By the time you are reading this, I will have been to Los Angeles and back, celebrating Christmas with our California kids. In case you are new to this column, Bing and I have five offspring scattered around the country. Although Bing died six years ago, he is still very much with us in spirit. For example: we had adopted a German Shepherd, Ivy Scarlett, after our Golden Retriever, Laddie, died. We had to jump through hoops to be approved by the German Shepherd rescue organization. Among other requirements, they asked for three personal references. They called all three – I don’t think even the strictest business headhunters do that!
We finally were approved after two weeks of being vetted. I think we would qualify for the highest-level government jobs based on how thoroughly we were examined.
Fast forward to a year ago when I had to have Ivy Scarlett put down in her old age. After several weeks of missing her terribly, I decided it was time to find another dog. I applied online to a rescue organization, filled out the prescribed forms, which were still lengthy and detailed, and hit the “send” button. It was 8:30 on a Thursday evening and I expected to have to wait a couple of weeks to be approved. A return email arrived a half-hour later saying I could pick up a 7-year-old German Shepherd the next morning at the Clear Lake shelter.
That just doesn’t happen.
I think not only did Bing arrange it, he also picked out the perfect dog for me. Seamus is gentle, well-behaved and my shadow.
Getting back to my Christmas in Los Angeles (that’s what I started to write about before getting side-tracked, which I often am, so pay attention or I might lose you along the way). Okay, that last isn’t even a sentence but I don’t know quite how to fix it, so I’ll just start over. Getting back to my Christmas in Los Angeles, I can’t really write about it since it hasn’t happened yet. Except when you’re reading this, it will have happened.
I think I’ll just go with writing about something else.
Did I tell you about the time I was 18 and working a summer job on Nantucket? Actually, I know perfectly well I’ve told you before, but perhaps you’ve forgotten. My sister’s beau, Bob, was also working on the island and was pining for Sheila, who was off touring in Europe. He took me out to dinner, hoping I’m sure that I would put in a good word for him. Sheila, I knew, wasn’t particularly interested in him but I thought he was quite wonderful. He was 25, a much older man, and therefore fascinating.
When the waiter asked me what I would like to drink, I froze. I wanted to appear sophisticated, especially since I also liked the waiter, a Harvard boy I’d met earlier. My knowledge of alcoholic beverages was sorely limited, but I managed to say casually, “I believe I’ll have a Scotch and Bourbon.”
I knew I must have goofed when Bob said, “She’ll have ginger ale.”
I have no idea whatever happened to Bob or the Harvard boy, but I have a hunch they never again heard someone order a Scotch and Bourbon.
I wonder if I should put that in my obituary.
Probably not.