Jetlagged? Or just the usual tomfoolery?

We were stopped at a red light when a slightly disheveled woman crossed the street using the crosswalk just in front of my car. She looked to be young, mid-thirties maybe, and was carrying a tattered, balled-up, wooly blanket. It struck me as odd because she was carrying it much in the same way one might carry a swaddled infant, or a full porcelain punch bowl, across a room.

“Hmm, that looks a bit peculiar, don’t you think?”

The Brit brought his head forward off of the headrest in my front passenger seat and opened one eye to look, first at me and then at the woman. Having just arrived back from his two-week business trip the day before, his body was still on China time.

“What do you suppose she’s carrying in there? A baby?”

He opened his other eye. “Hmm. That…or maybe a small dog. [Pause.] Or a great big bunch of vegetables.”

Sweet, sweet nothings via text message...

The Brit’s away on business yet again…this time in Korea and China. Given his tendency to partake of the varied gastronomic wonders that are sold by street vendors (wonders like deep, fried, breaded bee larva and mystery meat product on a stick) it’s not surprising that the text message from him after his first night in Shanghai came with news of an entire night spent perched atop a toilet in a fecal meltdown.

I got to play doctor via text message and give him a few recommendations for medications. Mostly he needs to just stay hydrated. (And beer doesn’t count if you’re reading this, mi Gringito Lindo!!!) Then I told him that I love him and miss him and hope he feels better soon.

To which he replied:

As much as I like seeing new places, I would much rather be with you.

Then a little later:

Just took the bund tunnel. It was in that Chinese film we saw about a year ago. All psychedelic lights. Pretty cool. Poo getting a little more solid.

To which I replied:

Ahh...one of the many reasons I love you…you always say the right things! XOXO

Our growing compendium of incidents involving automotive retardation...

Heretofore, it was thought, even proclaimed!, that I was a bad driver. I think it bears documenting here and now, that I am not alone in my vehicular ineptitude.

The Brit, using the precision and exactness acquired from years of pulling out of the same driveway every morning for five years, recently managed to scrape and then yank the rear bumper off of Vinja’s car with the front end of his Mini.

This would be considered a momentary lapse in a previously impeccable driving record…except he’d, just months before, careened right into the driveway gate, thus successfully and permanently dislocating its several rusted joints.

Prior to that, he’d destroyed the front bumper of our rental car while pulling out of the carport of our lodge in Namibia.

Prior to that, he’d lurched headlong into a deer on the freeway.

I’m not saying I don’t deserve being mocked for cracking my driver’s side rearview mirror while pulling out of a parking garage or for denting the passenger side of my car with the driver’s side rearview mirror of another car while attempting to parallel park on a hill…but I’m just saying…

Take a bow with me, my dear Brit!

It’s a wonder either one of us manages to get out of the driveway most days.

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

If you’d have told me back in high school that one of the best dates I’d ever go on would involve a protractor and the actual exercise of measuring out precise angles, I’d have peered at you from underneath my near unibrow, rolled my eyes at you (which you might have missed…my eyebrows were that unruly), and then said something classically indecipherable in a way that was, like, sooo totally pubescent. Something along the lines of: “Pffft.” This is Teenagerspeak for: “Not only are you out of your friggin’ mind, but you’ve probably never heard of Color Me Badd, both of which mean you have no idea what cool is. Take your protractor and shove it.”

And yet. This is exactly true. The Brit, in a way that is so endearingly engineering-y, gathered a moon chart, a protractor, and a google map of the city of SF and figured out the exact path that the full moon would take when it rose the other night. This explains the sunset drive over the Golden Gate Bridge…the ascent through the gorgeous hills of the Marin Headlands nestled just behind the bridge…the staking out of The Perfect Spot to set up the camera and tripod…the waiting, waiting, waiting for twilight…the last minute scramble a little further up the hill to reposition the camera (our math had been a little off) …and last but not least…

This…
Suck on THAT, teenage version of me! (And for the record, you really should have done something about those brows back then.) Who’s cool now, eh? (Hint: It's NOT Color Me Badd)

*Many thanks to The Brit for letting me display his lovely pictures!

The sort of thing he does while he's out visiting the wonders of the world without me...

Aside from having his testicles temporarily jump back into the inguinal canals from which they originally descended, I don't think he's suffered any long-term consequences.

That doesn't make him any less crazy though.

His love for me, professed in more than one language...

The Brit recently came back from a two-week trip to South Africa. The night he arrived, we lay in bed, spooning, chatting before drifting off to sleep.

“I really wish you could have come on this trip with me.”

“I would have loved to, you know that.”

“I missed you.”

These sentimental words were followed immediately thereafter by a loud, staccato, multi-syllabic noise trumpeted from his back end. (Thankfully, I was the spoonee, not the spooner.) Within seconds the putrid, enterically-altered smell of whatever airline food he’d eaten over the last 24 hours managed to escape from under the sheets and collide head-on into my olfactory sensors.

“Golly…I missed you too, babe.”

At least he smells nice

The Brit and I were rushing recently to make a dinner reservation at a swanky restaurant in town. I’d just picked him up from the airport, as he’d been away on business again, and he was still wearing his company’s logo work shirt. I skillfully found a parking spot a block away from the restaurant, which, in San Francisco is about as difficult as finding a fully clothed man at the annual Gay Pride Parade…finding a naked one that doesn’t have a curiously large inguinal hernia is even more challenging. And sometimes parking can even be that difficult.

So now you’ll understand how we came to be standing by the opened trunk of my car in bustling downtown SF with a shirtless Brit digging through a haphazardly thrown together suitcase for a shirt when another driver pulled up alongside us. The driver, unable to tell if we were coming or going, wanted to know if we were about to vacate the parking spot. At which point my boyfriend, with his pasty white flesh all asunder, sprayed his left armpit with aerosolized deodorant, looked over at her mid-spray and said, “No.”

Ahh yes. That’s my man.

He uses his frequent flyer miles on me, so it MUST be love...

As if I needed proof beyond the fact that he’s put up with my obnoxiousness for over two years...

Here’s yet another reason why I know The Brit digs me: He has to go to Japan on business next week. And I get to go too.* Airfare covered by ff miles. Hotel covered by [Insert name of The Brit’s job here].

Nuh uh!! you say??

Ya huh!! I say.

I’m not precisely sure what I did to deserve this, but I have a feeling it might have something to do with the fact that I can stuff 13 full-sized marshmallows in my mouth and still say “chubby bunny.” (It’s a little-known fact.) Oh, and the fact that I can shake it like a Polaroid picture.

Woo hoo! Japan! In three days!

* My usual surgical residency schedule wouldn’t permit me to just fly by the seat of my pants like this. But since I’m on a research schedule these days (until June 2008) and much of the work I do can be done via the series of tubes, I can. And it’s a good thing, because I have a big seat. One that, thanks to spandex, fits into these pants. And I do like to fly by them.

You should still respect your elders

My dearest, beloved Brit -

It is your birthday. And as we cross this annual threshold where you catch up to me in age (and I therefore forfeit the ability to tell you to respect your elders for the next six months), I feel a little celebratory expression of love is in order here. I know. I profess my adoration for you all the time. But this year, I wanted to do something special. Like parasail over the city of San Francisco, naked except for hot pink legwarmers, with a long banner attached to my sail that reads “THE BRIT HAS THE CUTEST 29 YEAR OLD DIMPLES IN THE WHOLE WORLD.” But I looked into it, and that turned out to be a bit pricey…and let’s face it, the city of SF has seen enough ass in its time. (And besides, hot pink legwarmers are so last season.) I’ve decided, instead, to profess my love for you by broadcasting it to the world via this blog. And by ‘the world’, I mean ‘my five readers’ (three of which are my Mamacusa, my Abuelito, and one friend from high school). But it’s the thought that counts, right?

It’s been, what? 2.25 years now since we met up for dinner that one night? You remember? The one where we had a lovely meal, we enjoyed some intellectual conversation, then you drank a few too many Chimays, I drove you back to your house, and we made out for a while, until you passed out (as evidenced to me by your snoring into my cleavage)? Yeah. That was a great first date. You recovered nicely, though, when you made me that spectacular dinner of Butter lettuce, Persimmon, Feta, & Hazelnut Salad, followed by the Moroccan-Spiced Cornish Game Hens with Roasted Beet Mashed Potatoes and Yogurt-Mint Sauce, and, of course, the ever-so-unforgettable Winter-Spiced Molten Chocolate Lava Cake with Rum-Ginger Ice Cream. Oh, that Chocolate lava cake…with its warm, mushy, uncooked, chocolatey-licious center. Mmmmm. That’s when I decided to keep you. And I’m glad I did, because over time, I’ve realized that, not only can you cook consistently well, but you very likely have a mild case of undiagnosed narcolepsy…as I’ve witnessed you fall asleep while drinking wine, eating popcorn, and taking a wee. (Though, thankfully, not all at the same time.) So, in other words, since you clearly can’t help it, consider the narcoleptic first date episode long forgiven. (Feel free to make another chocolate molten lava cake though, I’ll forgive you all over again.)

After 2.25 years of dating, I can’t say we’re without our problems. Problems which have mostly to do with your inexplicable love of movie soundtracks, your dislike of coffee and tea (you’re an embarrassment to your Queen), and the fact that you live in a world where you seem to think that everything, short of driving down to LA to pick up some milk, will only take 20 minutes (that, with your sense of time, would probably take an estimated 30 minutes). There is also the issue of your forgetfulness. You’ve forgotten wallets in taxis. Laptops at the airport security check point (which you realized after about an hour of being in the air). Either you’re putting on a charade right now so that I’ll never think you responsible enough to care for our future children (in which case, wisely played!), or we really need to figure out how to create a system by which, when you step outside of three feet of your possessions, your nose will start blinking. (And if we succeed at this, I think we could patent it and retire with our earnings!) The next issue, that of your Gift of Gab, I am still kinda on the fence about. On the one hand, the fact that you can, as CruJones once put it “make conversation with a stuffed moosehead,” comes in handy. For instance, I can leave your side at a work party where you know no one and trust that you’ll entertain yourself (and likely others) sufficiently. On the other hand, for the love of GOD!! Do you ever come up for air?? (On the upside, you’ve only got a little ways to go before you can beat the world record holder for longest soliloquy.) Lastly, and perhaps most seriously, there is the matter of your level-headedness. You really are entirely too reasonable. This, I find, is particularly troubling. And if you weren’t so friggin’ reasonable, this would be the root of what would be most of our arguments. But since we don’t argue, we’ll never know. Allow me to offer a hypothetical example:

Me: OH MY GOD!!! Coño!! Did you see how that asshole just cut us off! I mean, who does he think he is? Some super rich famous person who is above the laws of traffic??

You: Well, maybe his pregnant wife is in the back seat and her water just broke and they need to get to the hospital urgently.

Me: Oh for fuck’s sake! MAYBE! But if so, he’s endangering the lives of many, including that of his unborn child, by driving like a maniac! What about that, huh? Huh?

You: You’re right. He probably could stand to be a little more careful.

See? That’s exactly the kind of thing you’d say to NOT get a rise out of me. And it’s just entirely too reasonable. I really wish you’d stop that. It’s annoying. I’m far more accustomed to the Cuban way of doing things. Like the time some guy cut my dad off on a single lane highway. My dad sped up just to cut him off while flipping him off with his left hand outside the driver’s side window. Then that guy cut my dad off again and flipped him off in a similar manner. Then my dad sped up again, cut him off, while flipping him off. With both middle fingers. While on a curve. That’s the kind of passionate angst I’m lookin’ for here. Is that too much to ask for? :)

Problems aside, I do think we make a good team. I find the fact that you are always warm, though a strong argument for the theory that you are not of this world but instead from the planet of Astrometria, quite convenient for me. Since my fingers, toes and nose are always freezing. (My Dad says our family comes from a long line of dogs and I think he might be onto something there.) The fact that you delight in culinary experimentation is a plus as well. Though my ass has gotten bigger since we started dating, so cancel out the benefit of your cooking. Though, speaking of my ass, you do like that, and you find the dance I have to do to squeeze it into every single godforsaken pair of pants I own absolutely adorable. So, bonus points for that. You tolerate my gas on the principle that I was raised in a family where farting wasn’t an embarrassment, it was a contest. Though, since you’re no stranger to dropping a silent-but-deadly bomb yourself, that cancels itself out as well. You scratch my back for me, even when I’m too lazy to walk the two steps needed to get the back scratcher that you bought me. More bonus points for you. (And thanks, by the way.)

What pushes you over the edge into the range of having so many points that you have unlimited rollover points (all of which carry over at the end of each month) is this: You’re the brand of good looking that comes from having outgrown an adolescence of chubbiness. This is the unaware-of-your-good-looks brand. (Which is the best kind.) You don't just tolerate what I do for a living, you love what I do, and ask me about it all the time out of genuine interest and curiousity. And, perhaps most importantly, you always understand when my job makes me late for plans we've made. You are thoughtful and generous, not just to the people within your circle of family and friends, but to strangers as well. You volunteer your time at food banks and homeless shelters, travel to places like Thailand to do tsunami relief work and Louisiana to help rebuild houses leveled by Hurricane Katrina. You believe, as I wholeheartedly do, in the power of one individual to make a strong impact, change the world in some way, make a difference. And you want to be that person. (Which I fully support. Just as long as it doesn’t interfere with our sex life.) Soooo, basically you’re like Mother Teresa. Only alive and much younger. And hotter. And with a penis.

And for some reason, you love me with the enthusiasm and loyalty of a proud, rabid soccer mom. Minus the rabies, the obnoxious blow horn, and the fluorescent signage that reads, “My daughter will kick your ASS!” Oh, and more like a boyfriend than a mom. But you know what I mean. You seem to think I’m great, which makes loving you waaaaaaaay more fun than loving Joey McIntyre from New Kids on the Block those long, difficult years ago. He never answered my many love letters, which makes the love we shared, Joey and I, the unrequited kind. Whereas with you…you always answer my love letters. And that makes me a very lucky girl. Ahhh, sweet, sweet requited love. Suck on THAT Joey!

So, happy 29th birthday, my dear Brit. I love you and look forward to celebrating many, many more birthdays with you. (If you don’t tire of scratching my back for me first. Or of having my cold hands shoved down your pants.) (Or of my obnoxiousness.)

Con amor, muchos besos, y un pincho en el culito,
La Cubana Gringa

PS – No, we cannot have the Grand Suite from Star Wars played at our wedding. Maybe at the reception. And only on the condition that I get “I'll be loving you (forever)”
and “Hanging Tough.”

We share in this relationship

With his mouth still full from his last bite and an incriminatory grain of Mexican rice hanging from his lip by a pedicle of cheesy refried bean paste, The Queen’s Own, feeling the warmth of my glare, looks at me and says, “Was this your leftover burrito in the fridge?”

“Yes. Thanks for asking,” thinking he’d pick up on the sarcasm.

Blissfully unaware, he continues to chew. Chomp. Chew. Chew. Chew. Notices there’s something on his lip. Picks it off, looks at it, recognizes it as edible, then adds it to the contents of his mouth. Chew. Chew.

“Oh, and, no thanks. I didn’t want anymore of my burrito anyway.”

Chew. Chew. “Huh? Oh. Good.”

A few too many combovers for my taste, but overall, a hootinanny of a good time

There is one solid conclusion I was able to make after last night’s symphonic performance of “Music from the Big Screen.” And that is this: the only others who seem to share The Brit’s bizarre passion for movie scores are those who are but one cardiac pacemaker misfire away from death. As we took our seats in the auditorium, I looked around, noting octogenarian after octogenarian (after octogenarian), and realized we were, by far, the youngest in attendance. Which was fine. It was quite good fun to hang out with the old geezers, actually. We all enjoyed a selection of Max Steiner’s music from Gone with the Wind followed by Maurice Jarre’s Overture and Suite from Lawrence of Arabia. Then, at intermission, we all got up to adjust our hearing aids, change our leaky Depends, and enjoy a digestive. Following the break, we were dazzled by Elmer Bernstein’s Suite from The Magnificent Seven, Bernard Herrmann’s Suite from Vertigo, and Howard Shore’s Suite from The Lord of the Rings. During that last suite, The Brit, having behaved for nearly the entire performance and now entirely incapable of containing himself, went ahead and conducted the symphony from his seat. After the music stopped and all the hullabaloo and hootinanny settled down (old people terms for excitement), we decided to make an appearance at the after-party.* You know, kinda like a post-Oscars party, just without all the celebrities. And instead of doing shots off Scarlett Johansen’s chest or Paris Hilton’s twiggy thighs, we just played several rounds of hard-core Bingo. But not before soaking our dentures, changing out of our 18-hour girdles, and taking our evening round of medications with some nice prune juice.

* And by “after-party” I mean a very nice restaurant in the Mission District where The Brit and I enjoyed a lovely dinner for two. And for the record, the music really was spectacular.

The Brit has died and gone to heaven

So, one of the things that I love about The Brit (and by “love” I mean “can’t comprehend anymore than I can comprehend why it is that I have more ass than I know what to do with and yet not nearly big enough boobs”) is that he adores, ADORES, movie scores and soundtracks. And by “adores” I mean…

He can tell you exactly what part of which Lord of the Rings movie corresponds to the part in the score when the flutes swell and the cymbals crash. (In case you’re wondering, it’s the part when Viggo Mortensen, that delicious hunk of man-meat, makes out with Liv Tyler. That slut.)

He can identify the composer for just about any movie before the opening credits are half-through. And when he does, he proceeds to tell you every other movie that composer did the music for. Which is useful information. You know, in case Jeopardy calls.

He considers it fun to watch movie trailers and guess which movie score they borrowed the music from to make the trailer. And when he figures it out, he shouts it out as if the correct answer was the only thing between him and a million dollars in prize money.

He considered moving down to LA to pursue a career in movie sound but just couldn’t bring himself to get the size double D breast implants and gossamer blond hair extensions that one needs to fit in down there. That’s my boy. True to himself.

He’d probably willingly give up beer for the rest of his days if it meant that the score of Star Wars could be the soundrack of his life. This is saying a lot, for his love of beer runs as deep as the force is strong within Luke Skywalker.

Anyway, the reason why I’m even mentioning this is because we’ve got tickets to go to The Brit’s real live Wet Dream tonight. In other words, we’ve got tickets to go to a symphony that is performing “Music from the Big Screen.” Don’t look at me! I didn’t buy them for him! Vinja did! THANKS Vinja! (And by “thanks” I mean, “What in God’s name were you THINKING??”*) So anyway, you’ll understand why I’m considering catheterizing The Brit’s urinary bladder and attaching a collection bag to his leg, since he would otherwise run the very sizable risk of wetting himself from the excitement of it all if I don’t. And besides, this way he can drink all the beer he wants at intermission and won’t have to get up for a potty break!

* Dramatized for humorous purposes. Really, thanks. Very sweet of you to get him a gift that he really will enjoy. And then talk about excitedly. Nonstop. For the next several months. Thanks.

Note: While I truthfully do not share The Brit's love of movie scores, I do enjoy seeing him enjoy them. It's like watching a kid on Christmas morning. Every time we go to the movies. Which makes movies that much more fun. And by "fun" I mean "dorky." Just kidding. Fun. Really.

Adios Mr. Leprechaun (and Mr. Rumsfeld)

Contrary to popular belief, Leprechauns aren’t always Irish. Some of 'em are English. Surprised? I didn’t know this either, until The Brit walked into my life…donning nearly decade-old black leather shoes accentuated with atrocious gigantic silver buckles. (Lucky for him, he has dimples that distract one from looking at his shoes too much.) I thought, early on, about the pros of dating a leprechaun. There are many, as it turns out. Rainbows. Endless Lucky Charms. (They’re magically delicious!) Three wishes. And I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d find a pot of gold somewhere! But, alas, after two years of dating…I’ve yet to reap any of the benefits those hideous shoes implied I might. And when The Brit pulled them out of the closet the other day to wear in public, I recoiled as I looked at them…their rubber soles coming unglued from the front end of both shoes. Uh uh.

When I told him these shoes needed to be incinerated and then flown out to space (or put into a time capsule to be laughed at by our children in the future), he looked at me incredulously and said, in earnest, “What’s wrong with them? They’re REAL leather!"

Real leather, perhaps. But more importantly, real ugly.

So yesterday after work, under the guise of “Christmas Shopping,” I cunningly directed him to a great shoe store where we found replacements not only for the leprechaun shoes but for another almost-as-detestable pair as well.

Fire up the incinerator. Get the space craft prepared for lift off.

Also replaced today, Donald Rumsfeld by Robert Gates. Let's hope this new secretary of defense is as dramatic an improvement as The Brit's new shoes are.

British Salsa

Our first attempt to get The Brit acquainted with latin dancing was humorous, to say the least. One particularly inspired Sunday night, we headed down to a club that I’ve been to several times before. On the drive, I gave him a briefing on what to expect: an offensive excess of make-up, spandex, and cologne…tacky decor that more or less distracts the patrons from the fact that they’re in a warehouse…cramped, sweaty dance floors that threaten one’s safety…and above all, very good live latin music and some very, very talented salsa dancers. The latter was an understatement, The Brit quickly discovered. Upon arrival, he took one look at the dance floor, already a complex tangle of furiously spinning torsos, arms and legs, took a second look at me and…gulp. Wide eyed, he stared, eyes darting from one spinning couple to another...

“WOW! Did you SEE what they just..."

“HOLY CRAP!! Look at THEM…"

“OH DEAR. I’ll NEVER be able to do…"

“Well, I can’t exactly be bothered to try THAT, now can I?"

Shock. Disheartenment. I think I actually saw him look along the edge of the dance floor for the track lighting that supposedly illuminates in an emergency to guide one to the nearest exit. (He travels a lot for work, so he gets the schpeal from the flight attendants a lot.)

So, I made the administrative decision to hit the bar first. He needed beer. STAT. We each had one. And then he had another. He’d attempted, once before, to overcome his British brand of rhythmlessness*, by taking a series of hip hop classes…from what I hear, it didn’t go too well. (These said classes occurred in the pre-me years…not to be confused with the post-meeting-me years, aka “the best years of his life.”) The Brit savored his second beer a little bit more slowly, perhaps while still looking for the track lighting…still planning his exit strategy. I smiled at him, reassured him, pried the empty beer bottle from his hands, and guided him slowly to a corner of the dance floor. That night, a couple beers later, he learned the basic step and one basic turn. It went well. I thought. Turns out we didn’t go back for months. (Perhaps the heavy cologne and the offensive spandex turned him off.) (I don’t know about that though…he tends to not mind when I wear offensive spandex.)

It wasn’t until our trip to Cuba, that he really decided it was important for him to get to know this part of my culture. My Cuban immigrant parents taught us first-generation American kids what was important growing up: la familia, iglesia, café con leche, musica, and bailando. Dancing. We danced in the kitchen while we cooked. While we did the housework. While we washed the car. I danced right through my adolescence and into college where I actually minored in dance.

Despite the gaping difference in our levels of experience, The Brit was willing to take the challenge. And he has. We’ve been to several classes over the last few months; we went last night, in fact. And I must say, for a person who is so clearly not a natural, his persistence and enthusiasm have kept him coming back. (Well, either that or the beer.) (But we have beer at home, so, assuming it’s the enthusiasm.) (Or maybe it’s the offensive spandex afterall.)

It’s been an interesting exercise, for me, watching him learn. Movement is, we hope(!), something that can be taught and learned. In my profession, we bank on that. When I was interviewing for my surgery residency position, not once did someone ask me how good I am with my hands…not once did they ask me to demonstrate how I handle a needle driver or a forceps or how I tie knots. It was assumed that if I didn’t know already, I could be taught these movements. It seems like a nutty assumption…what of those people who are just plain clumsy? …those who can’t make the connection between a verbal instruction and a physical movement?…what of those poor pre-pubescent boys out there who just don’t know how to make their first move on a girl? The answer is simple. Any ballerina or surgeon (or teen male) knows it. Diligent practice. It’s what surgery residency directors the whole world across bet on. This, I kept in mind when The Brit bludgeoned my right toe in salsa lesson #2. [Only slight hemorrhage.] He just needs practice! (But really, OUCH!)

So we practice. And we count out loud. He gets this furrowed brow when he’s trying to anticipate the next step in a sequence…his eyes shift up and to the left, like he’s thinking really hard, his lips part slightly and he counts under his breath. (If he were a baby and his face were turning red, I’d think he was taking a poo in his diapers…that’s the level of concentration we’re talkin’ about here, folks!) If he gets the movement right…this slow smile erupts, eventually his dimples follow, and his surprised eyes shift to mine as he happily continues on with the basic step. It’s a funny look because it reads: “Hey, look what MY body just did!!”…as if he had no choice in the matter, and his limbs just magically did what they were instructed to do! If he gets the movement wrong, he comes to a complete halt, groans, and usually gives whichever body part deceived him a disciplinary slap. Then he carries on. He always carries on.

The toenail has since healed. The bludgeonings are diminishingly life and limb threatening. And The Brit’s evolving from the complete novice dancer to a seasoned beginner! Bravo, mi salsero gringo!!

We’re still working on his ability to hear the timing in the music…but, alas, this is what practice is for!

All in all, one of the many reasons I adore my Brit.

*Disclaimer: The phrase “British brand of rhythmlessness” does not imply that all British are without rhythm. (For instance, Benny Hill had impeccable timing. Sporty Spice as well.) This brand gets filed in a category along with the American, Canadian, and Scottish brands, for example. The Cuban, Brazilian, and African brands of rhythmlessness, though documented, are extremely rare, and usually due to genetic mutations that occur either because of random chance or cross-breeding with, say, British, American or Scottish genes.