in which i write something

Normally I take pictures, and that may still happen as I bought (and ran out of the store lest they discover their pricing error) THE most amazing beaded silk dress that lately adorned a great great grandma in her salad days. Savers, bless them, had filed it in their Halloween section, for $9.99. At least they were astute enough to discern that it represented the flapper era, so necessarily a costume. Albeit, an incredibly authentic and exquisitely made costume. It must be appreciated on the body, so I'll wait until someone with thumbs is here to take my picture.

The subject of my dancing came up, as it so often does, with some cringing. As in, to cringe. Molly has shielded me and the viewing public from photos of me dancing at her wedding, though she verbally rendered the worst of it. I believe "lasso," "seizure" and "three sheets to the wind" were some of the descriptive terms. Now I hotly denied this last, as, almost like a conspiracy, likker and I did not meet the entire evening. But not so fast, was Molly's reply. Think about it -- which is worse? To have people think I was drunk, or to assert that I dance like that stone sober? Hmmmmm...

And it brings to mind a similar incident in which some vindictive battle axe was spreading rumors that I was drunk at a charity event for deaf children. I, in turn, loudly asserted she was not drunk at same. Touche.