Saturday, February 28, 2009

snow devil

Tonight I am going to watch a rugby game, Ireland vs England. (I've become rather a fan of rugby. Like American football, except way faster, and more exciting, and the men are REALLY big and burly and yummy and they all pile on top of each other like squirming sweating sex puppies and honestly, from a red blooded female's perspective, it's like watching a smorgasbord of sweaty, muscly testosterone-fueled manliness and what, I ask you, can be better than that? Oh Lord, is it warm in here or is it just me? I think Janet understands. As does Pam.)

Ahem. (fanning her face in a delicate Southern Belle manner) Yes I do likes me some rugby.

We are going, in a rather large group of confessed sots, drunks, Irish, English, a lone Scot, horny rugby lovin' women and general mayhem-producers, to a pub in Oslo which I will not tell you the name of at present for fear of the police having a heads up of us intending to misbehave.

Ok, we aren't really that bad. We'll just get a bit soused and then holler alot. I mean, we are a bunch of 30++ (except of course, you, Eileen, though you only get a few more months before you have to face it like the rest of us) professionals with responsible jobs, mortgages, the occasional children and grown up type things hanging over us. some of us are even considered rather intelligent. We've got a rocket scientist, a few PhD's, some IT people, engineers and such amongst us. (Writing that just now, I fear I am sort of the stooge of the group. Funny, flirty, but certainly maybe not the brain trust, yaknowwutimean? Perhaps I am the Chronicler, the Samuel Pepys of the drunk brigade.)) So, we can't really get into THAT much trouble. Can we?

And certainly, we do not do undignified things. Not like making snow angels in the middle of very busy Olso streets. And then having them horribly defiled. Nor ending the evening in a Scottish bar (must respect all the Celts, you know) slurping down fine Scotch on wasted tastebuds and talking in random monosyllables and snorting with laughter. (Warning: If you are ever presented with a cognac and a spoon by a Norwegian guy named Ronny and told to snort, think long and hard about that decision. Amazing what peer pressure can do even if you are in your late thirties. My sinuses are still remarkably clear though.) Nor twisting Phil's hat up until he looks remarkably like that Holbein painting of Anne of Cleves with the Flying Nun headress and then making him pose for pictures. (Actually it is a remarkable resemblance.)

I have the milk thistle at the ready for when I get home and the large glass of water resides next to the bed.

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