29 July 2005 (#37), (and before ...)

Lazy junebugs,

Trauma, Tunisia, Truman. What a wonderful way to start mid-summer.

Indeed I have just returned from a smart little jaunt to North Africa. Abattoir, his mater and I scurried about in the 100 degree plus heat, fanning ourselves while deciphering Roman cities that once were.

If you like mosaics, run to your travel agent.

If you don't, walk.

Had such a lovely time once I realized that when you asked for your couscous to be spicy, it would be just what you asked for, and more and that's such a lovely feeling, coming and going.

So many wonderful people, personally and physically, that I just could hardly contain myself, but I did for the sake of international relations, but only just.

"Trudy, what on earth possessed you to go to Tunisia?" you ask.

Well sweet grass grubs, originally we were all set to travel to Libiya. However, I learned through various sources that the country is dry. The WHOLE country. Dry. Not even vapours of vermouth across the border.

Libiya and I were not likely to see eye to eye.

Meanwhile Truman has been summering in Cape Cod with my dear friend Bithia. She has completely won him over after bribing him with treats and down comforters and I suspect a paw-i-cure, and I fear I shall never see my faithful companion again and when I do he will have been maximized.

Some canines respond well to the treatment, German Shepherd dogs as a rule do not blossom with bows in their hairs and nail polish, jungle red.

And as for trauma, I can only attempt to describe the events of last evening.

Picture if you will, and please do, a perfectly acceptable mexican restaurant in Manhattan. I arrive to meet some so-called friends and accept the offered margarita despite its non-existent salinity and slushy status. Perhaps there was more than one margarita but I know it was less than seven, individually.

Eventually we sat down, on purpose, at a table. Dinner was ordered and arrived and loud discussion ensued. One of my dinner companions is a "blogger". Let's call him Salem just for fun. You know what a "blogger" is, don't you? Someone who writes all their thoughts on the internet in the hopes that you'll find it interesting enough to visit.

Keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you.

As he manouevers his way through his shrimp chimichanga, Salem managed to berate us all for not visiting his little electronic tagine and offering up comments and general content to increase his self worth.

Then he turned on me.

There I was, mid fajita with nowhere to run. Rapid accusations, question after question, and worst of all, when I tried to reply I was cut off. CUT OFF! Nobody cuts off baby.

So I summoned up all the tequila still left and read his serape up one side, down the other and rolled it into a ball and balanced it on his sombrero.

Meanwhile, Gunther, another attendee, started jabbering on about his patron who seemed to be veering off into a world of shady art deals in an attempt to throw a quick reverse into what was rapidly devloving into a "Ladies, the management kindly requests that you pay up and get out" situation.

It didn't work.

"How dare you" Salem hissed into my ear. "Really" I drawled. "I'm trying to make a point and then you shut me out" more hissing noises. "Look sweet stink bomb, I won't discuss it here, let's take this outside." The hissing continued, "No way, then you'll gang up on me, two against one like you always do."

What? Me and the Belgian? And we try so hard to operate below the radar. At this point I realized that Salem was tottering on the edge of a tequila breakdown. What is it with some people and hooch?

In a rapid play for control, Salem paid the bill for the whole evening, and in my punitive mood I wasn't planning on stopping him since it was an obvious cry for help.

Meanwhile I noted Gunther and Achmed negotiating with the manager and the three tables near us had moved some distance away despite the fact that I haven't thrown anything for nearly 2 years.