Tag Archives: liquor

Good Times For a Change…

Where are they now, you wonder? Tina Yothers, the kid from the Life cereal ads, and Lambchop? Well, Lambchop is right here, filling you in on recent developments, at least the ones the court allows her to discuss. You may remember Lambchop from such blogs as this one, or you may know her work. So get acquainted or fall in love all over again, then toast her as she helps me yank the rudder on our course to blogly oblivion! This thing goes to Morrissey!

Oh your lambchop has been busy! Busy traversing town squares, soiling linens, busy living in sin. But doing a lot less shopping than you might think.

I haven’t been quite as busy as Lickety, your mad scientist. She went and created a whole new person. I may have merely added a couple more years to my age, made new paintings, but I have also contributed to the cycle of life. There was a time when I had no good wineglasses, and then I got some, and now I have broken them all and have none again! Well, I have the one. So having just the one, just for me, it is a good time to move on and seek my fortune, anchors aweigh and off we go. To New York, to my little corner of it.

On 7/7/07 a crushing horde of people were getting married, record numbers supposedly. How unique…for all of them! I was at that very moment seeing Morrissey, who took the stage to “Please please please let me get what I want”. And I have to say, I had a Moment, my life flashing before my eyes from 13 until 33. Let me give you the timeline of my life, in Morrissey:

High school, Jersey City, teenage angst
1987-reel around jersey city, nothing else to do that lousy summer but obssess over music, girlfriend in a coma single
1988- viva hate…rough childhood, viva hate indeed
1990- november spawned a ME
1991-kill uncle, kill the whole family

school days in Boston (booze, bad boyfriends, and bicycles)
1992-seasick yet still docked
1994-the sanest days are mad, why don’t you find out for yourself

grad school CT, sell it all and move to Berlin
1997-“And I don’t get along with myself/And I’m not too keen on anyone else/Turn on, plug in, then just walk away/Unlock, process, and then just go/And I’ve never felt quite so alone/As I do right now/I’m lying here wide to receive…”

We were not so close while I was in Berlin. Blame Neutral Milk Hotel. But then in 2004, I came back to “…America…and I love you, I just wish you’d stay where you is!”

Now I am rolling the dice, swishing the 8 ball, and Morrissey says “please please please let me get what I want”. Yes, please.

920: Begin again

Oh, hi! I didn’t see you come in. That’s because I can’t turn my head to the right. You don’t want to know. Soon, you may find yourself entertained by a famous guest columnist. Do not be alarmed! I can scarcely form a thought, and that was even before I ate frozen blueberries soaked in booze last night. I’ll be on a holiday as well, and Mr. H and I have specifically picked a place with no internet access. That’s right! Such places exist. If we cave mid-way through our vacances, we will have to swim over to a giant floating Starbucks and pay $8 a second. But I doubt we will, because that water is motherloving cold.

Three thumbs up to this natural disaster

I just phoned Zagat’s and yelled “Fifteen stars!” because I am so impressed with this flood. We are now back home, after only two days of vacation in scenic Chelmsford. We stayed right next to the Hong & Kong, and I had a mai tai with a plastic sword in it. If that’s not nice, then I don’t know what is.

My highly sensitive spirited high needs sprog has learned to throw her arms in the air like the Village People. I have to fight, er, caucus and build consensus, with someone about the depiction of grapes on a plate. For real.

Let’s draw the line at genocide

Saw that on the news last night in a story about Fidelity’s dealings with oil companies meddling in the Sudan. Fidelity says they have a legal responsibility to provide the highest returns to consumers, therefore they won’t rethink their choices. The reporter asked “So Fidelity is not willing to draw the line at genocide?” What a novel policy. A little mutiliation and oppression would be fine, Fidelity, as business is business, but draw that line!

Yesterday a ybab played a fun game called “Let’s cry all day.” Yes, let’s. Of course she settled right down as soon as her father came home, and her fever and general malaise finished by the time the doctor charged us $30 to say “Fluid in the ears, no infection. Teething.” Which I knew, but wouldn’t I be a jerk if I were wrong? On the way back, we saw dogs, so I guess that wasn’t a total waste of a leaving of the house.

I’ve been meaning to write about NBC’s segment on cocktail playdates last week. A blogger  got totally sandbagged by a stern robot of an expert, who asserted that women must never, ever drink in the presence of a child, and anyone who has even one drink has Issues and needs to learn a Healthy Way of Coping. I couldn’t write about this at the time I watched the segment, because it was 8 AM, and I was already drunk, and so were all my friends. Don’t you put Kahlua and whiskey in your coffee*? Now, we have been known to have a glass of wine with dinner because we don’t like coping. We do like wine, though. But, to the blogger’s point, there is a man around to keep me in line. Unforunately, that man is Mr. H, who has never actually managed to do this.

Meredith Viera had her “disapproving mother hen” face on throughout the segment. Perhaps she should go back to The View, where she and Barbara Walters and Rosie O’Donnell and that pretty-but-dumb little one can talk about being disgusted by breastfeeding instead. Rosie O’Donnell apparently didn’t let her partner breastfeed their baby past six weeks because she didn’t want to miss out on bonding too. Well, I have news for you: a ybab prefers the perfectly teat-less Mr. H at least 90% of the time. As a society, we’re OK with genocide, as long as it’s profitable, but titties, man, titties. Those are really scary. Especially when attached to drunk women. They are like twin frozen margarita machines, right there on the chest, where people can see them!

*This reminds me of one particularly awful job I had. My office wife and I would go hit Bruegger’s every morning for coffee and a bagel, and then we would nip into the liquor store next door for, well, nips to add to the coffee. And thus renewed, we would go back to our sublet lair in an unheated church basement, clap our leg irons back on, and enable the purchase of cut-rate vacation packages. You know, make the internet happen. But we drew the line at genocide!

Since you asked, LISA, gosh, nosy much!?

Then there was some sleeping, and some life force draining, and more sleeping, and more life force draining. Laundry was not folded. Then phone calls were made because someone thinks speakerphone is soooo funny. A ybab yelled at Grandma, who said crazy things. “Well, maybe those veal were raised nicely.” Then Mr. H came home. He brought me a present! No, he didn’t, but he should have. Now we’re having “apple pie,” and we plan to watch ANTM. Life is small and precious, no?

And then what happened?

I’m glad you asked. A ybab and I went through the drive-thru at the drugstore to get drugs. Then we went to the deli to buy a lot lot of booze. The deli was mostly out of booze! They are going to convert to a cafe soon. I forgot to RESERVE PIE NOW, and I was all prepared to grub one of their extra pies, but they didn’t have any pie at all. That’s OK, I can’t eat it anyway.

But I can drink a pie! Here is the annual Vomitola.com Free Recipe Giveaway.

Apple Pie
1 part Harpoon Winter Warmer
1 part Cider Jack or other cider. I actually prefer Magner’s.

Then I saw a person to whom I was recently introduced. I see this person everywhere now, yet we have no deeper relationship than the first meeting. Hi, hi! Helllooo.

I’m voting for this cheese sandwich

No, I’m voting for the person who called my house with the least amount of recorded messages. No, that would be bad. I’m voting for the person with the funniest commercials. No, he’s pro death penalty and has his own smorgasboard of crackpot ideas to boot. I guess I will vote for Deval Patrick and close my eyes and pretend he’s Barack Obama. Or Bill Clinton. Voting for Bill Clinton was so fun! Politics = totes not fun now.

Or I will skip voting in the governor’s race at all and turn my attention to my own pet cause, Wine at Grocery Stores. I already live near a lawless New Hampshire border town, so I can go buy all the damn wine I want at a grocery store. And that would be a lot of wine. We switched to Wine Block to economize. The grocery store carries the yellow box, the pink box, and the red box. The rest of the state should enjoy similar privilege.

I still haven’t made up my mind on the ballot question that has something to do with childcare. I have a child, so that might one day affect me, if she didn’t incinerate babysitters with the power of her mind. John Kerry says I should vote for whatever the question is, but a friend’s home daycare provider who has a yard full of stray insulation rolls and auto parts says I should not vote for it. Dammit, I am going to have to read something to get to the bottom of this, aren’t I?

Naw, I’ll just let a baby vote. I knew there was some reason we keep her around. She’s getting good at typing, and she ate my grocery list the other day. I have to go lie down with my wine block and a curly straw.

To train up a child

Earlier a baby stopped draining my life force and whipped her head around to face the speakers when “Every Day is Like Sunday” came on the shuffle. Then she demanded to sit up and bounce. How many zillion hours of Morrissey did I expose her to in utero? That was probably more dangerous than all the wine*.

Now we have to go outside before we accidentally weep to death!

*It’s a joke. Joke. Close the email window. Step away from the computer. I mean “all the wine” is a joke. Well, an exaggeration. I certainly did drink a spot of wine here and there. Like they do in freaking Europe, after all the important organs are baked. But certainly more Morrissey was absorbed than alcohol. Certainly.

Mommy drinks because you cry

Today a baby went out of the house dressed like an Olsen twin yet again. Perhaps we will get better at matching when someone stops soiling various parts of her outfit so frequently. Until then, we remain “boho.” Or around the house, “naked and easily hosed down.”

In another two years, I expect to be able to discuss things that do not relate to a baby. That’s not totally true. If you’d like to discuss consolidating student loans or car insurance discounts, I’m your huckleberry. Would you like to talk about how my wretched, wretched condo won’t sell for what I paid for it? Also, I had a dream that I bought a bunch of bananas housing a tarantula.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, a baby is teething, so I have to put some whiskey on my gums.