My uncle used to drink Moxie soda. Which tasted like melted horehound drops. Which taste like blackstrap molasses, I’m guessing. Which probably tastes like Ovaltine, which, if I recall puddles correctly, tastes like a mud puddle –on steroids. Not to put too fine a point on it, of course.
I suppose you’ll never believe, now, that I’m not fussy. I’m not, honestly — I just don’t like all the above, and lima beans (any beans). Which taste like that gritty floor my face landed on in the garage next door when Debbie and her friends organized a spooky Halloween *house,* replete with a bowl of intestines (spaghetti) that you stuck your hand into through a felt curtain. “An idiot getting rowdy in a nearly pitch-black area” pretty much describes my entire female coming of age.
People with moxie (chutzpah, zest) make me want to slap one of us. Like Cher slapped my bud Nick Cage in Moonstruck. I could never slap myself that hard, but someone else? Maybe. As long as I had a clear running path with obstacles to throw in his/her way. When DH and I were attending Lamaze class, the nurse instructor said, “Your partner in labor is not herself, guys — she may just slap you.” DH remarked sotto voce, “If she slaps me, I’m slapping her right back.” Now, I wish I had slapped him — a brawl would’ve been more fun than labor.
Aren’t you glad, today, that you are you and not me? I thought so. 🙂 Carpe Saturday!