Sippin the Sauce

How long does a grapefruit need to sit on your desk at work before eating it will get you drunk? Just wondering.

Speaking of booze, I went to the grocery store last night to finish up my Christmas shopping in the liquor department. But lord, I didn't want anyone to think I was a boozer or anything, so I bought some yogurt. And some diet bread. Now they just think I'm single and lonely.

I never buy alcohol, because I'm married and I make my husband do that. My dowry? A lifetime of errand running and nagging. See why I was snatched up so young? So I head over to the section of the type of alcohol I'm buying (see my vagueness? Shhh. I don't want Jane to know she's getting a big azz bottle of wodka for Christmas). The choice! It's too much! How do people decide? I, of course, had a budget, so I picked the prettiest bottle for the price.

Then I had to wait in line for a long time. A looong loooong time, while all of my elementary school teachers and my pastor walked by and saw me holding the giant jug of firewater. The woman in front of me in line bought almost $900 worth of beer and wine coolers. "Wild berry," she said, "Because it's the only thing I like to drink." Well, clearly. You might want to try water sometime, no?

So I had time to get all ready, and I got out my check card and my ID, you know, in case. Of course the guy wasn't going to card me, but then he saw that I already had it out and was all, "I guess I'll take a look at that." Oh. Thanks for humoring me in my aged and decrepit state. Finally, I bought my hooch, and headed for the door. And I promptly dropped the bottle. Dropped. The giant bottle of grog. (Why yes, I did bust out the thesaurus, and I am still a nerd. Hi.) Loudly, I said, "Shit!" But, it totally bounced. It bounced? WTF. So, anyway, the bottle was fine, and I went home, and by then, yeah, I really wanted to drink some. But I didn't. The end.

Die Pee Drive

Him: Hello?
Me: Do you have the Die Hards on DVD already?
Him: No.
Me: Oh. Because I just, you know, wanted to call and learn more about you. Bye now.
Him: Um. Bye.

Also: Why does my pee always smell like Honey Smacks? TMI. Sorry.

And additionally: If you have a four-wheel drive vehicle and you meet an economy car on the street (like a Toyota Corolla, for example) and the streets are all snowy and narrow? Move the fuck over. The end.

The Quest is Complete

Six months ago or so, I remembered something. An image of a wet drum being played. Was it rain? Was it milk? Maybe even blood? I did not know. I asked my real life friends. I asked my friends from these here Internets. I looked at 5,459 You Tube videos. It wasn't Phil Collins. It wasn't Poison. It wasn't Def Leppard's one-armed drummer, no. For half a year it plagued me, and I thought about it quite often.

Until last night, when husband was torturing me by making me watch the Blue Man Group on PBS (PBS is seriously misguided if they think that I'm going to be inspired to send them money by "rewarding" me with a Blue Man Group DVD. Seriously.). And I'm screaming, "Make it stop. Dear God, make it stop now!" And then it happened. Drum stick meets wet drum. Damn. I was really hoping it was something cooler than that. Like Color Me Badd.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=os6vFuy_DiM

Me: Hey, bud, do you want to leave your socks on for bedtime, or do you want to take them off?
D: Dahhhghhh.
Me: Off. Or. On.
D: Glllahhhh.
Me: Should I take them off? Yes. Or. No. ?
D: I. Don't. Know. Mom.

Um, oh.