Filed under: Food/Drink, Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, country clubs, exclusion, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, teens, Virginia
The other night I had the dubious honor of being invited to a corporate reception/wine tasting class at an exclusive, men’s-only club Downtown. The day before the event, we received an email detailing suggested arrival times and dress code: coat and tie for the men, no dress code for the women.
Did this mean the members don’t care what the women wear? Doubt it. Did it mean they weren’t going to touch that topic with a ten-foot-pole? Probably. Or, did it mean they secretly want the women in attendance to dress like Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman in her high heels, mini-skirt and tank top? Bingo—that’s my guess. But, in the interests of keeping the peace, I threw on old faithful—the black cocktail dress and heels.
There is something about the smell of a men’s club (that being the only the men’s club I’ve been in) that reeks of exclusion. The scents of old cigar smoke, office breath, and bourbon were in the walls, carpets and the few uncomfortable chairs provided in the lobby. Portraits of the Great White Fathers hung from the walls—of course, special preference was given to our Confederate leaders.
As I perused the volumes of “Harvard Classics,” prominently displayed in aging china cabinets, I had the almost uncontrollable urge to strip out of the dress, breathe onto the highly-polished bar counter and draw smiley faces in the condensation with my finger. Thankfully, they opened the buffet, so everyone was spared.
While we didn’t stay for the wine tasting class due to our kids’ sports commitments, for me the evening was an experience in observing a social era passing by. In an age of excessive bullying and rabid discussions over tolerance, exclusion should no longer be a privilege, but it was pretty cool to get a glimpse into that world.
Later that night, when I was trying to explain the event to Daughter #2, I was preparing to finish my story with a moral lesson on exclusion, racism and misogyny, when Daughter #2 broke in.
“Mom?’ she asked.
“Yes,” I said, waiting for my moment to launch into a teachable moment.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “They were teaching a class on how to be alcoholics?”
Sigh…
Filed under: Food/Drink | Tags: adulthood, bourbon, football, humor, Middle-Age, south, southern, subourbonmom
I don’t know how it escaped me, but I recently learned that September is National Bourbon Month, celebrating bourbon as America’s “Native Spirit.” How ironic–because of genetics, America’s true natives can’t hold their liquor. In 2007, Senator Jim Bunning of Kentucky sponsored the bill that was, not surprisingly, unanimously approved.
So, to honor this most sacred of months, I decided to celebrate in my own ways:
Whereas Congress declared bourbon as `America’s Native Spirit’ in 1964, making it the only spirit distinctive to the United States; To honor the Native Spirit, I decided to have a drink or two while sitting on the lawn with a couple of other moms at an Imagine Dragons concert, supervising our teenage daughters as they navigated the creepy world of older boys and men playing “guess how old they are.” It was how I imagine a Native American story-telling evening might have been spent (because I watched Dances with Wolves way too many times) if they had massive speakers, electric guitars and huge screens so the neighboring tribes could complain about the noise for miles around. We didn’t smoke pipes, but we did sit with our fellow elders, solve most of the world’s problems, and clap and dance along with the music. However, unlike our Native Sons, my European genetics let me hold my liquor all too well, until I got sleepy. I believe I snored most of the way down I-95.
Whereas the history of bourbon-making is interwoven with the history of the United States, from the first settlers of Kentucky in the 1700s, who began the bourbon-making process; To honor our bourbon-brewing forefathers who left the east coast for the freedom to brew tax-free in the mountains, I recently sampled some bourbon that was dis-“stilled” far, far away from any liquor store. I like corn, and I like water, the two most important ingredients in bourbon. Unfortunately, what I drank tasted like these were the ONLY ingredients—with maybe a cup or two of rubbing alcohol thrown in. But it was tax-free!
Whereas bourbon has been used as a form of currency; This one was easy—I had a bottle of Woodford Reserve with a Kentucky Derby label on it made into a lamp for my mom for Christmas—so much better than a gift card!
I have also used bourbon drinks to trade for food and other drinks at tailgates. It is not unheard of for my voice to carry over the din of the football crowd rasping, “I’ve got an extra cup here if you’ll share your chips and salsa.” Bourbon can also be used as currency to punish fellow tailgaters who insist that women in their 40’s somehow lose their ability to do shots. For the record, we don’t lose our ability–we lose our stupidity. However, sometimes one must step up to the plate and prove, once again, that taking a bourbon shot in the Redskins parking lot is not just a man’s prerogative. With the bet announced, bourbon has occasionally cost a doubter some cash, or at least a few homemade cookies.
I’m also stockpiling bourbon and other bottles of alcohol (at least that’s what I tell people when they get a glimpse of my liquor cabinet) for the demise of the modern world. If the American dollar ever fails, I will be a survivor. My wounds will also be clean.
Whereas generations have continued the heritage and tradition of the bourbon-making process, unchanged from the process used by their ancestors centuries before;” The processes may not have changed all that much, but our drinking habits have. I’ve been known to drink out of a mason jar (now I have fancy ones with a hole through the lid for a straw), but I prefer Bourbon Slushies and the one I like to call, “Give Me My Figgin’ Bourbon” (see https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/mint-juleps-and-other-signs-of-spring/ for the recipe). Now that I’m in my 40’s, and antacids are a regular part of my diet, I have learned to be kinder to my body. I sip instead of slam, and regularly doctor my drinks up to fool my brain into thinking its just another form of dessert.
So enjoy National Bourbon month, and let me know how you plan to celebrate our Native Spirit!
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Sports | Tags: adulthood, bull riding, country life, county fairs, humor, Middle-Age, rodeo, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, teenagers, truck pulls, trucks
This weekend I spent the afternoon being the “Parent on Premises” for Daughter #2 and her friends at our local fair. Like lots of small county fairs, there were the usual pens of 4-H animals, sketchy carnival rides that I can’t even look at anymore without getting nauseous (ghosts of funnel cake past), pig races and truck and tractor pulls. The scents of kettle corn and fresh-cut grass immediately took me back to the years I spent in painted-on Jordache jeans, trolling the county fair for boys on whom I could practice (what would later become) my barfly stare; knotted bracelets transported me back to the tents where I would peruse cheap jewelry made from “real shark’s teeth,” and hair clips.
These days, the teenagers are still trolling, the jeans are still tight (only now they have a fashionable name for it—“Skinny Jeans”), and there are still booths selling cheesey jewelry. Not much may have changed, but I realize now how much I missed with my teenaged tunnel vision. There was an entire world of gut-churning, fist clenching tension and excitement out there that I never knew about.
The Truck Pull
If horse racing is the sport of kings, truck pulls are the farmer’s equivalent. For the first time, I paused long enough to watch the truck pull. Once I was standing on the hill looking at the red dirt track, I couldn’t walk away. There was something visceral about the growling engines as they forged ahead and made the earth rumble and shake under my feet, the same way the pounding of racehorses down the stretch gave me goose bumps. Even the run-up to each competitor’s attempt had its own tension, like horses entering the starting gate. Once the truck and weights were connected, there was a pause.
The driver gunned his engine.
Smoke billowed, and I could feel the pistons churning in my chest. Adrenaline shot through me, even though I was nothing more than a suburban mom trying to take pictures with her iPhone. It made me want to run out to my Highlander and start 4-wheeling all over the parking lot.
But that wasn’t the only visceral experience I had that day. Late in the afternoon I caught the last bull riding competition. It wasn’t anything fancy like PBR that you see on t.v., but this tiny corner of extreme sports had its own atmosphere, complete with “I wanna be a cowboy, baby” by Kid Rock booming in the background. Mud flew into my camera as bull after bull exploded from the shoot. I stood against the rail amid a crowd of cowboys, wanna-be cowboys, skanks, and yuppies walking around with the Jack Russell terriers on leashes—all cheering and secretly hoping for blood.
We waited, standing on tip-toes to get a better view as the riders got situated, and held our breaths when the rodeo crew swung open the gate. As the bulls exploded from the shoot, the crowd was silent until the cowboy fell into the mud.
The first rider fell off immediately and hobbled back to the gate clutching his groin. It was already better than NASCAR—things were turning in more than one direction, the audience was constantly being sprayed with debris, and the riders were lucky to finish at all. No caution flag there. I’d like to see Kyle Busch try sitting on top of a half-ton of twisting, bucking, hopping bull—I don’t think he’d be in any kind of shape to be picking so many fights on Pit Road if he did.
The second bull somehow got busy in the shoot and fell over, tangling himself in the rails. Although I could practically see the PETA people swiping their phones as they speed-dialed their lawyers, the bull was fine and hauled himself back up without help. This was almost as good as the NFL—watching that bull get back up was like watching an offensive lineman get to his feet after a play—a lot of head shaking and swaying rump.
When the bull riding was over the crowd filtered away, off to gobble more funnel cakes, fried pickles and homemade ice cream. I stayed by the ring and pried my hands from the rails.
I was tired, and invigorated at the same time. I had a hard time going to sleep that night, even after a full day of sun.
I guess the old saying is true: you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the girl. I may have spent the last twenty years away from country fairs and truck pulls, but the country didn’t stay away from me.
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: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Anger Management, family, Fishing, humor, Meditation, Middle-Age, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, travel
Early morning on Kerr Lake
Fishing, like golf, or the television show Survivor, pares people down to their basic personality traits. Unfortunately like golf and Survivor, it often does this in the company of others; even more often, it does this in the company of good friends or family. This past week, I was with my family on our annual vacation to Kerr Lake, on the border of North Carolina and Virginia. The fishing is never very good (rather, we aren’t ever really good at it), but this year, Hubby decided he was going to embrace fishing like he does everything else—with enthusiasm that is infectious and fun, and with a competitive nature that could turn even the most relaxed morning into a crazed, smack-talking showdown worthy of the WWF.
Every day, Hubby and I rose at 6:00, made coffee, and woke up my brother. It was the highlight of my day, standing at the window, looking out at the mist rising off the water as Hubby, my brother and I did the coffee dance around the spoons, milk, sugar and creamer, all the while trying not to flinch at the open bottles of bourbon and rum sitting on the counter from the night before.
Anticipation.
Calm.
Quiet.
The only sounds outside were the crowing of a rooster nearby and the slapping of our shoes on the dirt path to the dock. Herons let out their primordial screeches as they sought new perches when we intruded. Swirls erupted on the surface of the water.
And the tournament began…
For two days the fishing was good—a few bass, a crappie, a few catfish and a perch. Hubby was thrilled with his catches, and kept a running tally in his head for size, number caught, etc. My brother declared he’d brought prizes for the most fish caught, biggest fish, and a consolation prize. There was a spirited discussion whether the catfish that landed on the dock but jumped off the hook and the dock counted (it did), and whether fish counted if they we were too lazy to learn how to clean them (they didn’t).
So, Hubby and I learned to clean fish.
The last day did not bode well. We were all tied up, and the tension was mounting. Maybe I was tired. Maybe the fishing Gods had had enough of our greed. Maybe it was the rain. Whatever the reason, something inside of me snapped.
First, my brother had a huge fish on his line, reeling it in. His pole was nearly bent in half, and I could see the excitement in his eyes. Just as he got it to the boat, Moby Dick swam underneath it and jumped off. My brother let out a string of curses I’d only ever heard him say in pain or extreme anger. He sat down in misery.
“I can’t believe it got away,” he mumbled. “I can honestly say that was the biggest fish I’ve ever had on my line before.”
A nice sister would have patted his shoulder, said something mildly consoling and kept on fishing, letting him gather up his enthusiasm to continue.
Not me.
“Well, it’s too bad you weren’t man enough to land it,” I said.
Both he and Hubby stared at me in disbelief. I heard what I’d said and couldn’t believe it, either. Who was this person I’d become? I knew neither of them would have ever said the equivalent to me. I apologized and tried to say some platitudes, but they fell flat, and for good reason.
Later, both Hubby and my brother pulled in fish at the same time while I drove, rod cradled in my arm (I still hadn’t even had a nibble). From somewhere deep inside, anger welled up and I snarled, “I hate both of you!” (Okay, there was a curse word in there, too, but I try to keep these clean). Both men turned around and stared at me, probably wondering if I’d been back on the sauce since we went to bed, then went back to landing their fish. For the rest of the day, that phrase was repeated over and over again, sometimes with a shake of the head, sometimes just because they knew I was embarrassed. Gotta love the family.
Usually, fishing calms and soothes me, even when I’m with others. I don’t know what happened that day, but I turned into the John MacEnroe of the bass world. I like to think I was tired, but after realizing that other people’s basic personalities were showcased when they were fishing (my brother is quiet and supportive, Hubby is competitive but fun, both daughters are very empathetic and pleaded to set the fish free), I am beginning to think I’m just not a very nice person.
The others have gone back home, and I’ve just finished cleaning up the house. I think it’s time to go back down to the water and try to recapture the person I used to be when I fished for hours by myself, meditating through the monotony of casting and reeling. There is a time for competition, and I’ll bring it next year, but until then, it’s time to put away the jet ski, grab myself an iced tea and remember why I love the being on the lake so much.
Maybe fishing isn’t a reflection of the person you are. Maybe it’s a reflection of what you’re bringing to the lake when you arrive. Either way, I have some work to do. Whether it’s internal, or my crazy “subourbon” schedule is making crazy, I’m looking forward to my fishing lobotomy.
Subourbon Mom 