Sunday, February 21, 2010
Whether you've been my best friend since we fought over Gerard in Mrs. LaBranche's fourth grade class or you're the mystery crew with whom I shared a Buckhead-to-Virginia-Highland cab ride on New Year's Eve, you likely know three things about me: high heels are a recipe for Neosporin, I speak faster than most Toyotas accelerate, and I adore the living crap out of my two nephews. The pint-sized comedians are products of my sister, who lives a gazillion light years away in New York. Braden will be six in August, Brennan will be four in October.
Flanked by half Flynnified DNA, Braden has an uncensored gift of gab. Consequently, he's the subject of many an e-mail titled Deep Thoughts by Braden Stroppel. By way of my sis, this one hit the Flynnbox last week:
"So being the Catholic practicing at a Methodist church (as I like to call myself) that I am, I was teaching Sunday school the other day. I read the children a story about Jesus being in a house where people were trying to see if he could heal the sick. Three male friends carried their crippled friend to this house, but it was so crowded they could not get him in. The friends persevered and climbed on the roof and cut a hole and lowered their dear friend into the house where Jesus of course performed a miracle. Braden and Brennan were in my class...
Nanny [paternal grandmother] comes over and says to Braden, "Did you go to Jesus's house today?" They both say, "No," then think a little harder and agree that yes, indeed, they did actually to go "Jesus's house." Nanny asks Braden if he sang any songs in Sunday school and he says, "No." I then tell Braden to tell Nanny what the story was about in Sunday school. Braden said, "Oh, Jesus was in a house and some guy was trying to get in so Jesus broke his legs."
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
‘Twas the night before Lent, and all through my Catholic veins
Not a sacrifice was stirring, gluttony paraded down
In hopes that self control soon would be there
Huck was nestled all snug in his (my) bed
While visions of spring festivals danced in my head
I’d forfeited chocolate, sodas, four-lettered words in years past
But what about alcohol—for 40 days—could I last?
Oh Oysterfest! Oh St. Patty’s! Oh start of wedding season!
Oh soccer practice! Oh patio happy hour for no reason!
Surely not all wine, maybe just no chardonnay
But who in the La Crema was I kidding, no way no wine for 40 days
What about my other tasty friend, the very proof that God loves us: beer
The same frothy treat that spawned courage to Saran Wrap a sleeping Leah Logue sans fear
Surely not all beer, maybe just no more Belgian wheats
Who in the
Now wait just a minute, a good Irish Catholic this mindset not make
As guilt settled in, brewskis mentally became a holy bet I could take
So, today I bid farewell to the liquid vice behind Freshman Fifteens
Goodbye Sweetwater, goodbye Shiner Bock, goodbye TAP post-work scene
Goodbye Coors, goodbye Blue Moon, goodbye Passport Club at Taco Mac
For 40 nights I shall dream about you, but on Easter Sunday I’ll be back
With nary a Fat Tire in the fridge, the coozies out of sight
Lenten cheers to all, Irish you a strong 40-day fight!
Friday, February 12, 2010
As the rare singleton among social spheres of wives, fiancés and soon-to-be-fiancés, I was delighted to receive an e-mail from a gal pal titled "Found Your Dream Husband." The e-mail included an excerpt from a resume this pal came across at work. Tucked at the end of a 15-page, medical-jargon filled resume of an IRISH surgeon was the Holy Grail of perfect-on-paper.
Interests and Hobbies
Backpacking and Travel
- Attempting a red slope in
, Lillehammer Oslo
- Finding a clownfish scuba diving on the
Great Barrier Reef
- Swimming in a thermal spa in
in winter Budapest
- Standing in Plaza De Mayo in Buenos Aires, Argentina
- Indian-Pacific railway journey across
- Camping in the outback in
Toodjay, Western Australia
- Hiking in the
Valley of the Kingsin Egypt
Sling in Raffles Bar in Singapore Singapore
- Climbing the Dome of the Duomo in
- The Beer Festival in
Schuzfeld, Bavaria, West Germany
- PADI certified Open Water Scuba Diver
- Member of the Irish Film Centre
- Jogging and Flying [me likey that flying is last and on par with jogging]
As with all Atlanta-based fairytales, this story has a predictable ending: Adventuresome Irish Surgeon is married.
P.S. Happy Valentine's Day