Lost in translation:
I was doing a reading for a young lady, while I was in El Paso and as a foreign national, she didn’t speak any English. I suspect she had rudimentary language skills, but her sister, who I had previously done a reading for, the sister? She had excellent bilingual skills, so the she translated for the other sister. There was a small problem, despite my French background, I do speak border patois.
“So, some guys are stupid,” I said.
“Todos los hombres estas muy stupido,” the sister spit out at her sister.
“Wait, I said ‘some,’ but, well, sure, todos…”
Yeah, never mind,. I guess you had to be there.
Target Rich Environment:
I got a client, a guy, a single dad. He arranges his work schedule around his child’s sports events. He’s a “Soccer Dad.” We were joking about it, but look at the facts, he’s good with kids, involved in their activities, caring, sharing, attentive. The one client I’m thinking of, too, he’s manly. Maybe a little rough around the edges, but with the kids, there’s that inherent tenderness.
Good with kids, still maintains his employment, and he was joking about being a Saturday morning Soccer Dad.
Since I listen to a fair number of single mothers seeking male companionship, I’m wondering, maybe there would be a book deal there, about a soccer dad.
I still don’t know why he hasn’t been scooped and claimed by an unattended soccer mom.
Late lunch at Forti’s. What a nice place to dine, and it’s so different to see it in the harsh, bright light of day. The picante sauce was particulary notable. Been too long since I’ve been there, too. The salsa had whole slices of fresh peppers floating in the attractive miasma of hot sauce. The meal was every bit as good as I remember it.
7a – the old standby was every bit as flavorful, hot, tasty, hot, and mixed – as well as hot – as I remember it. Something special about the peppers from the area. My Libra friend ordered the mole (MO-Lay) and I sampled a little on a tortilla. Yeah, they did that good, too. I recalled, my first “milanesa,” served at Forti’s, and my usual tactless remark, “That’s not milanesa, that’s chicken friend steak.”
But the best – or worst – was after I wrote about Forti’s a few times, the restaurant’s name started showing up in “Off the beaten track” guides. While I applaud success, any time a place gets a lot of press, it usually ruins it. Then, too, the nature of the guides was disturbing: urban, hip, chic. It’s a restaurant in a bad neighborhood; the parking lot has a fence topped with razor wire. That should say something.
Or, as Grace explained, “Exit Chelsea, turn right on Chelsea, it’s by the Coors refinery.”
“Refinery, I think. Big Coors sign next door.”
Had to happen, sooner or later, although, I gather, it happens sooner than later. Board the plane, settle in for an hour ride home only to have the plane not push back.
“We’re waiting on a first officer from another flight and it was delayed by weather in Dallas. We’ll be 55 minutes late.”
No connecting flight, no appointments, no rush, no fuss, no hassle. And for no reason at all, it irritated the snot out of me.