Three Times a Pattern, Four Times a Streak

Yo yo yo,

Yes, so I've achieved something remarkable with my life: I've established a going-to-the-gym streak! Four times in a row, and tomorrow will make for the fifth visit to the mecca of muscle. Going to the gym is sort of like going to church: you hate the thought of it on the way, you really hate it during the middle of it, but when it's all over, you're glad you went.

Tomorrow will established another streak: four times I'll go to the gym freezing my ballz off because I WILL NOT go into the locker room. I must have been attacked by a tribe of crazy old naked men at some point in my life (probably the estranged husbands of the Amazons) and now have this real hang-up about going into a locker room. Luckily, I have repressed that memory (along with, I'm sure, MANY other terrible memories) and shall continue blithely along this path of life.

Nursing home update: they are still old. This is, I reckon, one of those jobs that you can't really do much to change their situation in a sense - they are old and they will, like it or not, continue to get older. Nonetheless, the residents are fun to play with (cards) and talk to about current day-to-day realities (the advent of talkies, the gramaphone, the dictophone, the jitterbug, and as we're in Detroit, the Model-T). On a more serious note, I must confess to having an emotion (rare, too rare for me) akin to empathy or sympathy or, perhaps, it's just gas...but it must be awfully difficult to go from leading a relatively independent life for 80+ years, raising a family, playing bridge and then, all of a sudden, go to living in a nursing home where you color placemats as an activity and only have your meals to look forward to as entertainment (and, with some institutional meals, they are decidedly *Not* entertaining).

Now for my Irish dancing friends, I have other great big news. On Friday night, I, Ryan Duns, the boy who wasn't allowed to take Irish dancing because I'm a horrifying clutz, went to a ceili and danced in a county set where I was, by far, the best dancer. The Best. Michael Flatley. I was the Lord of the Special Dance. Torrey might be the one who earns the accolades for dancing, but I must aver that I'm an as-yet unknown dancing talent, a veritable dynamo.


Perhaps I'm a closet adult dancer and should have my "coming out" party at next year's Cleveland Feis or, better, at the 2005 Oireachtas where I can wear a kilt and mortify friends and family alike. If you think I'm joking, Torrey and Mom, just try me. I've got nothing else to lose, not even my pride.


So that's about it. I turn 25 on Tuesday. That's getting up there in years. If I feel old, I have to feel bad for my parents because they are, in turn, even older. Feel free to post a birthday greeting in a comment box, especially if I haven't heard from you and you've been lurking on my blog.


OOh, Jamblaya update. This stuff is great. I made it for both carnivores and a version for the veg-heads who hate to eat baby animals. If you want the recipe, I'll sell it to you. Just write me.....proceeds will go to the "Terry O'Malley's Aunt Jambalaya Fund." With all the monies earned, I'd hope to buy him a coffee and a bagel. So donate now.


I'm outta here!

Cheers,


Ryan
AKA: Raul el Gato Rojo (Ryan the Red Cat)