And just like that, it’s winter!
(Temporarily, anyway. It’s going to be 60° next weekend.)
Hard to believe, huh? It feels like just yesterday we were dressed in shorts and t-shirts, buying gigantic bags of cheese puffs, as one does.
(Not really, but those bags were so ridiculously huge, we couldn’t resist posing for a pic.)
And okay, as far as snowfall goes, this wasn’t much. Somewhere between a skiff and an inch. But Tara and I were working in the yard when the first flakes began to fall and we totally had “a moment.” Pausing to take it all in, big fat smiles on our faces (okay, mostly mine), admiring the still-colorful trees that adorn our property, we (I?) experienced a feeling of pure bliss. The first snow of the season always feels magical.
‘K, lemme dial down the corny meter a notch or two before proceeding.
Wild Bill’s Fatal Error
A couple of weeks ago, we had a farewell lunch for our CheeseGov intern. There were nine of us in the group, and as the hostess was leading us to our table, I realized with dismay that I was bringing up the rear.
When I’m dining with a large group, I try to time it so I’m closer to the front of the pack when we enter the restaurant, because–much like with real estate–location is everything. I prefer a seat near the corner, preferably with my back to the wall (I visited Deadwood enough times to know this was Wild Bill Hickok’s fatal error), in close proximity to the coworkers I am most comfortable with. That day, I watched helplessly as everyone took their seats, filling them in from both sides, all the while mentally kicking myself for not picking up the pace walking across the parking lot. If ever there was an opportunity for skipping, this was it! But the damage was done; I found myself in the very middle of the table, and if that wasn’t bad enough, my back was to the entrance. Anyone could pop a cap in my ass and I’d never see it coming ala Hickok.
If you think I’m being overly picky, there’s a method to my madness: when you’re in the exact middle of a large group, you inevitably find yourself on the periphery, picking up snatches of two different conversations–one to your left and one to your right. You never really know where to focus your attention and end up missing out on most of what is going on. This is exactly what happened to me, so I found myself extremely invested in my smoked brisket quesadilla (it was delicious) while everyone else was having a grand ol’ time discussing whatever it was they were discussing.
I did manage to engage briefly when our intern asked whether Paula Abdul had ever been a singer. He’s young, I get it, but god, as a guy who owned the Forever Your Girl album and couldn’t get enough of the “Cold Hearted” video (don’t judge!), that about killed me. So, I started rattling off all her Top 40 hits, mentioned the possibly little known fact that Paula choreographed many of Janet Jackson’s dance moves before recording her debut album, even referenced MC Skat Kat for god’s sake, and for one brief, shining moment both sides of the table held me in rapt attention, obviously impressed with my in-depth pop music knowledge.
Or maybe they were “straight up” wondering about this odd obsession I had with Paula Abdul in 1988.
Before long, the conversations resumed on each side of me, and I retreated to the quiet anonymity of that damn good quesadilla.
Have you had snow yet? Do you have a seating preference in a restaurant? Was Paula Abdul one of your ’80s jams?
Mark My Words 
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