I'm sitting at my breakfast table/dining room table/didn't someone buy this for a desk-table, drinking a White Russian.  I have just gotten off the phone with my 2 year old son who was singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch.  Feel free to look at the time stamp again...  He was cracked out on peanuts, popcorn, cotton candy, cracker jacks, hot dogs and soda.  I fear he may need blood replacement therapy to totally detox. 

Back to the White Russian.  As I sit here sipping my white russian (which, if I may say, is so very 1980's/Vegas blackjack table-ish/maybe-it's-the-horrifying-1980's-borders-in-every-room-of-my-house), I am reminded of my White Russian.

Dmitri.

My sisters, as they read this, will give a collective sigh.  If you could hear them in their respective living rooms as they read this post, you would overhear, "I loved Dmitri."  "He would have made the perfect nanny." Or the every popular, "Boy, that Dmitri, he sure was a pip." Not spoken in a he's-better-than-Derek kinda way but more in a didn't-Kristen-date-the-most-hilarious-people(other-than-that-asshole-who-threw-out-her-baby-Jesus) kinda way. 
 
Dmitri was an island bartender.  How can you beat a man who does your laundry?  He was one of the Two Russians on the entire island.  They were together, the Two Russians.  There were rumors of jumping ship in the Panama Canal and trekking across South America.  Who knows?  My money is still on KGB plants in the Caribbean.

As I poured my Stoli Vanillin into my cup tonight, all I could hear was Dima's voice in the back of my head...

"Kres-tin, they use Stoli in Russia for jet fuel.  For God's sake, drink Grey Goose if you want decent vodka."  

I shall now return to my small, small world that is decidedly NOT a Caribbean island with 365 days a year of sun.