Booze News

The Thrifty Tippler

Should wine be categorized in my budget as Groceries, Health Care & Medications, Recreation, Personal Care, or Entertainment?  As CFO of the Desmond household, I feel I have a responsibility to plop it all down as Luxury, but as Resident Self-Delusional Wino, I’m planning to distribute the expense equally over the other aforementioned categories.

Hec Hooch

The major topic of this morning (second only to how much FairPoint ‘Supervisor Amanda’ sucks – and I don’t mean in the good way), was the impending production of Desmond House ‘Shine.  It seems Hecubus, inspired by the clever packaging of Mason jar whiskey, has denigrated our Concord grape plans from jam to rotgut.  Needless to say, it didn’t take long for me to strap myself to this bandwagon.

In related news, I’m joining a jug band.

Guns and Gansett

As a Gun-Totin’ Chick – who hit the target 12 out of 50 rounds last week, thank you very much – I have been invited to join The Guys in their monthly Range Day.  Hecubus has bought me a new Giants hat for the occasion, informing me that “guys like chicks who have a ponytail hanging out of the back of a baseball cap.”  And isn’t that reason enough for me, a despiser of nearly all things football, to don some team garb?   Rah-Rah-Rah.

Thus far, I’m the only chick I’ve spotted at the range, and the reactions to me from the men have been mixed.  There are:

1.  The ones who don’t make eye contact with me – who fall into two categories:  a.) The ones who don’t make eye contact because they prefer to ignore my existence; and b.) The ones who don’t make eye contact because they’re leering at my breasts.
2. The ones who will talk to Hec about me as if I’m not there, as in, “That’s a good gun for your little wife.”
3. The Old Codgers who nod at, but not speak to, me.
4. The ones who glare at me sideways ‘cause I should be home fixin’ up some vittles.
5. The ones who have evolved.

It’s all well and good, though.  Hec and I really needed a hobby to do together that didn’t involve watching movies and drinking wine.  So now we go shooting… and then clean our guns and drink wine.  And then we watch a movie.  And drink more wine.

The Sublime & the Ridiculous… But Mainly the Ridiculous…

My silence is not indicative of a lack of material, just of my inability to write any of it down.  It can be overwhelming to select one piece of absurdity from the heap and focus on it.  For instance, should I write about:

1. Grain milling
2. Gun toting
3. The every-accumulating perversities of Our Lifestyle
4. Canned quail eggs
5. My mother’s closet full of vibrators
6. Food hoarding
7. The Renter’s swollen, naked torso, or
8. Hecubus in General?

And who would believe that, despite these Daily Adventures, I had nearly lost my sense of humor?

Very nearly.

Like, so nearly that I considered becoming a Grown-up who wears slacks and blouses and watches the Weather Channel 24/7 and eats meatloaf.

Luckily for us all, there’s the Cap’n. (For those of you who haven’t already met the Cap’n, that’s short for “Captain Oppressive.”  He pays me to be miserable.)

Today’s lesson from the Cap’n:

How to flush the toilet.

“Bell, I’ve just realized that I haven’t given everyone a lesson on how to flush the toilet yet.”

And I just like that, I’m back.

The Weekend Grind…

You may think that I write improbable dialog, but that’s only if you haven’t spent time around Hecubus and me.  This past Friday morning, our tête-à-tête went something very much like this:

Me:  You know, if the stock market continues to fall, I’ll probably be out of a job.

Hec:  Good.  You’ll have more time for grinding.

Me:  Yes, and for using our grain mill.

At that point in the conversation, Hec released me from my post-Apocalyptic whoring-for-food duties.

Just a few minutes later, I heard Hec on the phone with Djr, talking about food hoarding and me whoring, at which point I interjected:  “Wait, I thought you took me off food-whoring detail?”

Hecubus:  True, but there will be times when you’ll need to fill in for the other food-whores.

Me:  So now I’m a food-whore TEMP?

I’m so insulted.  I hope the full-time food whores will show me how to use the copy machine…

And I’m not joking about the food mill.  (Note Henry’s WTF face.  Although in truth, he generally looks like that.)

The flowers are a reward for being a Big Brave Girl who got her blood drawn without passing out.  (…Whose husband accompanied her to the lab and who brought her Dick & Jane lunch tote loaded with a juice bottle and a biscotti.)

Because I’m a spoiled twat who is constantly inundated by surprises from her husband, I am now the proud owner of a Deer Bag.  Being a frugal kind of gal, I especially appreciate the “Reusable” feature, as I assume this means I can throw the bloody, gut spattered deer bag into the washing machine with my delicates.   Since Hecubus usually has to bring a deer leg to bed with him in order to generate the aphrodisiac of venison-scented lingerie, this is bound to save both money and time…

Saturday Afternoon Fever

The Scene:   A Saturday afternoon (about 10 minutes ago), the infamous couple Hecubus and Bellamy Desmond are eating Vietnamese dumplings and listening to the Beatles channel on Pandora.

Bellamy:  You know, I’ve just realized who I am.  I’m your Linda McCartney.

Hecubus:  Yeah, but I’m not going to marry some one-legged broad after you die of Cancer.

Awesome.

Hecubus Emergency Broadcasting System

This has been a test of the Hecubus Emergency Broadcasting System…

If this had been an actual Blog by Bellamy Desmond, you would be enjoying both her wit and her articulacy. (She does read a lot of Oscar Wilde)

For those of you from Rio Linda, I have provided this link.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde

This was Only a Test….

Edited by Bellamy Desmond

The Greenest I’ve Been…

If I’ve been neglectful of you, Dear Readers, it is because my time has been spent going through prosciutto withdrawal whilst searching for new and innovative recipes for garbanzo beans.  I’ve also been dealing with the psychological ramifications of acknowledging that my new “Hec-ified State” fails to jive with my cynical charm.

You see, I have at last embraced (or perhaps, succumbed to) Gluten-Free Vegetarian Hecubus’ new Lifestyle, only to discover that I’d best find some damn good legume recipes if I’m going to survive without cured pork products.

Sadly, Green Goddess Earth Mother that I now am, I must admit to groovin’ on spending the day in the kitchen making my own vegetable broth out of Mirepoix (because I’m both Green and immensely cultured now) and vegetable scraps.  The funny and / or sad and scary bit is that Hec fights to eat the scraps after they’ve been cooking for two hours, insisting that they’re delicious and once again making a mockery of his assertions that I’m a good cook.

Hec:  Mmm… this is great!  What is it?

Me:  Yeah, those are some old leek greens that were going soft, collard green stems and the remains of a zucchini that’s seen better days.  Eat up.

Since I doubt you would be interested in my new found passion for gluten-free pizza crust and recipes such as Chickpea Pot Pie, I’ll strive to tap my Inner Bellamy:  the less kind, less gentle Me.  I mourn for the Bellamy I’ve already lost and fear for what remains of her… for my Country Living Grain Mill is on its way…

I am completely serious.

But now, for some levity, here’s an item that will no longer be featured on the Desmonds’ menu (note my Hand Model, back in action):

Something else of note:  Hecubus bought me a Flip Video Recorder for my birthday, so hold your breath for some titillating footage of my cat not moving for hours at a time.  (Until, that is, Hec lobs an Angry Bird at him – since Envy Me, I have the entire plush collection – and then yells “Got Him!”  And he wonders why Henry isn’t too keen on him.)

Drinking Hec’s Kool-Aid and Eating his Tofurky

Despite another birthday, I apparently still have a role to play in Hec’s TEOTWAWKI plan. I had assumed I’d be transitioning from Whoring for Food to Gardening, having effectively proven that I don’t have a brown thumb after all, but Hec has informed me otherwise:

Me: (After successfully canning my first batch of salsa) So now I’ll be in charge of gardening and canning.

Hec: As long as it doesn’t interfere with your food whoring.

Me: I’m 39, I think my whoring days are over.

Hec: Oh no, your whoring days are just beginning.

So far, the closest I’ve come to whoring is the Bikini Malfunction I had this morning at the pool (yes, we’re on another minibreak, and yes, of course we’re at a Marriot). I did, however, see my first Male Prostitution transaction last night at the hotel bar. It was extremely anti-climactic. The prostitute looked like a scrawnier version of Elvis Costello and had the intellectual capacity of a water chestnut. His pimp was this old dude donning an ill-fitting suit jacket and a blue tooth device. The john had a even worse suit jacket and, most likely, a wife and three kids.

Do you know how difficult it is to come up with a transitional phrase that smoothly connects male prostitution to Tofurky consumption? I suppose I could do something with the word “meat,” but that would be a stretch…

So without further ado, here are some images of last weekend’s Tofuky feast:

Oh, where to begin…

Let’s start with the Hec Hand. My faithful hand model, who constantly warns me to be careful with knives – despite the face that I daily (and successfully) wield a Wusthof Drieden, wandered in from the garage last Sunday and requested a towel. After he had bled through the first one while contemplating a butterfly bandage, we landed up at the ER. While I played Angry Birds for an hour and a half, Hec and the nurses did their best to keep each other “in stitches.” (Groan, but that was cheesy. I’ve been with Hec too long…)

As for the Tofurky, it was actually good, if visually repulsive. The “wishbone” turkey jerky was disappointing, though. I guess the “winner” is the person who lands up with the biggest piece of jerky, but really, what kind of prize is that?

Hec’s going stir crazy trying not to talk to me while I write and I’m losing my ability to tune out Boomer and Carton, so I’m off to shower…

Reverend Hecubus

Not being a sadist, I allowed my bridesmaids to select their own dresses.  And now, in order to disprove the adage “What comes around goes around,” I offer the following photo:

While I appreciate the fact that the dress comes with its own breasts, the strappy, sparkly shoes make me uneasy.    I have been limited to either wearing stockings and modeling that “old lady in sandals and pantyhose look,” or showing off my fabulously white legs – speckled, as they are with, with black and blues.

Ah well, it’s the bride who’s meant to be beautiful anyway…

The funny thing about today’s nuptials is the officiant, known affectionately to me as Hecubus.  That’s right, Hecubus has been handed a captive audience… and I, in turn, have handed Hecubus a script.  It’s bound to be an adventuresome ceremony, considering that Hec was directing people to address him as “Your Eminence” at the rehearsal dinner and continually asks at what point he can say, “Let Us Pray.”

Hec had just best leave off his advice to the groom:  “Welcome to the family.  I hope you brought your lithium,” which was funny until I realized that I’m part of the family the groom is being welcomed into…

Oh, and as of 8:00 tonight:  Dress for Sale.

8 Super Goonie Extra Terrestrials of the Third Kind

Super 8 would have been a lot shorter if the creature had been given a Halls cough drop with a motivational wrapper reading:  “Believe in You” and “You can build a space ship out of Rubik’s Cubes without eating all of those people first.”

But I’ve been warned against a penning a scathing, cynical review from Hecubus, who preferred the 2-minute Zombie movie at the end of the real film and to whom I was forced to admit, having spent an hour sobbing at a heap of trite, clichéd plot lines, that “I’m losing my edge.”

Truth.

And now, the Best Quote of the Day:

“They’re for feeding babies, not for men to play with.”

Since the embittered, sexually frustrated old bat whom I’m quoting failed to identify what “They” are, I’ll assume she meant “spoons.”

I Like Myself… That and Five Bucks Will Buy Me Six Ounces of Cumin…

One of my favorite expressions is, “You’ve Done the Work.” In Oprah-speak, this means that you’ve spent an astronomical amount of time and money with another human being who encourages you to blame you parents, your childhood, your early relationships, and the loss of your first goldfish (and your Dad flushing said goldfish down the toilet… oh, and your Dad is naked) for your inability to fold a fitted bed sheet.

I speak from experience, having Done the Work.

I wish I could seamlessly work the phrase “Drinking the Kool-Aid” into that diatribe because I really want to use the line: “I regurgitated that Kool-Aid.”

Ooh – but here’s an even better one: “I never swallowed the Kool-Aid. Rather, I spit it into the Cumin Bucket, but NOT the TEOTWAWKI Cumin Bucket.” (That’s a Blue Milk joke, kids.)

But I digress.

During this series of This Chick’s Perspective (and when I say “series,” I mean this entry, because I’m quite obviously easily bored), we will review Self Esteem: Pop-Psychology in Fiscal Year 2011 or “How a Trip to 7-11 Could Have Saved Me Thousands of Dollars and Been Just as Ineffectual:”

Thanks, Djr, for knowing I needed the boost.

And now I’m off to Conquer the Day… or to drag myself to the kitchen to pour another glass of wine.

If you’ve any complaints about the lack of cohesion in this entry, then you’re quite obviously lacking something, because it’s certainly not me.  I’ve Done The Work.