Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, bourbon, drinking, emotions, family, Food, humor, Marriage, Middle-Age, red solo cups, south, southern, subourbonmom
The other day I heard someone say “my cup runneth over.” The expression (which comes from Psalms 23:5) means having more than enough for your needs. Well, I’ve begun to think we all have cabinets full of cups, but not all cups have good things in them—some of them are delicious, and some are just nasty. Too bad those things aren’t kept in shot glasses.
We all have the cup of good luck and good times, which I like to picture as a flute of champagne, bubbling over the rim onto a dinner jacket or down the front of a cocktail dress, especially at weddings and celebrations (for celebrators on a budget, make it pink Asti Spumante). It makes us happy and laugh a lot, and dance inappropriately at weddings—best of all, it rarely leaves a stain.
The cup of jealousy is a no brainer–crème de menthe. It’s a vile shade of green, and can even ruin something as sweet as vanilla ice cream.
The cup of anger can be filled with lots of things, but my choice would be beer. There might be some arguments, but hear me out. Beer makes people loud, and sometimes aggressive. If beer drinkers don’t get aggressive, they get tired and go to bed before the party’s over. When someone’s red solo beer cup is too full, the beer slops out over the edge and onto someone else’s flip flops, pickup truck, or stadium seat. It leaves a sticky residue that stays around for a long time (have you ever smelled a fraternity house?) and makes your shoes squeak, reminding you of what happened. And when you try to empty your red solo cup by drinking it, beer makes you feel bloated inside, and keeps you up all night when you finally break the seal and try to let it out.
The energy cup is filled with…what else? Coffee! When your coffee mug overflows it’s annoying–probably as annoying as you are to those whose cups are only half-full. It’s even more annoying when you spill a $4 cup from Starbucks–then you’re annoying and out $4.
The cup of youthful sex is filled with peach schnapps or Boones Farm. Lots of people drink it when they’re younger, and never really get over the experience. Their stomachs still curdle at the memories.
The cup of mature sex is bourbon, in a highball glass—sometimes it makes you laugh, sometimes it makes you loud, and sometimes it makes you sleep when you’re done emptying it.
We also have the cup of love, which for me would be filled with hot chocolate—it’s warm, sweet and makes you feel happy and full inside. It also helps you sleep at night.
Everybody has a cabinet full of cups, and at one point or another, they all runneth over. When it happens, choose wisely who you spill the contents on—friends don’t mind a little beer every now and then, people will laugh and grab you into a giddy hug when you spill your champagne, and most folks will be okay when your hot chocolate runneth over, because even your residual chocolate tastes good when they suck it out of their favorite shirt.
Cheers!
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: 4th of July, adulthood, bourbon, family, humor, Lord of the Rings, Middle-Age, party, small talk, south, southern, subourbonmom
Someone told me this weekend at a 4th of July party that guests who go to Bill Gates’ house are asked to fill in a questionnaire about their likes and dislikes regarding music and art. The guest is then given a microchip on a necklace to wear, and when they go into any room, the music they like will play, and the art they prefer will be on the walls via computer screen.
At first I was marveling at the technology and thinking how cool that would be; however, I quickly realized three things:
- A home should reflect your tastes, not your guests’ (our tastes revolve around modern sculptures made from piles of flip flops by the door and piles of dirty laundry in the hallway);
- I like experiencing new things, including new music and art (how else would I have discovered Robyn Thicke’s peppy and weirdly cougar-ish song “Blurred Lines?”);
- It’s healthy and interesting to be exposed to new people and new ideas—you don’t have to like them, but it breaks you out of your comfortable bubble of consistency and familiarity (suburbia).
The third lesson was reinforced at this same party when I met a man named…let’s call him Frodo, to protect this man for reasons you’ll soon discover.
Courtesy of lotr.wikia.com
Within moments of arriving, Frodo stood out from the rest of the middle-aged parents/lawyers/accountants and their teenaged offspring that were sweating, talking shop, and drinking lager beer and wine. Wearing trendy eyeglasses and the requisite khakis and golf shirt, Frodo looked something like a hobbit with reddish wavy hair, big feet, and pale skin. He was younger than most of the adults and older than the teens, but had the energy and enthusiasm of a child—and most impressive, his voice carried even farther than mine.
After making our introductions, Hubby and I sat back and simply absorbed the energy coming off of this quirky weapons software developer. Our conversations ranged from the likelihood of anyone surviving a bad plane crash (He informed Daughter #2, who hates flying, not to worry–she would be instantly vaporized because her body is 97% water and water has a boiling point of 212 degrees—clearly he doesn’t have kids), to gravity and sugar rates in the distillation of various bourbons, to his garbled theory on why Merryll Lynch didn’t fail (hubby called him out on that one—Hubby is in finance and wouldn’t let it go), to what kind of people aliens are most likely to abduct. Several times Frodo mentioned doing “covert” operations, but I refused to bite on that one.
As he spoke, I kept envisioning the Ring of Power drawing him to the dark side—it wasn’t hard to picture this man disappearing into the night and arguing with Golem, or using his vast knowledge and imagination to fight an army of Orcs and trolls. However, by midnight I was exhausted and just hoping he would take it off and make himself invisible. I wanted to ask him if he’d been to Mordor, but thought better of it (he didn’t have a sword on him, but I’m pretty sure he owns one) Why ruin a good thing? He was manic, exhausting and fascinating all at the same time.
The best thing about meeting Frodo was that he reminded me how varied and interesting people are. His ideas and energy were a breath of fresh air, and gave us fodder for hours of discussion the next day. So thank you, Frodo, and hopefully the aliens won’t take you before I can ask you about your covert operations next year.
Filed under: Food/Drink, Misc. Humor | Tags: bourbon, family, Food, humor, Kentucky Derby, Mint Juleps, south, southern, sports, Spring, tailgate
Spring has sprung in Virginia, and for those of you not living here, let me enlighten you as to what that means. In Virginia we go straight from sleet to 90 degrees in three days. As a result, daffodils and hyacinths pop up like whack-a-moles in every suburban garden, and all the trees bloom at once, leaving the air smelling vaguely like shrimp.
Pollen (which I used to think of as some powdery fairy dust that sticks to bee’s feet as they flit from flower to flower) becomes a yellow miasma hovering over our town like mustard gas from WWI. It covers the cars, sidewalks, and driveways so thick that my black SUV looks like a Van Gogh painting—a blurry, black and yellow bumblebee bouncing from one sporting even to another. I pop Allegra-D pills like and Oxycontin addict, and suck on my legal crack pipe, er, inhaler, just to go to the gym.
But, spring also heralds certain rituals, which I forget about each year until they happen: stinky soccer uniforms lay in heaps on the bathroom floor; there are new packs of gum in my car to chomp on during games (a last-ditch effort to keep from being THAT parent); fold-up chairs litter the trunk; saddle pads reeking of horse sweat (which daughter #2 swears is one of the best smells in the whole world—others beg to differ) lay forgotten on top of the chairs; Gatorade and white wine bottles fill the garage fridge. (That fridge is solely for the purpose of housing the many beverages we must have on hand for those days when “it’s just to nice to____________________. Let’s sit on the deck.”)
The final, end-of-spring symbol is The Kentucky Derby—that glorious first Saturday in May where 3-year-old horses come pounding down the backstretch as millions of fans and gamblers scream and cheer them on. It’s a day of joy (the bookies and winners) and tears (the unlucky gamblers and owners). It’s a day of silly hats, bow ties, and even more important, Mint Juleps.
Before I ever even liked bourbon, I knew the Mint Julep was a sacred beverage, one to be savored and evaluated each year. That golden nectar, poured over ice in a silver Jefferson cup and decorated with a mint sprig, meant the older folk weren’t watching what I was doing, and I would probably be able to steal an extra ham biscuit (or three). It also meant time stopped for a full two minutes as we watched the race.
Time stopped.
These days, I catch myself hoping time will stop, sometimes so my girls will stay the way they are, safe at home with me, and sometimes so I can just catch my breath. So this year, I’m going to hose the pollen off the porch, watch the Derby and pour myself a (second) Mint Julep. Then, I’m going to turn off the t.v. and enjoy the hum of the bees on the azaleas and the interminable drone of the neighbors’ lawn mowers.
And as I fall asleep (bourbon does that to me), time will stop again.
My personal recipe for them is a little different, modified from another recipe I got out of Southern Living (I’m sure their mixologists would be horrified):
1 tsp brown sugar
2-3 oz. bourbon
Splash of ginger ale to taste
Mint leaves
Muddle brown sugar and mint on bottom of Jefferson Cup. Add ice. Pour in whiskey, then add ginger ale to taste. Stir. Repeat.
Filed under: Sports | Tags: bourbon, commercials, Dancing, family, football, Half-Time, humor, Middle-Age, mom, NFL, Redskins, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, Super Bowl, tailgate
You know you’re getting old when you realize the half-time show and commercials during the Super Bowl are clearly not aimed at you. And yes, People-Who-Knew-Me-Back-In-The-Day, I am aware of the HUGE hypocrisy I’m about to sling, like Flacco to Anquan Boldin.
So there I sat with twenty people in my living room, excited to see what new heights of comedy the advertising community could come up with. Within five minutes, I was glancing back and forth between my 75-year-old mom and my 13-year-old daughter, trying to take their mental temperatures as I watched a larger than life make-out session on tv. Yep, nothing better than watching slimy tongues do their thing as surround sound speakers amplify the lip-smacking, sucking noises, coming from the couple on the screen. At least porn has cheesy music to cover up what no one wants to hear (so I’ve been told). My mom was pursing her lips in disapproval—no surprise there. But Daughter #2 had actually glanced up from her phone, a look of fascinated horror on her face, as if she had caught me (again) watching another episode of The Vampire Diaries.
The Half-time show was the usual spectacular light and dance extravaganza, with the same strange group of kids screaming madly at the bottom of the stage (Who are they, anyway? Professional seat fillers?). All was as expected, except that Beyonce, a beautiful girl and phenomenal singer, was wearing…a teddy? Maybe this is the reason the Grammys have put limits on the “puffy skin” exposure. But I give Beyonce full credit—she can dance and move her body in ways I never could, even at parties with way too many beers and AC/DC pounding “You Shook Me All Night Long” on the stereo. She’s amazing. Ten years ago, I probably would have been fine with it, but these days, when I’m having weekly discussions with my teenage daughters about what’s appropriate to wear, I found myself wincing with every glimpse of black lace.
Thanks for backing me up, NFL.
I could have overlooked all of that because I really enjoy the Super Bowl commercials, and all the western gluttony that they portray. And a few of them were great—the traditional Clydesdale and “God made a farmer” commercials come to mind–but the creepy, dark Budweiser commercials that tried to make a bunch of Twenty-Somethings look mysterious and sophisticated missed the mark. Chances are, those post-Twi-Hards in the ads are probably broke, still living at home, and have college degrees that are useless. And I don’t care what color you name the beer (Sapphire, Black Crown, etc.), or what sophisticated-looking label you slap on the bottle, it’s still Budweiser…the same Bud our dads drank when they were working on the car, mowing the grass or fishing.
You may ask, “Are you banning the Super Bowl?” Hell no. I’m just going to turn down the sound at half-time, put on some cheesey porn tunes (can you buy those on iTunes?), and see if I can tell the difference. I’ll still judge the commercials.
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: bourbon, Bumper stickers, carpool, cars, chipmunk, driving, family, football, humor, kharma, magnets, Middle-Age, minivans, mom, politics, south, southern, subourbonmom, SUV, tailgate
Being the parent of teens who can’t drive yet, I spend approximately half of my day in my car, driving to and from sleepovers, sporting events and subsequent visits to the orthopedist. I have become an expert at iPhone games, deciphering vanity license plates (if it takes more than 5 seconds you need to pick another one), and reading bumper stickers. It’s the bumper stickers I want to talk about.
Bumper stickers came into popularity after WWII, in the form of flags attached with wire to car bumpers, according to that bastion of nebulous truth, Wikipedia (Since I’m in my car right now I don’t have a way to verify this). Magnets have been around even longer. So why has it taken us 70 years to figure out how to make flat magnet stickers that don’t ruin your paint job?
As if FaceBook, Instagram, and SnapChat aren’t enough, we have bumper stickers/magnets for everything, announcing to the motorized world our political affiliations, accomplishments, beliefs, and travel habits. There are stickers for Republicans, Democrats, Tea Partiers, and someone named Ron Paul who I still haven’t Googled; there are pro-life, pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, pro-term limits, pro-America, anti-war, anti-Israel, anti-Islamist, anti-Christian, anti-Wall Street, and anti-gun stickers, to mention a few.
Please explain to me how, if I can watch an entire debate and still not know who I’m voting for, why you think a bumper sticker is going to make up my mind? Same thing for the religious bumper stickers–if I’ve been going to church my whole life, have read books on various world religions, and I’m still searching, do you really think that criss-cross fish thing is going to make me Born-Again?
There are Soccer Moms, Baseball Dads, Football Fanatics, and entire families made of stick figures on every mini-van and SUV. My favorite of these was one that has a parent stick figure missing, and hand-written in marker were the words “Position Vacant.” Maybe they could add stick figure step-parents by having them on a staircase; or, half-brother and –sisters by cutting the stick figures in half. The modern family defies stick figure decals.
And let’s not forget the rampant joggers and runners who brag about their marathons, half-marathons and 10k races with stickers. If I put a running sticker on my car, it would say .1K—Car to Bar Relay.
Last year I finally bought a bumper sticker. It said, “Don’t use your turn signal –keep me in suspense”—a HUGE pet-peeve of mine. Turn signals are NOT optional. I was excited to put it on until I realized no one across an intersection would be able to see it if I put it on the front of my car. So, there it sits on my kitchen counter, taunting me with the knowledge I will have to keep my snarky comments inside my car instead of telling the world how I feel. Perhaps it’s just as well. Very few people would understand a sticker that says, “1 frozen chipmunk =3 car accidents—I dare you.”
Subourbon Mom 