I may or may not be drinking an entire bottle of wine tonight while I write this? So I really can’t be held responsible for the content herein. What’s that? Who can be held responsible? Probably the very nice man at the liquor store who, when I was wandering around the red wine aisles looking like a little lost lamb, asked if I needed help, and I clung to his pantleg like a kid lost at Kmart, all, “I like wine and drinking please help! Red and not bitter and I am poor thank you!” and although he LAUGHED, he didn’t MOCK, and he pointed me toward a bottle of red wine that he said they can’t keep on the shelves. Then, on my way out? I thought, what if I want to get REALLY DRUNK. Because this bottle isn’t very big. But that very nice man is over there! And if I go BACK, he might think I am a LUSH. So at the register they had a display of wine and one was very pretty and VERY pink, and listen, I LOVED Duckie when I was a teenager, and that seemed like a sign from ABOVE, so I bought THAT wine, too.
This is a very long paragraph. Here, I’ll palate-cleanse you with a couple sentences.
So because I had to work today, I thought I would wait until tonight to start drinking, ALONE, which is TOTALLY NOT AT ALL SAD, but I had two bottles of wine! So I opened the Jon Cryer wine* (not its real name) and it was AWFUL. It tasted like COMMUNION wine. Church doesn’t make me want to drink. Well, it DOES, but for the WRONG REASONS. So much for impulse buys at the register of a liquor store.
But! Tonight! I opened the wine that my little wine-salesman friend pointed me toward! And it is DELECTABLE. It’s called Roscato, and the interwebs tell me that this is an Olive Garden wine that they just started selling at wine stores. So, you know what that means? I AM THE CLASSIEST. Where are my BREADSTICKS and my BOTTOMLESS SOUP.
Anyway. I am going to kind of buzzed-blog, because why the hell NOT.
I totally had something PROFOUND and IMPRESSIVE planned for you all tonight, I really did? But then I found out I’m very ill and probably dying so I thought that would be more interesting.
There’s only half a bottle of this wine left. Why’s the bottle so small?
ANYWAY. So over at Insatiable Booksluts, they know how to put tweets in blog posts. And you know what, probably I could do that? But I don’t even know where to begin. And it seems like a LOT OF RESEARCH. So I’m just going to recap. I’m really good at that.
Tonight, I went to the grocery store, because a., I don’t shop on Sundays because of the slow-moving turtle-like old people, and b., I didn’t feel like eating a dinner consisting of canned corn and scrambled eggs (oh, and the wine, of course) and at the grocery store, there was this kid who I wanted to kidnap and kind of just keep?
He was this adorable little dark-haired kid and I’m not good at ages so probably less than 7 and more than 2. And he had little glasses, but not annoying ones like that kid in Jerry Maguire who I wanted to bop into next Tuesday. And he was in the bread aisle, which is also the HoHo aisle (I know, genius, keep the carbs all in one place) and he and his mom were there, and so was I, only not for HoHos. For BREAD. Anyway, the kid was trying to trickily trick his mom into buying him HoHos. And here is the conversation.
Kid: Mom. MOM. We should buy these.
Mom: No, I don’t think we should.
Kid: No, I saw a smart person on television eating them. So we should. Then I’d be smart.
Mom: I don’t think that’s how that works.
Kid: But you don’t KNOW.
Mom: No, you’re right. But we’re still not buying them.
Kid: Ok. Mom. MOM.
Kid: I’m not very big.
Mom: No, you’re not.
Kid: But my muscles are very big!
Mom: Yes, they’re pretty big.
Kid: Do you think they weigh as much as this box of HoHos?
Mom: I don’t really know.
Kid: If we brought it HOME, we could do TESTS and find OUT.
Mom: Yes. We could. But we’re not going to.
I WANTED TO POP HIM IN MY CART. Because he had a little PLAN! A wee little adorable PLAN, YOU GUYS!
But then when I tweeted about wanting to perform a kidnapping, I was informed by Twitter that I was not ALLOWED because at the grocery store, you’re only allowed to get what’s on the shelf. Well, tell that to the things in the stand-alone displays! They want to be purchased, too. MEAN.
ANYWAY that’s not the point. My wine glass is empty. Jesus God but why don’t these cats learn skills like refilling wine glasses?
So @edrafalko, who totally makes banjos and is my apocalypse husband? (Seriously, you need to plan ahead. You think you’re going to half-ass the apocalypse, well, have fun being zombie food.) Told me I had “aunt syndrome” once I told him I didn’t want my OWN kids, just that ONE kid, from the grocery store, hypothetically.
Well! I like knowing I have syndromes. So I got my affairs in order and was all prepared with death and such and asked him if I got the good painkillers and this is what he told me, which I’d put in the pretty Twitter format if I was awesome like a real blog or something. “Not dying. You’ll just get the urge to pinch the cheeks of every boy under 15 and give them footy pajamas for Christmas.”
What? There are SO MANY THINGS WRONG WITH THIS I CAN’T EVEN.
- Why don’t I get painkillers?
- I’m not dying? But I got my AFFAIRS IN ORDER.
- If I pinched the cheeks of all the children that would kind of make me a psychopath, and I failed that test yesterday. That seems like something that asshole Santa would do, too.
- So, children up to 14 years and 11 months would get footy pajamas from me? @edrafalko! Have you SEEN 14-almost-15-year-olds lately? They are in GANGS. They BULLY people. They are getting BLOWJOBS by pre-teen GIRLS with COLORFUL LIPGLOSSES. Don’t you watch 20/20? RAINBOW PARTIES! If I gave one of those children a pair of footy pajamas they’d just sell it for blow and a crackwhore.
- I…um, listen, I don’t want to be rude, and I’m sure YOUR child, yes, YOU, you reading this RIGHT NOW, with your…um…pretty hair…and your…um…house…with your…door in it…that should totally cover most of you, except the bald indigents – your child is probably AWESOME? But I kind of hate children, as a rule. I only like a few. The Nephew. Mer‘s son. My cousin’s kids. I don’t want to cast aspersions, because as I said, NOT YOU, but most kids are total assholes. I don’t want to touch their candy-coated gross cheeks. And footy pajamas are EXPENSIVE! I want to spend that money on MORE OF THIS WINE I’M DRINKING!
So of course I had to do all the internet research on this syndrome because I like research, and listen! Listen. @edrafalko totally MADE IT UP. I know! What the hell? Google doesn’t even KNOW about this syndrome! I don’t know whether to be offended or impressed! You can just make up a syndrome? Well, that’s a keen skill to have! I want to make up a syndrome! It is decided. I AM IMPRESSED. Who just makes up syndromes all willy-nilly like that? Well-played.
Google tells me that there is crazy aunt syndrome, though, and that it is “the consistency of successful people to have at least one crazy relative. They inherit enough of the crazy genes to be different and unique, but not enough to be actually insane.” So, I am confused, am I being called crazy? Is this like being a crazy cat lady? Is this something completely different? AM I EVER GOING TO GET THE GOOD DRUGS?
I don’t know if I want to buy footy pajamas or HoHos or if I’m a special snowflake now. I AM VERY CONFUSED.
There’s a whole half-bottle of wine left. What happens when you finish it in one night? Probably that means you win? Let’s find out. I mean, I didn’t win at psychopathing and I didn’t win at the aunt syndrome so I’m pretty sure it is MY TURN DAMMIT.