But I found a gown with a Madam X neckline and sweeping train, which allowed me to sneak my bosom out to nurse the baby and run around barefoot with my feet hidden. Finery is just a disguise. A lot of my Scottish ancestors were in prison.
The haggis was pasty and bland. The steak was perfect and bloody. The madrigal singers made us cringe into our desserts. My cousin's husband was an idiot and I wanted to stab my fork into his arm, except that she hadn't seen me in years, so it wouldn't have been polite. If she ever wants to divorce him, I will be there if she needs me, with a fork.
We had chucked the boys off with their cousins for a sleepover, and arrived early at the country club ("no tight shorts permitted") for dance rehearsal. The man bought a cocktail ticket. When we got to the bar, Mike looked at the shelves and asked about the gin. "Now, I see you looking at those shelves," said the bartender, "and I'm going to stop you right there. That's the good stuff, and what we have for you folks is the house liquor under the counter here, which isn't expensive, and isn't good." He hoisted a bottle of Gordons like a dead rat, and we recoiled with a hiss. "I know." Mike chose bourbon, and the bartender filled a tumbler to the brim sympathetically.
Luckily, there was 18-year Macallans on the table for the toasts. Which my cousin-in-law insulted, and then bolted down 6 shots of. I polished my fork.
All in all, much better than last year, when I had to wear a giant sparkly tee-shirt stretched over my belly and stop the small cousins from dueling with cutlery (MY JOB) and stealing shortbread.
We had chucked the boys off with their cousins for a sleepover, and arrived early at the country club ("no tight shorts permitted") for dance rehearsal. The man bought a cocktail ticket. When we got to the bar, Mike looked at the shelves and asked about the gin. "Now, I see you looking at those shelves," said the bartender, "and I'm going to stop you right there. That's the good stuff, and what we have for you folks is the house liquor under the counter here, which isn't expensive, and isn't good." He hoisted a bottle of Gordons like a dead rat, and we recoiled with a hiss. "I know." Mike chose bourbon, and the bartender filled a tumbler to the brim sympathetically.
Luckily, there was 18-year Macallans on the table for the toasts. Which my cousin-in-law insulted, and then bolted down 6 shots of. I polished my fork.
All in all, much better than last year, when I had to wear a giant sparkly tee-shirt stretched over my belly and stop the small cousins from dueling with cutlery (MY JOB) and stealing shortbread.
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