trifle that was anything but trifling. The AB
's 10-year-old daughter started off the piano playing, and soon people were singing and stomping so loudly that the wall sconces started to flicker off and on. P-A-R-T-Y!!
Being the contemplative sage that he is, your scribe spent some quality time with the AB
's precocious daughter and her school chum Colby (not her real name, but her nom-de-fete), who would occasionally leave their computer games to tear through the assemblage like a pair of hyperactive pixies, before repairing back to the quiet of the study. Taped to the AB
's computer were the following words of wisdom: "I write because I want more than one life: I insist on a wider selection."
To which the AB
's daughter added one of her own favorite quotes: "Fairy tales are more true than not, not because they say dragons are real, but because they say dragons can be beaten."
Thus your scribe was instructed as well as entertained chez the AB
, and rolled down the hill from the AB
's backcountry aerie to the tenements of central Greenwich a wiser and happier man than before.