So much ladled punch, so little time to swill

By Woncha Telmé Moore

Agarrense, manitas y manitos, the social season is upon us. So much ladled punch, so little time to swill. I have promised that somehow I will make it to every merienda, every toast for every deb, every pow-wow for every Indian maiden.

Hey! Go easy on the themes and on trying to make it meaningful with aberrant twists and stretches of colonial history. Some of us who made it through grade school do have a sense of world history.

Beware of and eschew pompous prolixity. Oh, manitas and manitos, what's with these two barristers never being able to relax in each other's company? Even around the parrilla they act like there's a case going on, and perhaps there is.

Horripilated. The story of redemption and reconciliation made me weep and gave me goose flesh. They never should have been apart, these two. It was so clear how much they have cared for one another. I never got the reason why one of them decided they both had to be lonely. Isn't love strange?

Labanotation, that's what I was reading as they danced through the night -- he so clearly a follower of Rudolph Laban, who did for dance what Guido d'Arezzo did for musical notation a thousand years ago.

The less-than-scintillating after dinner conversation took the tired hostess to the Land of Nod quicker than a brandy. Doesn't anyone have any points of view? Must the conversation always center about the children?

The seven-digit divorce settlement has all the appearances of a leonine contract -- todo pa' mi, chump change pa' ti -- proving for once and for all he is the king of beasts.

Our favorite deb appears to be making bricks without straw. Will her house stand?

So many clues to the future of a relationship lie in the medicine chest. Get thee to a Physician's Desk Reference to see how much of what's in there is for mood elevation, suppression, or control.

Oh-me, oh-my-o, son of a gun, we'd have some fun, if you'd go back to Ohio. This newcomer (since '92) has overstayed his welcome and presented an excellent argument for why the club should more diligently ponder who's in and who's out.

Sapphist safada. You've come a long way, baby. Now hit the road. Oh, and don't let the closet door hit you on the way out.

Snuffing the candle is how our Wild West frontiersman impressed the coy rancherita. Of such advanced markmanship skills was our David Crockett that he was able to shoot through the flames without putting out the candle.

Sober as a judge -- could you say that in Laredo? Not if you frequented the same little hotzpot we did one recent Christmas cheer evening.

"Call no man happy until he is dead." So said Solon, the Greek statesman who was one of the Seven Sages. That was quite a grin on Don Doble Remolque's last face.

Someone stole his rudder, it seems to me, before he started to blubber publicly. Our friend was in his cups, which elicited only sweetness from those around him who cared if or not he got home safely.