Dear friends,
It is another interstitial night here at PTMYB. Having survived the Wednesday night LutherCorp office party, at which I was given the improbable nickname of Lady Godiva even though I am 99 44/100% sure that no nudity occurred on that night, I am headed out again tonight. This time I will be joining a cluster of high-spirited femmes for Korean barbecue, which means I will arrive home full, semi-drunk, reeking of smoke and fermented fish-based sauces, and happy as a clam. Poor Lloyd.
Last night’s, uh, spirited post about Connecticut Governor John G. Rowland and his wife attracted the attention of my friend Vee, who had more beauty and integrity at birth than I will ever hope to achieve in my whole life. Unfortunately, she had to slap my hand, and rightly so, for failing to attribute the title of the post. Whoops. No, I did not make up the title by myself; I cribbed it from “Frankly Mr. Shankly” by the Smiths. “You munged the line, too,” said Vee. So I did. I should have said “I didn’t realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry.” Anything else, Vee? “Yes. One begins to ascertain that you are not a Buddhist.” Such a card, that Vee. It is only because she is a dead ringer for Diana Rigg that she gets away with it.
By now I should be well-acquainted with the perils of office food, and not check out the leftovers from the board of directors’ lunch this afternoon. So it is my fault that I spied something that looked like strawberry mousse in the lunchroom and decided to try a little ramekin of it. Hmm. A curious mix, this. It is supposedly made of whipped cream, but there is not a whisper of dairy taste about it. It is topped with fresh strawberries, but it doesn’t taste of strawberry. It doesn’t taste of any fruit of all, come to think of it. It does taste vaguely of cinnamon – but why in the world would you put cinnamon in a strawberry dessert? I am starting to fear that I have just participated in a blind food-additive test, when a co-worker walks into the caff. “Is that strawberry?” he asks. “Nnnnno,” I answer. “What flavor is it?” he asks. “Uh, I think it’s pink-flavored,” I answer. Co-worker laughs, grabs a spoon, tastes it. A look of puzzlement crosses his face. “Oh,” he says. “It is pink-flavored.”
The aforementioned Miss Vee has suggested that I put up some happy news, to offset yesterday’s philippic. This is not happy news, but it is news I am glad to read. Gary Ridgway, the confessed Green River Killer, was sentenced to 48 consecutive life sentences on Thursday. If you are not familiar with the Green River Killer, and the path of fear, misery and destruction he carved into Washington and Oregon, ask a Pacific Northwest-based friend about him. (Or read this article from the Tacoma News Tribune, but be warned that it is painful.) There was much controversy over a deal that the prosecution cut with Ridgway, sparing him the death penalty in exchange for full disclosure of all his crimes and the whereabouts of his victims’ remains. Although I’m sure my opinion would be much different if it were my mother or sister or best friend or cousin who crossed his lethal path, I have to admit that I’m glad the deal was made, simply because Judge Richard A. Jones was able to say, in effect, you will pay for what you did to Wendy Lee Coffield. Gisele Ann Lovvorn. Debra Lynn Bonner. Marcia Faye Chapman. Cynthia Jean Hinds. Opal Charmaine Mills. Terry Rene Milligan. Mary Bridget Meehan. Debra Lorraine Estes. Linda Jane Rule. Denise Darcel Bush. Shawnda Leea Summers. Shirley Marie Sherrill. Colleen Renee Brockman. Alma Ann Smith. Delores LaVerne Williams. Gail Lynn Mathews. Andrea M. Childers. Sandra Kay Gabbert. Kimi-Kai Pitsor. Marie M. Malvar. Carol Christensen. Martina Theresa Authorlee. Cheryl Lee Wims. Yvonne Shelly Antosh. Carrie A. Rois. Constance Elizabeth Naon. Kelly Marie Ware. Tina Marie Thompson. April Dawn Buttram. Debbie May Abernathy. Tracy Ann Winston. Maureen Sue Feeney. Mary Sue Bello. Pammy Avent. Delise Louise Plager. Kimberly L. Nelson (also known as Tina Tomson and Linda Lee Barkey). Lisa Yates. Mary Exzetta West. Cindy Anne Smith. Patricia Michelle Barczak. Roberta Joseph Hayes. Marta Reeves. Patricia Yellow Robe. Jane Doe. Jane Doe. Jane Doe. Jane Doe.
We have a word at our house for things that are artificially flavored and supposed to take like grapes. These things are anything from livid purple bubble gum, which has never borne any resemblance to the fruit in taste or texture to the heinous purple jello dishes. The flavor is called “graple”. Jello dishes, however, are always called Guckenpucky. It’s a family word for anything containing jello that your mother would have made for bridge club when you were about seven.