F'in' Warren Buffett

The man blows my doors off. As does Bill Gates. They're amazing. That's all I can say right now.

I like to wiiiiine....

What is it about a box o' wine?

It's a good thing, as Martha would say. Well, it's not a bad thing.

My friend Margaret, who is a tightwad's tightwad (a compliment), discovered that the uber discount no-frills grocery store Aldi sells wine by the box and it doesn't insult her palate (and she's a former wine buyer) much less her pocket book (she's also the wife of a government employee with a decent but hardly sumptuous salary). And so, since she examined the family budget and found it possible to afford joining our swim club (which is NOT a country club), this box o' wine is exceedingly bringable to the pool in the swim bag in the early evening hours. Whilst the kids swim and dunk and otherwise chlorinate themselves, we can eat hors d'oeuvres -- which I recently discovered my Richmond-residing sister to be pronouncing "AW derves" -- and surreptitiously drink from plastic cups containing nectar poured from the box o'wine, which is secretly ensconced in the bag o' towels.

It's a good thing.

But we just sat at her table tonight and drank openly from the box o' wine while the kids watched The Muppets: Treasure Island and Antz and we discussed families and elementary-school teachers and home businesses. Much minor-key, yet fulfilling enjoyment was had. Hurray for the box o'wine. Now, if only I'll win the lottery tonight my night will be complete. Haw!

My friend Stanley. Stanley Cup.

Sooo. I see I haven't been here in a while. OK, never -- savin' for that first time I created this blog. I'm lazy, OK? And busy.

I'll just repost this item I put somewhere else t'other day -- June 21, if you must know:


So they threw a party yesterday to celebrate the Canes winning the Stanley Cup and we and a jillion other people went.

On my way up to Raleigh, I stopped at a gas station in the sticks off the Interstate and the teenage Asian girl working the register asked if we were traveling far. I said, We’re going to Raleigh for the Hurricanes celebration. She gazed at me blankly as if I was speaking Urdu — well, maybe Eskimo. I said: They won the big hockey championship last night? She continued to gaze at me as if I were an utter cipher — and maybe I am. I said: Well, uh, thanks! Bye!

We got to Mr. Ima’s office in Raleigh and I could tell he was tense because there was ONLY 35 MINUTES before the parade was supposed to start at the RBC Center and we still had to drive there. It takes about 10 minutes to get there — on days when thousands of Hurricanes fans aren’t trying to get there at the exact same time. Whoops. Sorry.

Yep, traffic jam near the RBC. Mr. Ima fumed pretty silently but noted pointedly that it would have been better if I’d gotten there when he’d told me to (about an hour before I had). Yeah, yeah, I said. And it would have been better if I was independently wealthy and didn’t have a job of my own, didn’t have to wade through the insanity of cub scout day camp to pick the kids up before coming, didn’t have to deal with a freakish downpour that slowed traffic to a crawl in our town when we left, didn’t have to stop for gas on the way, and didn’t have to deal with Raleigh traffic at, oh yeah, rush hour when I got there. Etc, etc. Blah blah. No big deal.

Luckily, someone had given him a VIP parking pass so once we got to the access road to that parking we were able to whiz right in and park right next to the RBC Center and next to a limo that we pretended was the one that carries the Cup but I know that one had to be over in a more guarded area with the players’ rides, etc. So potential gasket-blowing was averted and all was well and everyone was happy.

The place was crawling with people, just about every single one of whom was dressed in red and white. There was some band on the property somewhere and radio station guys blaring and TV helicopters going back and forth overhead like a riot was going on or Britney Spears and K-Fed were driving around with their baby in her lap.The boys stopped to sign a giant card for the Canes. I’m sure the players will read every line.





Then we went to find a place to stand along the parade route -- which was going to be all around the RBC complex. (There’s another parade, on actual city streets, in downtown Raleigh today.) It was boiling hot — 93 degrees at 6:15 p.m. One man near me was feeling a little sick. I mean, Sikh. I mean... oh, forget it. He was very nice, by the way.






And so we just milled for a while. Of course, the parade didn’t start at 6:30 — more like 6:50 or 7 maybe. It was led off by some real VIPs — the Zamboni machines. Yay, Zambonis!











Then there were the cheerleaders and I got some pictures of them, too, but I know y'all don't want to see stuff like THAT. So on with the tale.





It was a parade of cars and trucks. So fitting in NASCAR country. Each player was sitting or standing in the back of his own convertible or pickup, waving like a beauty queen or pumping his fists. They were grinning like they’d just won the Stanley Cup or something, a couple looked to be drinking beers and many had their wives or girlfriends sitting next to them.


I figured y’all might want to see Kristi Yamaguchi -- and, oh yeah, her husband, Brett Hedican. I think he’s on the team and all.










For some reason, people were really excited to see Cam Ward and so I didn’t get a clear picture of him and his gf.











They were all there. Lots of cheering, flag waving, sweating. It was a slow, slow process and sometimes, for some reason, long gaps between cars.

Next to last in the parade was Brind’Amour. The crowd was chanting, “ROD-DY! ROD-DY!” We’d moved by then and I didn’t really get a good shot of him. He was holding his hands up sort of sheepishly at that point, like, Whaddaya gonna do?




And then, of course, in the last car came the Cup, which Brind’Amour had been classy enough to let Glenn Wesley carry. And boy was Wesley psyched.







Then we tramped over to the stage area where way too many people already were and we weaved our way forward some and listened as every single person who ever worked for the team was introduced -- the team doctor! the water boy! the Zamboni driver! Well, I don’t actually think he was introduced. Too bad. Then the coaches. Then the team members, one by one. Then it was all: Thank YOU, fans. And the fans were all: No, thank YOU, team. Thank YOU, etc, etc. LaViolette and Brind’Amour talked about what a great year it had been. A dream. No one but the team and the fans had believed. So forth, so on. Etc. Etc. On to next year and a repeat...??? No one but the team and the fans will believe.




And then they shot out tons of confetti and set off fireworks and that part was over.



The fireworks went on for like 15 or 20 minutes. Someone’s Fourth of July cache is used up now. Most fans started milling away. But not oh so tricky us. The boys wanted autographs. Shyeah. Like that was going to happen in such a crowd. But Mr. Ima led us to the fence by the area where the players had to walk to go from the stage to the RBC where they were apparently going to have another private party with the well-heeled and well-connected. And maybe the big-boobed.

That fence was already two- and three-deep with other like-minded autograph seekers and most of the players were going in and ignoring these potential headaches. ‘Cept for one lone player — Cam Ward, who’s maybe so young he remembers what it was like to be a kid wanting an autograph. He was walking up and down the fence signing a bunch of autographs, particularly, it seemed, for kids. But it was way too crowded in there for mine to try to get in. They pulled off their shirts. They really wanted autographs on their shirts. Yeah, stupid. I know. How do you maintain that? But what are you gonna do? I told Mr. Ima to hold the fort and give me the shirts and I wormed my way close to the fence where he was and when he had a moment free I begged him to sign the shirts for two little boys and he did. He was very solemn and stoic, but effective -- much the way he tends goal.

And so there you are. A Stanley Cup celebration Southern-style.

Woohoo!

Ima here! In all senses of the word(s).

Just giving this a whirl.