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the dance of feet on hardwood floors, above |
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Yesterday Mihaly's parents and sister in law came to visit. I tried to stay out of the way and let them have their family time, partially by shoveling the driveway. I let the dogs out and they were out like a flash, barking, so excited to see the neighbor kids. The kids then gravitated down to our driveway with their sleds. (One of which, I might add, has poor cornering capability with a 29 year old adult on it.)
The kids decided that they were going to help me shovel. In the way only kids can, they seemed to find manual labor to be fun, and brought a shovel apiece from their respective homes. We had perhaps 100 square feet of driveway done and salted when I and my aching back decided "fuck it!" These are the best kids, about eight and seven and four, sharp as tacks and so perceptive. Of course reminding me of how I want a gaggle of 'em.
So the kids were paid in donuts, and they went home, and it still snowed and the snow turned to rainy slush, and I wanted to go to Borders, but I didn't make it out the driveway. So Mihaly shoveled, and his mother fussed about the possibility of him having a heart attack, and I dont' know how he did it but he shoveled the whole driveway. They were gonna go out to Caffe Gelato and I wanted Indian food.
I set out for the Indian restaurant, made it up the driveway, and out the lane to the main road, which was precarious. Even on route 7 I couldn't see the lines on the road, driving was consumed by the crunch of snow against the bottom of my car, and everyone was going slowly except the asshole who muscled past me going 50 in his SUV. So I called them to tell them to stay in, and they decided to order Indian food as well.
So I went to the restaurant and sat at the bar while they made our order. The restaurant was deserted due to the weather. In addition to the normal hot waiter there was a new guy, not quite as hot, but kinda neat looking in his spiked hair and earrings. He was from New Delhi, and more recently from New Jersey, not as blatantly hot and baby-faced as the other waiter, but a bit more Americanized, with sort of a New Yorkish edge to him. I chatted to him about assorted things, vigorously, and was like, wow, I think he's actually into me.
And then the really hot waiter came over and started talking about getting drunk that night, and we discussed our favorite drinks. When it came to tequila, he said "the best part about tequila is the salt and the lemon," sort of giving me this suggestive look. God DAMN. When it rains it pours. But he also mentioned his girlfriend, and he seemed a bit immature for all of his hotness. In this respect he reminded me a lot of my ex-fiance, definately a turn off. In fact, they had that same lush and exotic good looks, scary. So I was more interested in spikey boy. I wanted to nibble on his ears, all around those earrings, just explore all that tawny colored skin with my mouth.
Also frustrating was that the manager refused to give me the recipe for chicken zafrani. I didn't really expect that she would, anyway.
Our food was ready very quickly, much to my disappointment, so I went back out into the snow and went home. We had a feast in the orange dining room, me, Donna, Mihaly, his parents, and Ivett, his Hungarian sister in law, votives burning in sparkling glass along the walls and eaves, wine being consumed, much confusion about which saffron-hued dish was which. Fun.
Now it's morning and the sun is brutally beautiful in only the way sun bouncing off snow can be. It makes me want to find some shades and take the doggies to the park. They would hate that though, being so low to the ground as they are; they are not fond of little doxie penii being dipped into frigid show.
I think it's time to nuke some Indian food for breakfast.
I will say preemptively, Mihaly, that if you post "Oh, yes!" in response to this entry I will personally and with great pleasure disembowel you.
:)
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