Rumor has it you’re not supposed to drink alone. Thank goodness I have cats. You’re never alone when you have cats.
I’m drinking wine this evening because my head hurts and because I had an emotionally draining day at work. (I suspect the one caused the other.) Why wine, rather than beer or liquor? (Liquor? I don’t even know her!) I’m not what you’d call a wine connosseur. Or a connosseuse, if we want to get the gender right in our francais. I pick my wine based on a variety of criteria, mainly
- Does it have a cute animal on the label? (Yes– a kangaroo)
Was it on sale? (Yep– 6 bucks at Farm Fresh)
Was it packaged in a box? (No– thank goodness. Don’t want anyone suspecting I grew up in a trailer park.)
This bottle here passed the three-pronged test. Haven’t drunk enough to be BWI (blogging while intoxicated). I’d say that’s a good thing, though I do so love when Marian the Librarian gets intoxicated and starts professing her love for me. (I know I shouldn’t take it personally– when she’s BWI, Marian professes love for everything with two and/or four legs, as well as legless, abstract concepts such as reading and democracy– but still.)
But anyway, I’m drinking wine because it gives me a warm tingly feeling. Beer’s nice, but I never feel all glowey from it. Liquor’s nice, but I go from sober to smashed without warning. Not a good idea for a worknight.
So I’m listening to the Violent Femmes, a group I didn’t discover until I was 25. (Hey! I am 25!… yes, well, if you didn’t have any radio reception except for 99.9 Kiss Country when you were growing up, you’d be behind the curve, too.) And I’m drinking wine, and I have a magazine of logic problems to work on, and a fabulous novel called Straight Man to finish– it’s this irreverantly funny academic humor book– and, yowza, looks like I won’t be working on my book proposal, again. Oopsie.
Last night I finished The Deluxe Transitive Vampire. As you may suspect, it’s one of those books I had to read simply because of the title. I can’t say I recommend it as a grammar book– the examples were difficult and I don’t think it improved my facility with the language– but it was filled with pictures of nekkid ladies and with sexually-charged demonic word examples. "A book to sink your fangs into," said William Saffire, who’s got to be the most uptight, conservative, narrow-minded prick of a Republican grammarian ever, but who is nonetheless smart as a whip. I think I have a crush on him, but don’t tell. (My weakness is for smart men. The weakness is debilitating to the point where I think Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia is dead sexy, in an intellectual way, e.g., the only way that matters. This is very embarassing.)
(But serioiusly– indulge me in a parenthetical here– Scalia is just brilliant. Have you read his case opinions? His interpretation of the 4th amendment makes me weak at the kness. I mean I gotta change my undies every time I hear him assault my civil liberties. Oh how I wish he batted for my team.)
I suppose I should put the wine away, slap some cold water on my face, and clean house. (Apartment. Whatever.) I’m going to have company tomorrow. Grandma and Grandpa called on Tuesday and informed me they’d be in town Thursday and Friday. This is not an everyday occurence. They live in Wisconsin.
Visits with them are always stressful, what with the not-very-veiled comments about the dignity of marriage, the joys of motherhood, and the virtues of regular church attendance. Also, they always manage to make me feel dumb. Tony Scalia, now, he could make me feel dumb and I’d come back begging for more– but I’m not keen on relatives making me feel stupid.
But hey, it’s family, and I’ll probably get a free meal out of it. Until then, I am going to brace myself with this glass of wine here.