When I can’t come up with a damn thing to write about.
Time for a very short blogging hiatus. Now, now. Dry your wee little chipmunk tears. I’ll be back next week!
Psst: This Friday at the Go Jules Go compound, it’s Peppermeister (Hub #1) vs. Rachel’s Table. That’s right. Those two are finally going head to head in a Spicy Pepper-Off to see who can handle the hottest homegrowns! I’ll have plenty to report next week.
If you want a delicious sampling of what’s in store, check out Rache’s fantastic “Peppermeister Roulette” videos (video one and video two)!
The title of this post implies that I’ve gone off to do something I don’t normally do. Ha ha. Well. Let’s go with it.
That’s right. I’m going fishing drinking.
Peppermeister and I celebrate our 4th anniversary today, and we’re headed to Long Island ’til Sunday. My extended family has a little house by a bay where I haven’t visited in 10 years, so I’m pretty excited to return. Even if the weather is crap.
The house doesn’t have internet access, which I’m nervousdepressedconfused about okay with. We’ll have, um, cruiser bikes…and bocce ball…and love. So that’s something.
The Good Greatsby‘s post about children’s birthday parties inspired me to write this latest post about my favorite possession, my monogrammed flask. I’m sure you can understand the thought progression [from ‘crying, screaming, cake-smeared child’ to ‘clandestine alcohol consumption’], so I won’t bore you with the obvious.
As you can see, it’s a first-rate flask, its single flaw being that it is much too small. It was given to me by perhaps the only person in this world who really gets me, the lovely woman who for three years I was fortunate enough to call my Work Wife (sadly, she has moved on to greener pastures, and I find I need the flask just that much more). I dedicate this post to her, and all the things we share in common (including, but not limited to, a deep understanding and appreciation of Michael Bublé lyrics and someecards.com).
I’d like to say that that leads nicely into the #1 reason I need a flask: Work. But, I should be clear in that I’ve yet to find the nerve to bring a flask to work, and somehow just barely manage to make it through the front door each week day before letting my Grey Goose loose.
No, remarkably, it’s not work.
The #1 Reason I Own a Monogrammed Flask is:
Your Showers (Baby or Bridal and dear god don’t tell me there’s any other kind).
I don’t even know where to start, but I do know the rest of this post is going to write itself.
If I have to play Bridal Bingo or see an infant clothesline one more time, I’m going Into the Wild. Women Lose. Their. Minds. at these things. The little prizes from the dollar store might as well be Robert Pattinson‘s used napkin. It’s like being in Oprah‘s audience, except the most any of us are going home with is a hydrangea-scented memo pad (and, in my case, a migraine).
Don’t even get me started on those women who write recite a touching poem that no one can hear over the continuous cries of alleged Bingo, or the ones who are utterly convinced that they’re the first person in the world to think of melting chocolate in a diaper. And if you’re one of the women who encourages these other types (“Oh, Betsy, you are SO creative!”), you’re on my Poop List, too.
The worst is when I’m put at a table full of strangers whose fanatical expressions remind me that there is absolutely no chance of finding a like-minded soul at this shindig, and also that I must be evil (and may in fact not even have a soul, despite my willingness to wear pastel and a convincing grin), because look at how much fun everyone else is genuinely having. My only saving grace is that I’m sitting close enough to the restroom to make a quick getaway (or seven). Bottoms up, you delusional tulle junkies.
Games and poetry of any kind were banned from my bridal shower, but I still lose sleep at night thinking about how I put those nearest and dearest to me through this cursed ordeal.
There’s really nothing I enjoy more than drinking, and I’d like to take a little time out to debunk drinking myths and challenge the pervasive taboos.
Drinking Before 5pm
If you’ve ever been to a St. Patrick’s Day parade or to an all-inclusive resort, you’ll see that I’m not alone in ignoring this ridiculous rule. There’s a reason mimosas and bloody marys exist. And what about people working the graveyard shift? They’re not allowed to pop open a brewsky when they get home from work at 7am? That’s not a very nice way to treat our police force and medical professionals, you know.
Who ever decided that this was the surefire sign that you’re 3 seconds away from locking yourself in the garage with the car running? If you go out to dinner alone, it’s all, “Good for you, Larry!”, but taking yourself on a wine and cheese date in front of the T.V. is out of the question? I don’t drink alone because I’m lonely, I drink alone because sometimes I’m the best company around and L.I.T.s are delicious. Cheers, dammit.
Drinking to Get Drunk
Drinking isn’t so much about the flavor of the alcohol (winos, ‘fess up) as it is the entire experience. No one likes a slob spilling merlot on your amazing new shoulder-padded sweaterdress, but everyone who drinks likes a buzz. If they didn’t, the virgin daquiri enterprise would be a lot more successful, and non-alcoholics would know what a Coors Cutter is. Drinking is so popular because it Feels Good!
Let’s face it, there are simply some things that one cannot bear without a little help from Jimmy or Jack. For some, it’s family events, for others, it’s work. Or baby-sitting. For me, it’s club music, overcrowded bars and “Citizen Kane.” After a few Blue Moons, the 20-deep line to the bathroom doesn’t seem quite so horrendous, and combatting film snobs about their greatest movie of all time is sporting good fun.