So the Royal Wedding is finally over, with over a million people spending hours, if not days, huddled outside, waiting for something to happen. In real life those people are called: "homeless meth addicts." But in England, they are "spectators."
I was thinking if I had meth, I'd have made a fortune out there. Or a hot dog cart. Either way, it was a bunch of processed chemicals to shove in the arteries.
I need a hot meth dog cart. I'm totally calling it that, too.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
The road less traveled...
This post was inspired by Jenny Lawson. http://thebloggess.com/2011/01/coming-out/
If you don't care to zoom off to her page straight away because you have restraint and a greater attention span then I do, I will briefly surmise Jenny's post. Jenny herself suffers from depression, anxiety disorder, OCD, and (just to fuck with her a little more) Rheumatoid Arthritis. She has spoken up before about her struggles with all of these things on her Blog. I have been quietly reading about these things and not saying anything.
My own struggles with Depression started before I actually knew there was a mental illness called Depression. I can narrow them down to the exact date: June 8th, 1992. The day my father committed suicide. I was 18.
The grief of losing my father is still palatable, even almost 20 years later. When I think about it. And I try to go days, even months without thinking about it. Certain times it hits me like a fist in the throat: that he didn't get to meet my husband. That he never walked me down the aisle. That he never got to see his grandsons. Those are the "easy to explain my sadness" moments. Understandable.
Mental Illness doesn't have many understandable moments. When you suffer from Depression as I do, you take any proffered straw when it is given to you. I took those straws as proof that I didn't need help or medication. I just needed a moment. Regular people without mental illnesses need moments. I so desperately wanted to be one of those. To not be my father's daughter.
There was a tidal wave of grief when my father was found, it swept me away from everything I knew to feeling like a castaway on a desert island. I blamed myself for not seeing it. I blamed my step-mother who was in the midst of divorcing him for sending him over the edge. Ultimately, I blamed him. Coward. Selfish asshole. How could he do this to us? I denounced him in my teenage way and went flung myself into a series of bad relationships that were fueled by recreational drug use. I explained it all away. I was young, reckless, rebellious. All this is perfectly normal. Experimenting, not escaping.
Oh ho ho, how we bullshit ourselves. But we do it because we feel we have to. To avoid sinking, to give us something to hang onto, sometimes bullshit is our only option. And sometimes we realize it's all bullshit and cannot face it any more. If we're strong enough, we ask for help. We discover that help is there. We reach out. But some people aren't that lucky. My father was physically very strong, on his way to a third degree black belt in Taekwondo, and worked as a martial arts instructor. For years after his death, I had thought if only he was as mentally strong as he had been physically, he would still be here.
My brother, sister and I all made a pact that whoever had the first Grandson would name him after our father. At least as a middle name. To keep his memory alive. When the time came and I had the first grandson, I bulked at the idea of having my son carry a name with so much sadness and grief attached to it. As consolation prize we choose Berlin as 1st son's middle name. To honor my German heritage (inherited through my father's side) and the fact my husband had lived and worked in Berlin for three years before he came to Canada and married me. It was a cop-out explained as a compromise; a skill I have perfected throughout the years.
I had my second son (and last child) and still couldn't bare to give him my father's name. I was too cowardly to face it. But my sister had a son 18 months later and did it for me.
Anything is better than the truth when you're mentally ill. My Dad's truth and my truth, too. I hide from it just as he did. I went to therapy years ago and took antidepressants that made me feel detached from the rest of the world and made me completely unable to write.
The truth is, mental illness isn't about strength. It cannot be cured with push-ups or diet or Sucking It Up Like a Man. All of that is bullshit. And I'll let you know the worst bullshit of all. That I think to myself: "I went through today doing perfectly normal, mundane things and that makes me a perfectly normal person." Because I am normal and struggling with mental illness. And it's a struggle that shouldn't be happening in silence.
To all of you who are struggling, I want to say this.
You have a voice. You are worthwhile. You are unique and deserve to be here. You deserve happiness. Speak up, reach out and that action: that one action of using your voice and speaking, which I know, I know is terrifying, because what if you speak up and no one hears you? What if it just echoes into an endless scream? For me, that was the unbearable, un-dislodgeable thought. And that was (and still is) the Depression talking.
No. Using your voice can only make things better. Because the worst things, the most insidious things? Those are part of your illness. Speaking up will become easier as you do it, I promise you that. Removing the silence is the first way to distinguish yourself from your disease. It is part of you, don't let it take all of you. There are ways to live with it. So that you can live.
If you don't feel ready to talk to a professional or your family, you can leave me a comment and I promise I will answer you.
I'm dedicating this post to my Dad, Randy Liebrecht. Sorry it took me so long to get here, Daddy. x
If you don't care to zoom off to her page straight away because you have restraint and a greater attention span then I do, I will briefly surmise Jenny's post. Jenny herself suffers from depression, anxiety disorder, OCD, and (just to fuck with her a little more) Rheumatoid Arthritis. She has spoken up before about her struggles with all of these things on her Blog. I have been quietly reading about these things and not saying anything.
My own struggles with Depression started before I actually knew there was a mental illness called Depression. I can narrow them down to the exact date: June 8th, 1992. The day my father committed suicide. I was 18.
The grief of losing my father is still palatable, even almost 20 years later. When I think about it. And I try to go days, even months without thinking about it. Certain times it hits me like a fist in the throat: that he didn't get to meet my husband. That he never walked me down the aisle. That he never got to see his grandsons. Those are the "easy to explain my sadness" moments. Understandable.
Mental Illness doesn't have many understandable moments. When you suffer from Depression as I do, you take any proffered straw when it is given to you. I took those straws as proof that I didn't need help or medication. I just needed a moment. Regular people without mental illnesses need moments. I so desperately wanted to be one of those. To not be my father's daughter.
There was a tidal wave of grief when my father was found, it swept me away from everything I knew to feeling like a castaway on a desert island. I blamed myself for not seeing it. I blamed my step-mother who was in the midst of divorcing him for sending him over the edge. Ultimately, I blamed him. Coward. Selfish asshole. How could he do this to us? I denounced him in my teenage way and went flung myself into a series of bad relationships that were fueled by recreational drug use. I explained it all away. I was young, reckless, rebellious. All this is perfectly normal. Experimenting, not escaping.
Oh ho ho, how we bullshit ourselves. But we do it because we feel we have to. To avoid sinking, to give us something to hang onto, sometimes bullshit is our only option. And sometimes we realize it's all bullshit and cannot face it any more. If we're strong enough, we ask for help. We discover that help is there. We reach out. But some people aren't that lucky. My father was physically very strong, on his way to a third degree black belt in Taekwondo, and worked as a martial arts instructor. For years after his death, I had thought if only he was as mentally strong as he had been physically, he would still be here.
My brother, sister and I all made a pact that whoever had the first Grandson would name him after our father. At least as a middle name. To keep his memory alive. When the time came and I had the first grandson, I bulked at the idea of having my son carry a name with so much sadness and grief attached to it. As consolation prize we choose Berlin as 1st son's middle name. To honor my German heritage (inherited through my father's side) and the fact my husband had lived and worked in Berlin for three years before he came to Canada and married me. It was a cop-out explained as a compromise; a skill I have perfected throughout the years.
I had my second son (and last child) and still couldn't bare to give him my father's name. I was too cowardly to face it. But my sister had a son 18 months later and did it for me.
Anything is better than the truth when you're mentally ill. My Dad's truth and my truth, too. I hide from it just as he did. I went to therapy years ago and took antidepressants that made me feel detached from the rest of the world and made me completely unable to write.
The truth is, mental illness isn't about strength. It cannot be cured with push-ups or diet or Sucking It Up Like a Man. All of that is bullshit. And I'll let you know the worst bullshit of all. That I think to myself: "I went through today doing perfectly normal, mundane things and that makes me a perfectly normal person." Because I am normal and struggling with mental illness. And it's a struggle that shouldn't be happening in silence.
To all of you who are struggling, I want to say this.
You have a voice. You are worthwhile. You are unique and deserve to be here. You deserve happiness. Speak up, reach out and that action: that one action of using your voice and speaking, which I know, I know is terrifying, because what if you speak up and no one hears you? What if it just echoes into an endless scream? For me, that was the unbearable, un-dislodgeable thought. And that was (and still is) the Depression talking.
No. Using your voice can only make things better. Because the worst things, the most insidious things? Those are part of your illness. Speaking up will become easier as you do it, I promise you that. Removing the silence is the first way to distinguish yourself from your disease. It is part of you, don't let it take all of you. There are ways to live with it. So that you can live.
If you don't feel ready to talk to a professional or your family, you can leave me a comment and I promise I will answer you.
I'm dedicating this post to my Dad, Randy Liebrecht. Sorry it took me so long to get here, Daddy. x
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Not really a new post
I have insomnia and I thought this Facebook exchange was funny. To be fair, I find rhyming words like "barbaric" with "hysteric" and "numeric" hysterically funny, too. So you probably shouldn't be paying attention to me. Actually, it's not so much an exchange as it is just me rambling to myself. Although I do find terms like "computer whiz" funny. He said "whiz." *snicker*
I have insomnia. I might have said that already. I did say that already...like four sentences ago. It was a long four sentences. For me. It was probably fine for you. k, I need to stop talking now. Also, I can't seem to resize this. It's really hard to read...which is ironic because it's a Snip where I admit to being über-lame with computers. Now I just rhymed "ironic" with "I'm on it" which probably doesn't even rhyme but in my head I think it does. Like when singers mispronounciate words to make them work in a song.
ETA: spellcheck has just informed me that mispronounciate isn't even a real word. Since when? I've been saying that for years.
I have insomnia. I might have said that already. I did say that already...like four sentences ago. It was a long four sentences. For me. It was probably fine for you. k, I need to stop talking now. Also, I can't seem to resize this. It's really hard to read...which is ironic because it's a Snip where I admit to being über-lame with computers. Now I just rhymed "ironic" with "I'm on it" which probably doesn't even rhyme but in my head I think it does. Like when singers mispronounciate words to make them work in a song.
ETA: spellcheck has just informed me that mispronounciate isn't even a real word. Since when? I've been saying that for years.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I'm pretty sure I can differentiate between being a Mom and becoming a Serial Killer.
I think my title needs work.
Clarification: I don't want to become a serial killer. First of all, that would require some sort of planning to even get to the "serial" stage. Which as you probably can gather from the frequency of my Blog posts - that shit ain't going to happen.
Maybe if I explain some things this wouldn't be so confusing and (more importantly) I wouldn't have cops knocking on my door intent on digging up the backyard.
A few days ago my oldest son lost his third tooth. He's been slow at losing his teeth and it's been well over a year since I last saw one. Husband and I were trying to remember how much money the Tooth Fairy normally gives. I thought for the first tooth we gave $10 since it was the first. The second one I think we gave $5. Apparently teeth depreciate in value faster than a Dodge Caravan, because with two kids in the house with mouths full of baby teeth, Husband and I decided that we should move away from bills into Coin of the Realm. In Canadian terms, that meant a paltry $2 (a toonie) was being offered up.
My husband volunteered to play the part of Tooth Fairy and came back to our bedroom looking successful, yet slightly confused, like a stockbroker with a new client (zing!) Husband had the tooth pinched between two fingers and then offered it up to me:
"Here you go," he said, as if he wasn't sure if I'd want it, but knows he doesn't want it, so is going to pass-the-buck (tooth) to me.
"Why would I want that?" I ask him.
"Don't you save these?"
"Um, no."
"Yes, you do. Right here. 'My First Tooth.' It says what's inside right on the box." Husband takes off the lid of the box to confirm his victory. Nestled inside is the incriminating tooth.
"That's for the first tooth. I need that one."
"Why?"
There it was. The question I never even asked myself. Why did I need Baby's First Haircut clippings and why did I periodically go through my sons Baby Books and fudge information about what jarred baby food they first tried and when?
Obviously it's all in case I'm asked the skill-testing question of Ultimate Motherhood: "Did you save your children's first teeth in the requisite First Tooth boxes?" I can say: "yes, of course I did. Here they are. I held onto them for all these years just hoping someone would ask me about them. Finally someone did. Thank you."
"I'm not going to save every tooth," I reassured my husband. "That's something a serial killer would do."
"Serial killers keep baby teeth?" Husband asked.
"No, but they keep trophies and sometimes that's like a ring from the victim, but a lot of times it's body parts." I read Criminal Library. I felt very authoritative on this matter.
"Not even a serial killer would keep a full mouth of teeth." Husband declared.
"What about mobsters? They might knock all the teeth out and take them just to prevent the victim from being identified. Plus, what about the Jeffrey Dahmer types? They decapitate and keep the whole head. With teeth." I added, in case it wasn't totally obvious.
"You're sick..."
"I'm not the one that's doing it! That's what I'm trying to tell you! I'm within the realms of socially acceptable behavior by keeping the first tooth. To keep like twenty teeth strung on a necklace would make me criminally insane! Plus, you offered that tooth to me! You didn't mind me collecting them, but now that I point out how serial killerish that would be, you're suddenly saying how sick I am?! What the hell, dude?!"
"Okay, sorry. Sheesh...so I should just put this in the garbage then?"
"Please."
And that's the story of how I figured out that I'm merely a Mom and not a mass murderer after all. Some people might question why I even need to try to figure shit like this out, but seriously? It's good to know.
Clarification: I don't want to become a serial killer. First of all, that would require some sort of planning to even get to the "serial" stage. Which as you probably can gather from the frequency of my Blog posts - that shit ain't going to happen.
Maybe if I explain some things this wouldn't be so confusing and (more importantly) I wouldn't have cops knocking on my door intent on digging up the backyard.
A few days ago my oldest son lost his third tooth. He's been slow at losing his teeth and it's been well over a year since I last saw one. Husband and I were trying to remember how much money the Tooth Fairy normally gives. I thought for the first tooth we gave $10 since it was the first. The second one I think we gave $5. Apparently teeth depreciate in value faster than a Dodge Caravan, because with two kids in the house with mouths full of baby teeth, Husband and I decided that we should move away from bills into Coin of the Realm. In Canadian terms, that meant a paltry $2 (a toonie) was being offered up.
My husband volunteered to play the part of Tooth Fairy and came back to our bedroom looking successful, yet slightly confused, like a stockbroker with a new client (zing!) Husband had the tooth pinched between two fingers and then offered it up to me:
"Here you go," he said, as if he wasn't sure if I'd want it, but knows he doesn't want it, so is going to pass-the-buck (tooth) to me.
"Why would I want that?" I ask him.
"Don't you save these?"
"Um, no."
"Yes, you do. Right here. 'My First Tooth.' It says what's inside right on the box." Husband takes off the lid of the box to confirm his victory. Nestled inside is the incriminating tooth.
"That's for the first tooth. I need that one."
"Why?"
There it was. The question I never even asked myself. Why did I need Baby's First Haircut clippings and why did I periodically go through my sons Baby Books and fudge information about what jarred baby food they first tried and when?
Obviously it's all in case I'm asked the skill-testing question of Ultimate Motherhood: "Did you save your children's first teeth in the requisite First Tooth boxes?" I can say: "yes, of course I did. Here they are. I held onto them for all these years just hoping someone would ask me about them. Finally someone did. Thank you."
"I'm not going to save every tooth," I reassured my husband. "That's something a serial killer would do."
"Serial killers keep baby teeth?" Husband asked.
"No, but they keep trophies and sometimes that's like a ring from the victim, but a lot of times it's body parts." I read Criminal Library. I felt very authoritative on this matter.
"Not even a serial killer would keep a full mouth of teeth." Husband declared.
"What about mobsters? They might knock all the teeth out and take them just to prevent the victim from being identified. Plus, what about the Jeffrey Dahmer types? They decapitate and keep the whole head. With teeth." I added, in case it wasn't totally obvious.
"You're sick..."
"I'm not the one that's doing it! That's what I'm trying to tell you! I'm within the realms of socially acceptable behavior by keeping the first tooth. To keep like twenty teeth strung on a necklace would make me criminally insane! Plus, you offered that tooth to me! You didn't mind me collecting them, but now that I point out how serial killerish that would be, you're suddenly saying how sick I am?! What the hell, dude?!"
"Okay, sorry. Sheesh...so I should just put this in the garbage then?"
"Please."
And that's the story of how I figured out that I'm merely a Mom and not a mass murderer after all. Some people might question why I even need to try to figure shit like this out, but seriously? It's good to know.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The most useless person in the world
...is me. I admit it. I recently had my speakers die a grim death on my desktop computer. No music as I type, no youtube, I can't play movies, it's awful. I will stay in this shattered state until someone comes to save me. Oh, people have tried to help me, good people. But all to no avail, because I have no idea what they are talking about.
Do you have a flat screen monitor? First check your monitor as a lot LCD monitors have basic speakers built in. If not, then do you need 5.1 sound, i.e. do you need rear speakers? This requires that the computer supports 5.1, which most desktop do and some high end laptops do. If not, then you have a choice of either 2.1 (two desk speakers and a separate subwoofer) which will give more bass but needs extra cables lying around and cost more. Or basic stereo speakers which would be cheaper and neater.
He's trying to talk to me, I just know it.
Here's what you have to do:
1) tell me what I need. What size, what brand, what price.
2) tell me where to find it (Wal-Mart, Best Buy, Joe's "blow your speakers UP!" Electronics)
3) spell things phonetically so I sound like I actually know what I'm talking about. (Bose? What is that? Bossy? Like hose but with a "b"? I honestly do. not. know.) Since I can't pronounce it, I probably could not appreciate the intricacies of owning such a quality sound system and therefore should not buy it.
4) Write it out for me on a piece of paper with the right specs. detailed on it. I will mime to the salesperson that I am deaf to avoid them asking me follow-up questions regarding my sound system needs.
5) Why would a deaf person want speakers? This is the beauty of the whole harebrained scheme. See, as I came into the shop embarrassed by my lack of of tech. savvy, a salesperson would risk embarrassment by asking such a question to a physically handicapped person (insert derisive laughter) - well played.
6) stand there until salesperson hands me speakers and steers my arm towards the till with a slackjawed expression on my face.
7) purchase required speakers
8) purchase a green jack to connect to said speakers so that I know what at least one cord connecting to the computer is supposed to be for.
9) wait for husband to come home and put it all together for me.
10) I am victorious! I am woman hear me...well, actually hear me sound pretty ashamed of being a woman, a member of the human race, or anything. But let's not listen to me; listen to some fine tunes on these brand-new speakers!
Yes, I am that useless. "A word to the wise ain't necessary, it's the stupid ones who need the advice." - Bill Cosby.
There's no such word as "ain't" Bill Cosby. But other than that? Point taken, Bill. Point taken.
Do you have a flat screen monitor? First check your monitor as a lot LCD monitors have basic speakers built in. If not, then do you need 5.1 sound, i.e. do you need rear speakers? This requires that the computer supports 5.1, which most desktop do and some high end laptops do. If not, then you have a choice of either 2.1 (two desk speakers and a separate subwoofer) which will give more bass but needs extra cables lying around and cost more. Or basic stereo speakers which would be cheaper and neater.
He's trying to talk to me, I just know it.
Here's what you have to do:
1) tell me what I need. What size, what brand, what price.
2) tell me where to find it (Wal-Mart, Best Buy, Joe's "blow your speakers UP!" Electronics)
3) spell things phonetically so I sound like I actually know what I'm talking about. (Bose? What is that? Bossy? Like hose but with a "b"? I honestly do. not. know.) Since I can't pronounce it, I probably could not appreciate the intricacies of owning such a quality sound system and therefore should not buy it.
4) Write it out for me on a piece of paper with the right specs. detailed on it. I will mime to the salesperson that I am deaf to avoid them asking me follow-up questions regarding my sound system needs.
5) Why would a deaf person want speakers? This is the beauty of the whole harebrained scheme. See, as I came into the shop embarrassed by my lack of of tech. savvy, a salesperson would risk embarrassment by asking such a question to a physically handicapped person (insert derisive laughter) - well played.
6) stand there until salesperson hands me speakers and steers my arm towards the till with a slackjawed expression on my face.
7) purchase required speakers
8) purchase a green jack to connect to said speakers so that I know what at least one cord connecting to the computer is supposed to be for.
9) wait for husband to come home and put it all together for me.
10) I am victorious! I am woman hear me...well, actually hear me sound pretty ashamed of being a woman, a member of the human race, or anything. But let's not listen to me; listen to some fine tunes on these brand-new speakers!
Yes, I am that useless. "A word to the wise ain't necessary, it's the stupid ones who need the advice." - Bill Cosby.
There's no such word as "ain't" Bill Cosby. But other than that? Point taken, Bill. Point taken.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I want a lesbian financial adviser...
Times are hard, life is tough, proverbs are rampant.
So I would really like a lesbian financial adviser to get me through it all. Why a lesbian? Because they are awesome and they tend to be rich. Let's look at a few examples of great lesbians.
Rosie O'Donnell
Wanda Sykes
Portia de Rossi and Ellen Degeneres
Oprah Winfrey
And I know what you're thinking, because I thought the same thing. None of these women are finanical advisers. I know, that's why I said I needed a lesbian financial adviser. But they all share a few common traits. Noteably they are all actresses and talk-show hosts. And I know you're going to say that Oprah Winfrey isn't even out of the closet yet. I know, right? It's like she's trying to make this difficult for me.
Why pick a lesbian for a financial adviser? Because they are smart, honest and trustworthy. No Goldman Sachs Lloyd Blankfein running around in $8000 suits (who do you think paid for that suit? That's right, you did, smart invester.)
Instead I'd love the butch lesbian adviser, preferably one that looks like Christine Marinoni. Basic hair, no make-up, totally a kick-ass environmental activist and engaged to the lovely Cynthia Nixon. And you know how when you see a lesbian couple and wonder who will wear the pantsuit for the wedding ceremony and who will wear the dress? I totally think Cynthia will be in the dress and Christine in the pantsuit. Just remember I called it. Also, sometimes I think how pretty some lesbians really are, and which ones I would be attracted to if I didn't love wiener. Invariably, I pick the Portia de Rossi lesbian, which means if I were to marry Portia de Rossi, I'd be the one in the pantsuit.
Somehow, that doesn't surprise me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Making homemade wine
I assume that women initially suggest the making of homemade wine as most men I know like beer a lot more than wine. And it's a couples thing to do, isn't it? If you thought of a single man or woman bottling wine by themselves, it would seem like a sad act, done alone in a dingy basement with only the cats for company. If a single guy or girl started talking about bottling 47 bottles of Merlot over the weekend, they would be looked on with pity and thought to be a complete alcoholic/sad loser type.
Making homemade wine is strictly a Romantic Couple thing to do because a bottle of wine invokes the image of two people in love, bonding and chatting together during the bottling process, riding bicycles together on warm summer nights. When it finally comes time to drink the fruits of your collective labour, it makes sense to have a romantic, candlelight dinner where your inhibitions lower as quickly as the bottle does.
So now it's a thinly veiled way to say that you got laid this weekend to your co-workers on Monday.
"What did you and your wife do this weekend, Phil?"
"Oh, we bottled some wine and then I grilled some steak, nothing much," (this followed by the memory of trying to undress your partner as if struggling to remove cellophane from some large product.)
Ah, good times.
And that's all well and good. Shag on, my friends. Shag on. Until you get to this next stage.
I find it hard to believe that you're going to make 422 bottles of wine and over the course of the next year or so have 422 drunken, wistful, candlelit sessions together. Seems a rather elaborate and long-drawn-out way to get laid.
And because I have at least three separate close family members who do make their own wine, I can tell you exactly what they do with it.
They try to give it away.
Fuck no.
Now you had to go and get me involved in your love/wine-making sessions and I have to tell you, I want no part of it.
I have to admit, I am mystified by the whole wine-making phenomena. I mean, I totally do not understand it. If you really like wine, would you not prefer quality wine? I know I do. And I'm not talking about expense here because a bottle of Naked Grape is under $10 and it's delicious. My "high class choices" are no more than $20 because I have learned I cannot tell the difference between a bottle of $15 Wolf Blass Yellow Label and a $100 bottle of some French Reserve wine from 1993.
That being said, I can tell a bottle of homemade wine (only cost $1.27 to make!) and what I privately refer to as real wine a mile away. And no matter how nice your family and friends are about it, your wine really isn't that good, I have to tell you. Plus, buying a kit at a wine shop isn't like owning a vineyard, so please stop telling everyone how much better your homemade wine is from every other homemade wine in the world because all of you shop at the exact same place and the variations of your wine are all strikingly similar (read: vile.)
Other people are taking it because it's free and it's alcohol, which makes it a win/win combination in
And if you wine makers don't do it for the taste, why are you all so effing snobby about it? Especially about Blush wine (not real wine.) Oh, like your cheap crap is? And that I should be ashamed that I brought those bottles of Arbor Mist to the party and it was in poor taste for me to spout: "Arbor Mist, drink two bottles and you'll be Arbor pissed."
Maybe you were just seething with resentment that even the blush was gobbled up faster than your rubbish homemade stuff, which you were stiffly and pointedly drinking from your own glass as if personally affronted that anyone should bring an offering of wine made from someplace that actually knows what its doing (yeah, I wouldn't normally consider sugar-coated, 6% alco-pop wine in this category, but compared to homemade? You left me no choice.) Oh, and you made a label for your "bottling company" on your computer that is some clever variation of your combined couple name, initials or similar. Marvelous, darlings. Your wit is as dry as your wine and with the same bitter aftertaste.
The absolute worst offense is that in retaliation for anyone offering real wine anywhere, is for you people to cart around several bottles of your homemade stuff to any social gathering or family function you can, even if said person throwing the gathering has made it clear that they have a fully stocked wine cellar, their own bar filled with hard liquor and a beer fridge.
Why? Why do you do this? Then you leave a bottle or two behind (only 419 bottles left to get rid of, hurray!) and I have to tell you, trying to find takers to get that swill out of my house is like trying to convince someone to swallow condoms filled with cocaine and go meet Servio in Guatemala for me. I have even shamelessly tried to press these "forgotten" bottles on the most drunken and indiscriminating of my friends at the end of an evening with no takers.
"Kim, you take it. You drink white wine." (As if I don't.)
"What ish it? Ugh, you know, I can't even *think* about drinking wine right now, plus my husband doesn't drink wine and I don't have room in my fridge for it and I am about to take up religious vows so I wouldn't be partaking in spirits...or maybe I'm about to become a Ghost Hunter and I'm thinking of those spirits. God, I love that show. Those inferred red (christ, I'm drunk) infrared thermal imagining scans where you see the ghosts moving in an empty room are awesome. They freak me out. So anyway, I think I see my cab coming three blocks down so I better figure out how to tie my shoes. Oh, I'm wearing flip flops, that's funny. Ha ha ha, that's so funny. So although it's a kindly offer, no, don't try to pawn this shit off on me, thank-you-very-much."
Damn. Totally understandable. But damn. So now we wouldn't be trying to pawn that shit off me now either, will we?
We can all breathe a little easier now.
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