We'll Drink To That! And That! And That...

We don't always drink shots and have chips and salsa for dinner on Fridays, but...

Oh wait - yes we do!  And when we do, we take turns giving a short toast, with each shot.  Notes:  1) We are not toastmasters.  2) We take tiny shots, so coming up with new toasts - especially now that neither of us works in a Vortex of Doom, anymore -  can be problematic.

We start small.

[Maris]:  To having survived this week - and to surviving this weekEND.  

Joe:  To paydays!

[M]:  To being rescued and returned to our homeworld.

Joe:  Yes!  And to not leaving a paper trail.

[M]:  To Chips-and-Salsa Friday nights.

Joe:  Here's to the Garbage Pail Kids (they never lie) - Here's to Transformers, 'cause there's more than meets the eye!

[M]:  All shots, all the time!

Joe:  Here's to heat pumps.

[M]:  TOAST!  (Raisin toast, especially)

Joe:  To the Patron Spirits Company, makers of the best-tasting rum I've ever had.  They make a nice tequila, too.

[M]:  To our dinner NOT being made of goat chops, asafoetida, petite French lentils, brownie edges, used tea bags, and quince paste.

Joe:  To drinking enough to come up with better toasts - or buttered toast.

[M]:  Mmmm... raisin toast?

Joe:  Of course.  Or, you know, French.

[M]:  Yay!

Joe:  Your turn.

[M]:  Here's to the NL and AL managers of the year (our very own Matt Williams and Buck Showalter).

Joe:  To the humans who managed to land a washing-machine-size robot on the surface of a comet, 300 million miles away, after a 9-year flight through space.

[M]:  To the Star Trek transporter!

Joe:  Here's to finding and/or remembering that ass-hattery quote...


Postscript:  We can do so much better.  So here's to the fact that so few people will see this, before we have a chance to redo it.

Is It Semi-permanent Self-medication If I Do It All The Time?

Callista burst into the apartment, somewhat short of breath, locked the door, and announced, "I'm back.  You ready?"  She turned toward the living room and found Edward waiting for her, grinning, with one hand behind his back.  "Oh - hi, sweetie!"

He held up a quarter.  "Hey - heads, we're drinking Patron silver."

She tilted her head, quizzically.  "That depends.  What's tails?"

Edward thought for a moment.  "Tails... Tails, and we're drinking the resposado, I guess."

"And that," she smiled, wrapping her arms around him, "Is why I love you."

"For my mastery of the win-win scenario?"

"Sure, let's go with that," she agreed, holding up a small grocery bag, "I may not have found Bingo, but I got limes!"

Tails.  Patron Resposado.  Two souvenir shot glasses from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame were produced.  The cutting board took its place on the kitchen counter, along with two small bowls - one with salt, for Callista, and one with sugar, for Edward.  In a skillful blur of kitchen knifesmanship, Edward turned lime number one into eight wedges.

He raised his shot.  "Here's to...."

"To Bingo?" Callista suggested.  "Furry little illegal pain in my ass."

"Hey..."

"I'm sorry, but she's been nothing but trouble.  Plus, she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you.  She's just a ferret.  Apparently, she's not ready to be BFFs, yet - with either of us.  But that's not tonight's first wedge."

"No?  What gets first wedge, then?  Blink, blink," she actually blinked, for once.

A wry smile crept into the corners of Edwards mouth.  "Happy anniversary, Callista Jane.  To us..."

She checked a mental calendar, which was more easily said than done, because it was blurry.  "Oh.  My.  God."

"What?"

"You're an anniversary rememberer."

"Huh.  Yeah, I guess I am.  At least, I think I am.  I'm pretty sure it's been one year since I used my best terrible pick-up line on you..."

"And it worked," she said, clinking shot glasses.  "It totally worked.  Okay.  My turn.  Wedge number two..."

"Whoa - no ten minutes?  Straight to the next wedge?"

"Yep!  Do not pass 'Go,' do not collect two hundred dollars, babe.  Wedge two is for Buck.  He may have been a grumpy, stinky old hobo, but I miss him."

Buck Mope's Ghost, and The Signals at Magnolia Cut

"To Buck Mope," Edward toasted.  "We should stick with one lime, though.  I gotta get back to looking for Bingo, and I need to stay sharp."

Callista nearly choked on her lime juice.  "Sharp?  Really?  You've been in a semi-permanent state of self-medication since she disappeared."

"Is it 'semi-permanent' if I do it all the time?"

She poured the third round, then stopped and looked at Edward.  "Of course it is.  As long as you don't do it forever, it is semi-permanent - pretty much by definition, actually.  You're fine.  I'll be the first to tell you when you're not.  Trust me."

"And that," he declared, holding the next shot aloft, "is why I love you.  Wedge three is for Bingo.  Wherever you are, little stinker, here's to you."

"To Bingo, the illegal endangered orphaned black-footed ferret!  Hang in there, sweetie."  Callista slammed her glass down for emphasis.

Edward poured the fourth round, took a few deep breaths, and shoved his final piece of lime into the sugar, which crunched deliciously.  "So.  What's wedge number four?"

"Four..." Callista cleared her throat.  "Four is... To you finishing the book, so the world can know old Buck and Bingo, and love them as we have."

He shook his head and chuckled, but eventually raised his lime wedge to her glass.

"Glass?"  She suggested.

"Oops.  Yes.  Can't clink with a lime wedge.  To the book!" he toasted.

"Cheers!"



Today, I was writing in response to another Studio 30 Plus prompt, the phrase "semi-permanent state of self-medication," courtesy of Katy's fine post Just Like A Dream.  Go!  Read it!