Grape Did It

My morning delight

I woke up late this morning and decided not to post. No big story to share, plus those extra few minutes were golden and snuggly and why is sleeping in the winter even more delicious than in the summer?

But that was before I walked into the living room and made a discovery WORTH SHARING. My morning ritual consists of hitting the snooze button until the alarm in my brain says no, now you'd REALLY better get your shit up, and then stumbling into the living to turn on the coffee and write. But, as probably won't surprise you, I also have a few OCD tendencies like opening the blinds, pulling back the curtains, MAKING SURE EVERYTHING IS JUST SO, and then actually sitting down.

But THIS morning as I was rounding the corner on opening the blinds part, I saw something on the ground. Not a dog toy nor a magazine for lighting the fire because how the hell did the pioneers do it? Nooope. It was brown and squishy and puddly. Dog puke. And apparently we didn't catch it last night so it's disgusting self had been sitting there ALL NIGHT. Just waiting for me. Lying in cold, horrible wait to be cleaned up. SCREW YOU COPPER.

It's just we're so...intellectual

"Hope! Come here and look at Salma Hayek's boobs!"

"I know, I know, I've seen them,"

"But...they MUST be padded or something!"

"No, I don't think so. I've done my research. They're real."

"I...I don't know."

Kind of cute, actually

Last night I got into bed very early so that today would not be a miserable day of travel AND no sleep. One or the other, not both. And even though it's been getting awfully cool here the past several nights, we left our window slightly open for the fresh air and breeze. Something about burrowing in the coolness is so appealing.

But, as luck would inevitably have it, I could not sleep. Could hear Bud snoring, could hear the soft whisper of a dove going all, SHOVE OVER, I HAVE NO ROOM ON THIS BRANCH AS IT IS, but could not sleep. Then I had to go to the bathroom. Then, I don't know, I started worrying about time and space travel. Okay, no, that last one is a bad attempt at a joke but whatever could creep into my brain did. How does Sarah Palin actually get her hair to stay like that? AND OTHER PRESSING ISSUES.

I think I finally dozed off around ten thirty, maybe closer to eleven and I know you're thinking wow, early to FINALLY doze off but I was trying to circumvent curling into a puddle on the airport floor when they ask me to throw away this teeny, tiny, LITTLE tube of lotion that I spent fifteen dollars on because it could be a I DON'T KNOW, I ACTUALLY HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT COULD BE. And I need sleep to handle those situations. Preferably lots of it.

Okay, wow, I've got to go catch a flight pretty soon and I'm still building up this dumb story.

I am lying in bed, finally asleep when I hear something on our porch. The porch that runs parallel to the windows in our bedroom, the one leading up to our front door. The one someone might use if they intended to do us harm. A noise! A footstep, scratchy noise! I froze and did that little dance between trying to wake Bud, risking alerting the ne'er do wells that we were on to them, or handle it by myself and die. Both equally terrifying. I sat as still as possible while I continued to...monitor the sound. It did not go away and there was no question it was something, something alive, on our porch right outside our window.

On the other hand, I could not fathom what some hardened criminal was doing SCRATCHING around on our porch. Getting nowhere. I began to wonder if I was supposed to poke my head out the window and offer some advice. Hey, psst, when robbing a house, or conducting mayhem, you're supposed to BREAK IN at some point. Be scary. SCARE US. Which led me to believe that hey, maybe it ISN'T something ready to do us great harm.

So I crept out of the bed, steeled my thudding heart (this is actually no amount of exaggeration here) and peeked out of the screen. GIANT ORANGE TABBY CAT TRYING TO EAT OUR GARBAGE. With a lot of determination.

Friday at Five: Whiskey Sour

Yesterday I caught up with a friend I haven't spoken to in months and when I mentioned that tonight is cocktail night, he asked what I was making. Which is when I told him I had no idea, give me something that goes with bourbon because we still have a bunch around the house, for various reasons, one of them being that Bud is out of town. SO. He suggested a Whiskey Sour and it reminded me that my mother once told me that was one of her preferred drinks, but only when she was young, they are kind of sweet.

I don't really have a recipe here, sorry about that, but seeing as I have no idea how to make something referred to as, simply, SOUR, I went and bought the mix. At the store the only bottle that looked remotely like what I wanted was labeled Sweet and Sour and I'm standing there all confused like, am I making a cocktail or Chinese food? Which, yum, sounds good right about now but will not lend itself to a drink. YOU CAN SEE WHY SHOPPING TAKES ME A WHILE.

The check-out line I chose happened to be the one Mr. Happy was working at and so here followed the conversation (here followed?):

"Margaritas?" (the back of the bottle also said it could be used to make a Margarita. Should have given me pause.)

"Uh, no. Whiskey Sour."

"Have you ever had one before?"

"No, no I haven't."

"Go with the Margarita."

"I've had Margaritas before."

Which is when the customer BEHIND me chimed in:

"Yeah, Whiskey Sours aren't all that great."

"Well, I might regret it, but that's what I'm making."

And on, and ON. My God the unsolicited cocktail making advice.

So here's some of mine. I'm sure Whiskey Sours are all nice and lovely if you are at a bar, or take the time to whip up some of your own Sour - whatever the hell that is - but mine ended up tasting like cheap Margarita mix with added bourbon. MMMM.

Beignets, baby bums, barf

I am officially writing a new post today to officially push the one down below a little farther out of the way so I can see how quickly I can get it out of here. AH MINE EYES. And dude. I titled that picture sweatyarmpits because, yep.

Now then. Some observations about New Orleans:

1. Contrary to popular belief, middle-aged, pot-bellied man, white crew socks do NOT go with everything.

2. The beignets at Cafe du Monde really are that good. I don't care if it's a tourist trap you snob.

3. They sure do reserve judgment, so I tried to bring some extra from Alabama.

4. The architecture. I want to have eighteen kids and drape them all in french market and french aristocracy style then traipse them through the streets of New Orleans. THAT WOULD BE BADASS.

5. Bad breath should be outlawed especially if you are so drunk you have no concept of personal space. And keep shouting over the music, "I RAISED MY KIDS, I'M HERE TO HAVE FUN!" I get it, I just prefer that you do it a few feet farther away from my nostrils, lady.

6. I know your day job sucks. I know office spaces with no windows and long to-do lists slowly suck the life from your already-hanging-by-a-thread soul. This does not mean you have a future in karaoke. I'm sorry.

7. If you are going to ask me, "how about that tip little lady?", and look to be no more than eight years old, GET THEE TO SCHOOL.

8. Being compared to Scarlett O'Hara. I dug that one, but have a feeling I wasn't being complimented in a vaguely racist way.

9. The trolley, ah the trolley. How I love you, especially when we've already checked out of the hotel and have nothing left to do.

10. The language our shuttle driver spoke on the way in from the airport. Not entirely English and ended each sentence with a cheerful yep! or okay!

We continue to use this instead of a period around the house. "Hey Bud, can you hand me that ladle, okay!" "Would you like to take the dogs on a walk with me, yep!" "Not sure, I'll have to let you know okay! yep!"

Wine for dinner, want to kick my own ass

Somehow between work and traffic and a wine night, I completely forgot dinner. I woke up this morning trying to replay it all in my head. Sadie went out, right? I...ate...dinner...right? Oh, nooo, no I didn't. Maybe that's why I am all shaky and stuff.

But that's not what I'm posting about today. This week is all about getting to those things I promised to show or tell and by God, I'll do it! Even if it means dragging out some major humiliation on my part. First case in point:
Perhaps most offensive, aside from the large prosthesis, is how he grabbed our heads. In jest. It's cool, at least I don't have to go home to a trailer park where my mother hollers out her back door, into my backyard that I NEVER SHOULD HAVE MARRIED THAT TRAMP.

Back from the smelly streets of Nawlins

You should know that I put that word up there, New Orleans spelled like that? As a joke. Fine, okay, if you grew up there. Were raised to toss beads up into the trees and panhandle from the age of five. Then you can say it like that. Otherwise, please, go back to wearing your black slip on shoes with high white socks. IT'S THE TOURIST OF NAWLINS UNIFORM.

And before you have made up your mind that I have not only insulted Nu OR-LEENS by first joking about its smell but then about how you grow up learning to panhandle and that's NOT FUNNY, wait. I am kidding. I love this city - at least as much as you can love a place you have been to twice now - which is why we chose it as the place to celebrate our first anniversary. But much like a younger, pudgy cousin who will probably grow up to not only under-weigh me but FAR out-success me, I kid. I poke. I am still reeling from the vomit smell that hits you out of nowhere like, "Mmm, do you smell those beignOHMYGOD VOMIT AGAIN! VOMIT AGAIN!" except that I kept yelling that it smelled like trash. It was only later in the trip that I realized, that smell? A special kind of organic trash. Aw, look at the city being all green.

And well, as for the children who panhandle, no, they're kind of cute. But where are your parents? And why aren't you in school? I actually thought about pulling one to the side and being all, No really, I'm just curious about your life. But then I had a flash-forward to the way those do-gooder situations normally end and just let it go. Yep! Over here! Another overly-concerned yuppie! Make sure you check all her pockets, you know how they like to hide a few dollars elsewhere, as the guidebook told them.

Are we cleared up? No, I've only made a bad situation worse? Then, I'll move on.

Not only do I have the usual pictures from the trip, and stories and blah blah but I also have a list of things I've been meaning to post for DAYS! Weeks even, so many stories I was forced to create another list in life. Here's the odd thing though. One of these Need-To-Posts is a video from the 80's. It's a song I recognize only by the sound, I would never in a million years have known it by the band's (singer's?) name or song name. Anyway, it's a video that takes the music from an old song but replaces the lyrics with what is literally happening in the scene. Sounds dumb upon re-reading, but trust me, you won't regret watching it.

The odd part though is that here we were, sitting in a Bourbon Street bar, trying to mind our own business (more on that later), listening to bad karaoke when WHAT SONG SHOULD START PLAYING? I mean, someone had actually CHOSEN to sing this song. On stage. In front of strangers. And all I could keep thinking was, "skeetcheee haaand..."

Friday at Five: Thoroughbred Cooler

Am I full of excuses lately? Or just full of shit? There was no internet this morning, at least not any when I banged on various keys, whined to Bud or restarted the computer. NONE OF IT WORKED. You know I could be the IT guy.

We're on our way out the door, so this thoroughbred's going to whinny through her recipe and then gallop on into the night. Ouch.

Recipe:
1 oz bourbon
1 oz orange juice
dash grenadine
lemon lime soda (we used Fresca, which was Bonnie's idea and it was an excellent one)

This recipe - from my Pink Drink Book - says to pour the ingredients straight into highball glasses but A. we don't have highball glasses and B. I've just become accustomed to tossing all ingredients into the shaker and pouring over ice into glasses in the fashion of a sexy bartender. Bear with my fantasies.

Quotes from the drinker's:

Bud: Slow out of the gate and then had to stop for a break on the back stretch. Didn't win, place, or show (shameless in our puns).

Bonnie: It didn't taste like horse piss.

Me? I liked it but not loved it. Tastes like a Tequila Sunrise with bourbon. Would prefer to open a bottle of wine on most nights and siphon into my mouth.

Not being a tease, I'll have to edit and post picture later

DEEP BREATH. I've got to decide whether or not to tell this story because this story will lead to mention of a picture which will lead to someone asking to SEE that picture and while I totally don't blame anyone for wanting to see that picture, it's awfully tacky. But! Here's what I think. I think I can spin the story such that I kind of pin it on other people so you will think my behavior at Talladega was completely appropriate. BECAUSE IT ALWAYS IS.

Or maybe I can just post the picture here, right now, and not even editorialize. Let you figure it out for yourself. Hm. No, no can do. I'm an explainer which generally makes things that much worse but here we go.

After we arrived Saturday morning, we met up with some friends who already had an elaborate camp site set up, drank a beer (no matter that it was 10 am) and decided to head to the "flea market". It is important that I put that in quotes because what it really was was booths full of "merchandise" for the races and the reason I put THAT in quotes is because I hardly call a shirt that says, "I hate Bush, that's why I shaved hers" merchandise. But whatever. To each his unbelievable own.

Yes, yes, Bud dropped a shirt on the ground and was mildly but rudely admonished by the "shop keeper" (and it's important that I put that in quotes because, see above about merchandise at this flea market). I think we got kind of rude back, I might or might not have flipped him off - we were blending! - and right now my mother is slowly sinking into her couch wondering where ALL THAT GOOD TRAINING WENT? But those aren't the reasons I'm writing this. That's not the story.

We also noticed a man walking around, at this...festival of tshirts and JUNIOR FLAGS, with a strange mask and apron over jeans. Odd, huh? No shirt - normal, check. Tattoos - also normal, check. But an apron? BY GOD HIS WOMAN COOKS. And the mask? Well it just looked like he spent his time trolling playgrounds and what not. NOT SPOOKY AT ALL.

Cari and I pointed and kind of giggled, like, huh, funny outfit ,which is when he TURNED AROUND AND LIFTED THE APRON. Do I need to keep going?

And then some stuff about me bragging, mind you with a beer buzz going on, about how, "I'LL ASK HIM FOR HIS PICTURE." Kind of joking, kind of hoping my bravado would be overlooked. But nah, it wasn't. I was held to this stupid comment. I have a picture.

And if you've never tapped the sweaty back of a man wearing a mask, an apron and a penis prosthesis in order to inquire, "May I get my picture made with you?" YOU HAVE NOT LIVED.

Who's the pervert now?

Well, no one really ever WAS so, not sure what I'm talking about but wow, people! Phallics and conception, ya'll need to GET THY HEADS OUT OF THOU GUTTER.

Which reminds me. The other night when Bud's mom first got here we ate some dinner and then sat around gabbing, as catching up was required. We moved through mutual friends and family members, got excited over babies-to-be, moseyed around storms and surgeries and then ended on tv shows.

Bonnie asked if we'd seen Deadwood? And I said no, heard of it, but not seen it, which is my standard response. It's similar to the, "Yeeeah, that name SOUNDS familiar, but no, nope, not sure that I do know her." She commented that well, it was kind of an odd show because, while the people spoke in an almost Elizabethan English they also peppered nearly every third word with a...a...vulgarity, if you will.

And I don't know if we're beginning to share the same brain - one year of marriage Monday! - but we looked at each other and said, almost at the exact same time, "Fuck thou!"

This? This is why we will soon be on the society page in the paper.