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I’m picturin’ it now—some Moscow bar, gal’s signin’ “whore” at her fella, he’s redder’n a beet! Makes me happy, seein’ folks get real. Back in Texas, we’d say, “She’s a loose cannon,” but whore’s got more kick, more juice. Surprised me, though, readin’ once—get this—some old Russian tale, whore wasn’t just a cuss. Nope, meant a gal who tricked taxmen, hid vodka in her skirts! Ain’t that a hoot? History’s wilder’n a rodeo.

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So, I help him up, and he insists on treating me to a croissant. I’m like, “Okay, twist my arm!” We head over to the bakery, and it’s packed. The smell of fresh bread is intoxicating. I grab a croissant, and it’s like a hug for my taste buds. I’m in heaven.

Goals Galore in Senior Women’s and President’s Cup