The Nose Knows

I have the WORST internal nose pimple of all time.  On the right outer nostril rim.  But inside.  But not ALL the way inside.  In other words, I can’t gitatit from OUTSIDE my nose.  And I can’t gitatit from INSIDE my nose.   It’s inside the outside of my nose.

TMI?!?  Naw!  It’s just us and you won’t tell anyone, right??

Anyway, it hurts sooo much that I have to keep feeling it to see if it still hurts.  Ouch.  Yep, still hurts.  Ouch, yep.  Ouch!  Yep, still hurts.  Ouch, yep.

And it’s become…unsightly.  Which has led me to draw my own conclusions about why Rudolph’s nose was bright red like that.  I had always suspected an overindulgence in peppermint schnapps was to blame – but it turns out his nose glowed because he probably had an internal nose pimple too.

Ugh.  Seriously.  I can feel the Beat of My Heart (Foreigner, 1988 – and it turns out there IS an 80’s song for every moment in life…including those moments when you have an internal nose pimple) in the TIP of my nose.  EVERY beat of my heart.  Buh-boom.  Ow.  Buh-boom.  Ow!

Also?  I look like that chick in all those Picasso paintings.  That chick who’s looking straight at you but her nose is shifted off to the side.  Yeah, that chick.

I’m glad SOMEBODY made it to the bigtime with their nose pimple.  It’s really hard to function with one (not only does it hurt, but it makes your eye water constantly – so that might explain her wonky lookin’ eye too) so kudos to her for being able to sit through the pain while Picasso painted her umpteem times.  Her AND her off-set nose.

Hey – speaking of NOSES!!!  Ow.  Yep, still hurts.  Ouch – yep!  Ooh!!  Yep.  Still hurts…

Mad Skillz

So…a friend and I were volunteering at a fundraising auction this week-end.  And as we were closing down the event, I found the auctioneer’s business card over by the checkout stations.  This is how it read:

Auctioneer.  Counselor.  Pastoral Care.  Singing Telegrams.

Wait!  What?!?

That is the most RANDOM collection of mad skillz I’ve ever seen on one business card.  But it makes a certain amount of cross-sell/up-sell business sense.  If people really like her work as a counselor, then perhaps she’ll be top-of-mind when a singing telegram need arises.  Brilliant!

What should I put on MY business card?!?

Blogger.  Stay at home mom.  Crocheter.  Singing Telegrams.

As for the singing telegrams, just to be clear: I don’t really do Broadway Show Tunes or anything.  Nor Barber Shop Quartet-y type stuff.   In fact, I don’t really do singing telegrams at all.  But if I did, I would specialize in Songs from the 80’s.  And I’d have to have a few beers first.

But the ‘Singing Telegrams’ thing is SUCH an eye-catcher, that I’m gonna put it on my business cards anyway.  And then I’m gonna have the business cards MADE.  And then I’m gonna find a place where I can hand them out (to MORE than just my kids, ’cause they pay piss-poor wages).  And then I’m gonna wait for the phone calls to roll in.  At which point I’ll notify the unemployment office that I don’t need them OR their sorry 18.2% benefit-reduction.

Ok.  Good plan.

But not yet, Unemployment Office!  Not quite yet!!  Don’t do anything with my benefits quite YET!!!

But the money’s coming soon, I can just tell.  “Do what you love, and the money will follow.”  That’s what my dear friend, Ohps*, always says.  And I’m embracing that concept like never before.  Don’t believe me?  Just take a look at my business cards.  I’m going places…and I’m singing the whole way there.


*Something you may not know about me is that Oprah Winfrey and I are dear friends.  In fact, I know Oprah so well that I call her Ohps.   Now that I think about it, though, I do have to say our friendship has been a bit one-sided in recent years.  I mean, if you asked her about me, she’d probably say she’s never heard of me.  But pay that no never mind.  She still had some insightful stuff to say for a billionaire.

Federal Budget Cuts

I have received no less than three mailed letters informing me that, due to federal budget cuts on or after April 28, 2013*, my unemployment compensation will be reduced by 18.2%.

Uh…ok.  18.2%?  That’s pretty specific.  Methinks someone’s been feverishly doin’ some math in the back room.


I mean, come on!!  It’s not MY responsibility to keep the U.S. Postal Service in business.  Survival of the fittest, I say!  Darwinian theory!  Free market trade!!  Laissez-faire economics and ALL THAT JAZZ!!!

Who’s with me?  Revolt!  REVOLT!!!  Let’s add a smidge of that olde-time competition into the U.S. Postal Service mix and see what happens as stamp prices drop and service improves.  After all, this concept is what our great country is founded on.  That – and having the unemployed on the dole.

Speaking of which…enough about our great country…back to me…

Here is an example of one of the three mailed letters I recently received.  I have not changed a single, solitary word:

NOTICE OF DECISION [Oh, ok.  I didn’t even know anything was being DISCUSSED!  So it comes as a bit of a shock that you’ve arrived at a DECISION already.  But nonetheless, I have a feeling in my bones that it’s going to be a good decision.  Because you ALWAYS make good, solid decisions.]

Section of Law Used:  Colorado Unemployment Security Act, Supp App Act 2008 T IV EUC PL 110-252 [Oh.  Ok.  In fact after reading THAT, I’m GLAD I didn’t know anything was being discussed ’cause I have NO idea what you just said.  Unless it was in Spanish?  In which case, I need to press numero uno to get someone English-speaking on the line.  How much are we paying for THAT nifty feature, I wonder?!]

Decision:  [Oh my goodness!  Oh my GOODNESS!  Here we go!  HERE WE GO!!!  This is gonna be good.  But first, what’s up with all the caps?!?  Don’t my peeps at the Department of Labor know that “all caps” conveys a shout-y tone of voice?  Which is kinda de-motivating in the way the teacher’s red pen marks on your test are de-motivating.  In fact, they should have just done their “all caps” in a nice bright red to get the horror out-of-the-way all at once.]  WE CAN STILL PAY YOU FEDERAL EXTENDED BENEFITS (ALSO CALLED EMERGENCY UNEMPLOYMENT COMPENSATION OR EUC).  BY LAW, WE HAD TO CHECK WETHER YOU NEED TO SWITCH TO A CLAIM FOR REGULAR BENEFITS.  WE CANNOT PAY YOU ON A NEW CLAIM BECAUSE YOU HAVE NOT GONE BACK TO WORK AND EARNED $2,000.  ONCE YOU RETURN TO WORK AND EARN $2,000, YOU MAY NEED TO SWITCH TO A CLAIM FOR REGULAR BENEFITS IF YOU ARE OUT OF WORK AGAIN.  AT THAT TIME, YOU MUST CALL US SO THAT WE CAN GO OVER YOUR CLAIM WITH YOU.  REMEMBER THAT YOU MUST MEET THE REQUIREMENTS OF THE LAW.

[What?!?  What.  The.  F^^^??!  Am I supposed to DO something??  Or just continue to sit here collecting the dole?!?  This is confusing.  Numero uno!  NUMERO UNO!!!!!!)


* What was happening BEFORE April 28, 2013?!?  Were most folks on the way to the post office doin’ the Charleston and singing, “We’re in the money!”??!

Thanks, but no thanks

There’s this “thanks, but no thanks” letter I get from companies I’ve applied to.

These letters accomplish two things: 1) They convey in clear and concise language that I…uh…didn’t get the job.  [Yeah.  No sh%#, Sherlock!  If I HAD gotten the job, you wouldn’t have sent a rinkydink letter.  You would have sent a welcome team armed with flowers and balloons!]  And 2) They get the voices chattering in my head.  Despite the tinfoil hat I wear to block said voices, they still seem to come through loud and clear, particularly when one of these letters arrives.

[As a side note:  Screw the tinfoil!  SCREW IT!  It doesn’t work.  But I really wish it did.] 

So without further ado…I bring you the letter I frequently makes me sound like a loser, let’s just say I sometimes get from companies I apply to:

Dear You, [DEAR??  Let’s not pretend I’m “dear” anything to you.]

Thank you for expressing an interest in the XYZ position.  [uh…you’re…welcome?  But I have a bad feeling that I won’t be “welcoming” you much longer.]  We regret to inform you that [WHAT?!?  That someone’s DIED??  Give it to me straight, I can take it] after reviewing your application, we believe your skills and experiences [which skills and experiences would those be?!  My two bachelor’s degrees?  My MBA??  My 25 YEARS of progressive work experience complete with a dozen plus promotions, various awards and certifications??  THOSE SKILLS AND EXPERIENCES?!??] do not meet the job requirements.  [WHAT??!  Are you KIDDING me?!?  Are.  You.  KIDDING ME???  ‘Cause I kinda thought THEY DID!  THAT’S WHY I APPLIED FOR YOUR STUPID JOB!!!]

Again, thank you for taking the time to pursue this opportunity.  [Which I’m now TOTALLY glad I didn’t get because I can tell that it would have been horrible to work for you.  HORRIBLE!  You can just take your self-important death notice letter and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine!]  

We encourage you to visit our website where we have more jobs to explore within our company [Oh?  MORE jobs??  Ones that would be perfect for UNEMPLOYED BLOGGERS, perhaps?!?  If I applied to THOSE jobs, would I still get a total crap letter from you?  Maybe you just LIKE sending crap letters, is that it?  Maybe you’ve made your whole CAREER outa sending crap letters, you crappity crap crapper!]

We wish you the very best in your career endeavors [Yeah, yeah.  Puh-lease!  I’ve heard it all before.  You can just ZIP IT with your wishes ’cause there ain’t no one wishing harder than me!  That’s for DARN sure!!]


ABC Recruitment Team [Don’t you actually mean “Recruitment Team for JOB HOBOS from WHACKADOODLE TOWN”?!??  Isn’t that what you REALLY mean?  ISN’T IT?!??!  So just say it already.  SAY IT!!!!  SAY!  IT!!!]

So….do you see why I really, really, REALLY wish the tinfoil hat worked?  These letters [VOICES] are exhausting.

Hint: the mother is the doctor

Remember that old riddle about a boy and his father who get into a car accident.  The boy is rushed to the hospital in great need of an operation but the doctor who attends him says, “I can’t operate on this boy; He’s my son!”

But how can that be?!?

I posed this riddle to my kids last week, secure in the knowledge that we’ve come a long way baby.  And surely THIS generation would be able to spot the clear answer!

Sissy: Uh…blink blink, blink blink….uh…Hey!  I’ve got it!!  It was the boy’s STEPFATHER, right??

Me: No.

Sonny:  Uh….blink blink, blink blink…uh…Hey!  How about the boy was adopted and the real father was the doctor??!

Me: No.

Ok.  Let’s pause right here.  You know the answer to the riddle, right?  I even hinted at it above (point, point).  The doctor is the boy’s MOTHER!!!  D’oh!

Let’s pause further while I state that I’m ALLLLLL about girl power (surprised much?).  And I’ve taught my children to be allllll about girl power.  And I’ve even told my husband that he’s all about girl power and he agrees he is.  (He does everything I tell him to do except for take out the garbage.  He makes me nag him until he does THAT.  Ahhhhh – the joys of girl power!).

So why – oh, WHY – in this day and age – did my children NOT make the connection that the doctor was the boy’s MOTHER?!?  Why were they so willing to come up with a dozen cockamamie answers about the FATHER?!?

I have been puzzled by it ever since.  Their pediatrician is a woman, MY doctor is a woman, we have women FRIENDS who are doctors, their AUNT is a doctor (no…not THAT kind of doctor…but still…), my daughter even wants to BE a doctor (an animal one, but that counts).  WHAT.  IS.  THE DISCONNECT???

Plus??!  All their lives I’ve been telling both my kids that they can grow up to be whatever they want to be.  (Here’s where girl power morphs into self-fulfillment power.  Just go with it.)  You don’t have to be limited by some gender-licious, societal-norm definition of what you can be.  You wanna be a motorcycle guy who sings opera and has an iron claw?!?  Go for it!  You wanna be a mother AND a vet?  Rock on!

You wanna be an unemployed blogger with an MBA?!?  Boo-ya!  ‘Cause, honey?!  You are my Shining Star!  Don’t you go away!  (No-ho-ho-ho, Baby!)  Wanna be right here where you are.  ‘Til my dyin’ day*.


*Double Boo-ya:  Manhattans, Shining Star, released 1980…and the “80’s song for every moment in life” theory rears its glorious head yet again.

Moby Dick

Last night I caught the tail end (ha ha – you’ll see why this pun is so funny in a sec so keep reading) of some made-for-t.v. series based on the book Moby Dick by Herman Melville.

I’m not sure how I missed the series when it originally came out because it had some pretty big-name actors in it: William Hurt played the role of Captain Ahab, Ethan Hawke was Ishmael (or was he Starbuck?), and I think Daniel Day-Lewis may have been playing Queequeg.

Anyway…did you ever have to read Moby Dick?  I say “have to” because no one on God’s green earth would read this book voluntarily.  You would only read it if you were forced to in English class as a Junior in highschool.

It is such an endless, droning story about Captain Ahab who slowly descends into madness (and brings everyone down with him, literally) while he hunts for a white whale named Moby Dick who bit off his leg last time they met.  As part of carrying out his personal vendetta against Moby (Mr. Dick?), Ahab stands endlessly at the bow of his ship (two points if you can name the ship.  Anyone?  Anyone??  It’s the Pequod, you literary fools!) and asks every blessed vessel they meet on the high seas, “Hast though seen the White Whale?”

[Uh…no.  But we hast seen a freaky dude with a pegleg shouting from the bow of his ship.]

Every sentence of the book contains way, WAY too much excruciating* detail.  And was written in such archaic language that there’s a footnote required to explain every fourth word or so.  Honestly, it’s like reading some stranger’s PhD math thesis in a foreign language.  It’s enough to drive anyone insane.  In fact, after I read the book I felt like I had descended into madness.  I was willing to sign on with Captain Ahab just so we could finally kill that white freak-of-a-whale already and be done with the whole mess.

Ok.  So where are we going here?  All of this reminds me of a funny story about Moby Dick from that same highschool English class.  It was held first period.  And I took it with a bunch of kids who…uh…frequently cut the actual class and only came in for attendance and announcements at the end of the period.  One guy, named Gray Whaley, sometimes didn’t even bother to do that.

One day, as Mr. Farrell (Junior English class teacher – why?  Don’t YOU remember the name of YOURS?!) called out Gray’s name.  No response.  Gray Whaley?  Again no response.  Then he says, “Hast thou seen the Gray Whaley?”  The class burst out laughing, the bell rang and we all left.

That’s it.  There’s only one funny story about Moby Dick from highschool English class in the whole world.  And I just told it to you.  Now move on.


*Ok.  Seriously.  Herman (Mr. Melville?) had WAY too much free time on his hands.  He took every circuitous (ooh – good word!) route possible to describe the most mundane stuff.  For example, instead of saying, “Captain Ahab was a skinny meth addict with an unsightly white scar running down the side of his face.”  He says, “He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them, or taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness… Threading its way out from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a great tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and without wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from top to bottom ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still greenly alive, but branded.”  Ch. 28.   GOOD LORD!  GET ON WITH IT ALREADY!!!  I’M GONNA FIND MOBY DICK MY OWN SELF AND MURTALIZE HIM SO WE CAN BE DONE WITH THIS AGONY!

The First Day of School (Subtitled: Help me; I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!)

I overheard the following conversation between two newly minted fourth grade boys today…

Boy 1: (ok, full disclosure: it’s Sonny)  “Hey!  Have you seen those commercials where that old gramma falls and she can’t get up and she has that thing you push to call for help?”

Boy 2: “Yeah.”

Boy 1:  “Well I’ve seen one where it’s a lady who falls…IN A BATHTUB!”

Boy 2:  “What?  I haven’t seen that one!  What’s she wearing??” 

Boy 1:  “Nothing as far as I could see.  She was just all covered in bubbles.”

Boy 2:  [horrified yet titillated] “But she HAD to be wearing SOMETHING?!”

Boy 1:  “I know, right?  Otherwise the firefighters are gonna be pretty embarrassed when they come to help her.”

Yes, boys.  The FIREFIGHTERS will be embarrassed during the rescue.  No one ELSE will be embarrassed during the rescue because bubbles keep you safe from whatever ails you.

But this just reminds me of why I hate school so much.  First off, I hate that sick feeling in my stomach the entire week leading UP to the start of school.  Trust me when I say I “shared” my sick feeling with everyone else in the house by acting like an a$$ and announcing each day as it arrived: “This is the LAST Tuesday of summer vacation!!  This is the LAST WEDNESDAY of summer vacation!!!” and so forth.  Totally helpful, right??  And I’m not even the one actually GOING to school!

Aside from that, what I REALLY hate about school starting is that Mean Mom comes to roost.  She yells non-stop about all the paperwork that needs to be completed.  All the homework that’s not getting done.  All the lunches that need to be made.  All the people who need to GET UP AND GET MOVIN’!  All the cars that NEED TO LEAVE NOW IN ORDER TO GET TO SCHOOL ON TIME!!!

And once the yelling starts, it seems like it doesn’t stop until NEXT summer.  Because Mean Mom falls completely over the edge of reason.  And when she falls, she can’t get up.


The party’s over

Just played my last tennis match o’ the summer season the other night.

And?  I WON!  And of course when I say “I”, I mean my doubles partner and I (Howdy, Pardner! ;-).

What’s my reason for winning THIS time, you ask?  Last time it was because I was playing against hypoglycemic-attackopolis.  And the time before that it was because I was playing against drunkypoo-botoxorama.

It couldn’t be that I won simply because I’m….GOOD*?!  No?!?  I gotta have an EXCUSE as to why I won?!??

Ok.  Well.  There IS a reason.  Originally I didn’t want to mention it because it makes me sound a little mentally unstable.  But here goes: the truth is that we played against the Fairy Godmothers from Cinderella.

See?  It sounds wacky, but it’s totally true.

For the sake of argument, we’ll call them Fauna and Merriweather.  Now, Fauna and Merriweather didn’t bring their tiny wings and wands to this particular match (which was their own dumb fault ’cause those woulda come in super-handy for winning).  Instead they brought their sweet, motherly faces and encouraging attitudes.  But I knew who they were all the same, which made me feel REALLY bad when I would slam the ball at their feet.  (Hey!  My pro told me to do it.  And I alllllways do what my pro tells me to do.  Right, Pro?  Hi, Pro! 😉

They coulda trotted out their mad fairy skillzzzz at any point during the match and evened things up a bit.  (Actually…they did even things up at one point sans fairy power which kinda had me panicked because I was gonna be DIPPED if I lost to FAIRY GODMOTHERS!  So Pardner and I poured on a little of our own “magic” and got ‘er done.)

Afterwards, during party time, neither godmother held the win against us and continued to be just as chatty and genial as ever.  In fact, Fauna even plopped a big scoop of her homemade-chicken-salad-with-tarragon on our snack plates (without us even having to ask for it – she just KNEW we wanted some!) while Merriweather plied us with pink wine.  (Come on!  PINK WINE?!?  You guys see what I’m talking about, right?  It’s not just me, right??!  They were very CLEARLY Fairy Godmothers, RIGHT?!??)

Now.  Let’s just pause right here.  And get something clear among ourselves.  If you want to play tennis in the countryclub league, you have to be like one of those strange creatures straight out of Greek Mythology.  Not necessarily magical.  Or a sweet, motherly fairy.  Fauna and Merriweather went above and beyond the call of duty on that one.  What I’m talking about here are those creatures that are half one thing and half something else – like a Harpie for instance (oooh – no reason I chose that creature.  Just an example.  If you read anything more into it then maybe that’s YOUR problem).  A harpie is half woman, half bird.

‘Cept in the tennis countryclub league you have to be half athlete half social-drinker-bordering-on-party-animal.  You KNOW what I’m talking about, Tennis Peeps.  Don’t act like you don’t!  And it was during this particular post-match sorority social with these particular tennis harpies that the topic of everyone’s age came up.  My mouth was full of chicken salad, so I didn’t get involved.  But honestly, everyone else went around the table shouting out ages like they were counting off for gym class.  It was way-wacky.  But it turns out Fauna is several years younger than I am while Merriweather is a few years younger than Pardner.

Huh??!  Well that’s weird.  I could have SWORN these women were much older than us.  Turns out – WE were the older ones!  In which case, forget all that crazy rambling about Fairy Godmothers.  Skip it!  And zip it.  I don’t wanna hear how that made me sound insane (for just a sec, though).  Turns out I might actually be a good-or-at-least-not-half-bad tennis player who drank too much pink wine.  And now the party’s over.  At least until next season.


*Wellllll, “good” might be a strong word.  How’s about “better” ’cause really when you think about where I started, there was nowhere else to go but UP!

Not by the hair on my chinny, chin, chin!

I have a meeting once-a-month with a woman who does nothing the WHOLE time…except feel for her chin hair.

Which then reminds ME that I haven’t felt for MY chin hair in a while.  So by the end of the meeting, the two of us look like we’re giving frantic “steal home” signals to a dozen imaginary baseball players.

In general, this is the best approach to chin hairs: Feel for them constantly no matter who is around.  And when you find one of them bristle-y sumbitches, pluck the heck out of it!  Create bloody holes if you have to.  Damn the torpedoes!!!  ‘Cause if you don’t snag that wascily wabbit in the short-bud stage, it’ll grow too long and soft, and then you can’t feel it anymore.  Which THEN makes you think you don’t have it anymore.  Like somehow your over-attentiveness permanently dried up that follicle.  Until weeks later you glimpse it in broad daylight in the car rear view mirror!  And then you can’t BELIEVE that no one in your family told you that you have one long black hair the size of a small child hanging from your chin.

Why am I even talking about all of this??  It’s just so top-of-mind because I had an even more horrifying facial hair encounter at the ear-doctor’s office.  I took my son there yesterday where there’s this audiologist with fried blond hair.  When I met her, I thought she had a flyaway piece of hair on her forehead with a crumb stuck in it.  Until I realized in one heart-stopping second that it was actually A HAIR GROWING OUT OF A WART IN BETWEEN HER EYEBROWS!!  AND IT HAD A CRUMB ON IT!!!

Aaaaccckkk!!!  When your wild-hair is so long it’s getting CRUMBS in it, you HAVE to know it’s there.  And at that point you’re just wearing it as a statement piece.  Right?!  What other reasonable explanation is there other than you have a sucky family who doesn’t tell you anything about your personal appearance.

And in the case of the audiologist, if her FAMILY isn’t gonna say anything?  Thank HEAVEN I didn’t say anything!  OR politely try to brush it off for her.  ‘Cause all I can think of now is the “polite brush off” scenario my little sister told me about one time – starring her best friend as the “brusher offer” and lil’ sis as the “person with the hair on her face.”  I’m not sure I remember the specifics of the story (other than the best friend thought lil’ sis had a rogue dog hair or some such stuck to her face?).  What I do very CLEARLY remember however, is the cringe-worthy feeling of horror I experienced after lil’ sis relayed that when best friend went to remove said hair, she found that lil’ sis’ FACE went along with it!  Tug, tug.  Tug, tug.  Oh.

And now?  It’s time for a song…

Long beautiful hair

Shining, gleaming, Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair

Flow it, show it Long as God can grow it

My hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair

Flow it, show it Long as God can grow it

My hair!

Olde Tyme Business Meeting

This is how a business meeting goes down in Game of Thrones:

Prince Oberyn of Dorne says to Tyrion Lannister (aka The Imp): Permit me to acquaint you with my noble companions; Ser Doziel Dalt of Lemongrove, Lord Tremblon Gargaphon, Lord Harmon Uhller and his brother Ser Uhllwyck, Ser Rieon Alyryon and his natural son Der Daomon Sand, the Bastard of Guardswood, Lord Dargoos Manthan, his brother Ser Miggles and his sons Myles and Dyken.  I also have with me Ellia Sand my bedmate and scribe.

[hand shaking for those closest, and friendly waving for those stuck in the back.  Note no women are present other than the floozy “scribe” my a$$ who’s betting on her youth and good looks to keep her job…bitter much?]

As the remainder of Tyrion’s own party rides up on the group, it becomes his turn to name the names: Ser Flymint Bracks, heir to Horndale, Lord Gylys of Royne, Ser Addam Marlbrend – Lord Commander of the City Watch, Jalazar Zoh – Prince of the Yellow Cloak, Ser Harrys Swyfton – uncle Kevan’s goodfather by marriage, Ser Marlon Crackenhall, Ser Phyllis Footeton and Ser Bronn of the Blacknight.

[then someone shouts from the back, “there will be a quiz on names later!” and polite chuckling ensues.]

Then they all ride off to get coffee and danishes.  Afterwards they meet for the entire day and accomplish the same stuff they accomplished this time last year.  They have lunch brought in since it’s a “working lunch” then go out for drinks after evening has fallen.  They all get inappropriately drunk and have dumb swordfights which everyone will talk about at NEXT YEAR’S meeting.  As sun breaks over the land the next morn, they break their fast despite feeling inordinately queasy and do it all over again before they catch their horses home.

-End Scene-

Some things never change, do they?