Monday, August 21, 2006

Qui a coupe le fromage?

I'm reading one of Georgette Heyer's marvelous historicals and am blown away, again, by her ability to characterize so elegantly.

Take this passage. Ludovic and Eustacie are the hero and heroine; they've just met, and it's clear who already has the upper hand.

Ludovic mounted a rough pony and brought up the rear, still holding Eustacie's bridle. She took instant exception to this, and after a short but pungent argument, he let her go free, much against the advice of Ned Bundy, who was ranging alongside the convoy, whipping up the stragglers.

Short but pungent! I'm dying.

Interestingly, pungence seems to be a theme this weekend. Yesterday my neighbor invited me in to view the progress on their whole-house renovation. She stopped me at the door to warn me that her dog had gotten into something bad and had been farting more or less continuously for two days.

That fit right in with my weekend, so I sallied forth and, in her new bathroom, issued something silent but deadly. Whereupon my neighbor turned to her dog and said, "Eustace! That was awful," and continued to give me the tour.

I came home and confessed to C, who asked if I'd told my neighbor who had, in fact, dealt it. Mais non. I find the better part of valor to be blaming the dog. Happily, Eustace doesn't hold a grudge.

Others have been pungent as well. We went to a party at Syd's Friday night in which more evil yet delicious margaritas were served. Last year I was the one who had 8 too many and loved everybody; this year that honor fell to Harold.

Harold loves everyone while sober, so you can imagine how he is when inebriated: emotionally pungent. He's also about 8 feet tall with flowing blond hair, a zest for life, and a motorcycle. Thank God his wife was around to prevent him getting on it.


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