Armored cars, etc.
Anyhoo, just as I was pinning together a special skirt for striking workers, made out of union-made, in the USA, fluorescent-green bandannas (no you can not make this stuff up), it appears as if we have reached an agreement with Management. (Cue audio effect: Snap of whips, rumble of chains please.) So I'm done picketing, which is sort of too bad -- because it was a nice change of pace and I had bought a whole bunch of generic sunscreen and I really enjoyed the camaraderie of the anti-Kremlin effort. Of course, it'll also be nice to have health care.
When I was a kid, my brother and I listened to this one Irish Rovers album over and over again -- or maybe it was the Wolfe Tones? In any case, I believe we are the only graduates of our Connecticut private school who know all the words to The Men Behind the Wire -- not for them no judge no jury, nor indeed a trial at all. being Irish means your guilty, so we're guilty one and all! Which explains an awful lot about how excited I may have been about rattling my Thompson gun.
Speaking of high school, reunion is this weekend. To be decided: Now that I have COLA, should I also have new dress? The sirens of Georgetown are calling... Speeeeend, Mary Ellen. Or should I just wear my 22-year-old shorts? They still fit! And, except for a tiny little hole (and complete lack of style), they are fine!!
The girls: Margaret is talking up a storm! "Josie, no kicking my juice!" Much of it is directive. Very little reflective. Lately, there has been an awful lot of biting... but since they are not Northern Water Snakes, which eat dead fish and then board kayaks in Northern Virginia to bite people and spread disease (or so I learned on my moonlit paddle last night...) there is really no great injury, except to dignity because, of course, they must apologize and hug, which Margaret really does not like to do. Josephine is a great apologist, on the other hand. Even when she's the victim, she says, "Sorrrrrry."
Lucy doesn't want to die, she says. "I have a lot of living to do." (Is she listening to country radio when I'm not watching?? Oh! Speaking of country radio, Pamela and I went to the Steve Earle/John Prine show the other night and it was fabulous. The man who rhymes peaches and Jesus is a genius.) Is 4 the death-obsessed year? Or is it 37? Because I've been a little obsessed myself, lately. In any case, the 4-year-old is a funny thing. She plays tricks: Mommy, I saw an alligator in the river! And she works hard to figure out why the world is the way it is: This place is full of stores for Mommys, but not Daddys. Why not?
What else? I keep meaning to tell you all about my first professional massage. The lady touched my upper arms, smelled of cigarettes and mint, and dripped sweat on my body. So it might have been my last too.
Okay, off to Dublin in the green, in the green!