Harry Potter and the Craft-Beer Family Reunion

 You guys, I got to enjoy a pretty amazing night out this week.

Turns out I like enjoying stuff.

Well, we finally had a meet-up this week, and just in time, as it looks like the Delta variant and the large numbers of vaccine-resistant morons may be tag-teaming to put us all back in isolation. Never has a single virus so accurately identified the lowest common denominator of an entire society. Well done, SARS-CoV-2. If only you hadn't taken so many good and wise people while you were at it.

No, it's right in front of us.

I've missed my family soooo much. Other than my Precocious Daughter, I hadn't seen any of my relatives in person since before the pandemic roared to life in early 2020. I spent over a year having to encounter potentially infectious total strangers in grocery stores and at work - OK, my co-workers technically aren't strangers, but I don't know what any of these people do outside the office, and for all I know they bathe in Covid juice every day - but out of an abundance of caution I declined to expose my loved ones to any of my secondary contacts.

But I digress.

A group of six of us (seven, if you count my niece's very good doggo who is in training to be a service dog) grabbed a bite to eat and then went to a local craft beer place. Not my usual scene at all, but it had the advantage of having a huge outdoor seating area. It was quite crowded - even in non-pandemic times, I would have been twitchy at the sheer number of people jammed together, because people, ugh. Fortunately, we grabbed a table in the farthest backest corner of the place. The nearest people were eight feet away, and the majority of the crowd was considerably farther than that beyond an empty grassy area. Other than the bit where we had to weave through the sea of humanity to get to that table, I felt quite comfortable in our remote spot.

I didn't have anything to drink, because beer is not my thing. I did have a sip of what the others were having, and let me tell you - creamsicle-flavored beer is not a thing that should exist, in my opinion. Sometimes, when I wonder if I have a drinking problem, I remember the episode of "Family Ties" in which a young Tom Hanks portrays an alcoholic by chugging a bottle of vanilla extract to satisfy his craving for sweet, sweet, booze, and now I can honestly say that if I were crawling across the desert sands dying of thirst while simultaneously in the throes of the DTs, I would pass on creamsicle-flavored beer, so no I don't think I have a drinking problem, thank you very much.

This run-on sentence is brought to you by all kinds of 
questionable choices.

Anyway, we all sat and talked and had a great time being together. We also very much enjoyed the fact that we happened to be there on "Harry Potter Trivia Night." We actually had walked over to this particular watering hole because we'd heard they were doing trivia, and we thought that it might be fun to wander over and maybe participate in a few rounds, even though none of us are exactly Potterheads.

Uh, no.

This was serious business. This was a highly organized, team-based tournament of very competitive nerds. In fact, we learned that the Harry Potter trivia was the sole reason for the large crowd, and on a typical Thursday night there would have been only a small fraction of the people in attendance. So instead of being casual participants, we got to be spectators at a vastly entertaining spectacle.

This was not "What was the name of Harry's owl?"-level trivia. Oh, no. I am not kidding when I say that one of the questions required one to know that in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Harry's personal prophecy orb was located in exactly the 97th row of shelves in the Hall of Prophecy. I could have gone happily to my grave not knowing that bit of information, and I'll probably forget it long before I do, but there were people here who knew it and were deadly serious about knowing it.

On a good day I can name upwards of three Weasleys.

Now, such a dedicated bunch of half-drunk wizarding fanatics deserves an exceptional master of ceremonies. And the lady running the trivia tournament was that and more. Imagine Roz from Monsters, Inc., only spouting Harry Potter trivia and berating teams for their choice of names ("'Snapes on a Plane' is not nearly as clever as you think it is!'"). The best part is that she seemed to truly consider her role a sacred responsibility and was not having an enjoyable time at all. At one point I realized I probably sound a lot like her when I'm trying to run a lunch meeting at work. It was glorious.

At the end of the night (early, because most of us had to go to work in the morning) we all promised to get together again in August. I hope it happens. PDaughter starts her senior year of college in August, and my nephew starts a new job, and we might all be wearing masks and washing our groceries again by then anyway. But I'm hopeful, because I really love my family.

Maybe next time there will be a few more Muggles at the bar.

Collared

Now that I'm officially an empty nester...

Now that I'm approaching 100 days of sobriety...

I've returned to sewing.

All of those things deserve their own post. And eventually all may get one. But as any dirtbag blogger will tell you, thinking "I can't write about z until I've thoroughly explained about x and y" is the surest way to not write a damn thing. So be patient, Drunkards, and for now just take everything as read until I can find those other words among the tortuous clutter that is my brain-warehouse.

It just needs a bit of tidying up, honest.

I love to sew. Well, actually...I love to look at pretty fabrics and interesting sewing patterns and imagine myself wearing all the beautiful clothing I've lovingly and skillfully crafted by hand. Imagination is swell. But at some point you do have to justify the presence of hundreds of yards of fabric piled up in your bedroom by actually making something wearable out of some of it.

True Story: When I left my marriage and moved into my own place, I took little more than my clothing, a bed, a few family heirlooms...and my fabric stash. I had PRIORITIES.

Taking on sewing projects is difficult when you have to clear off the kitchen table every night for supper. When you're also in the habit of drinking a soda can's worth of straight vodka in the evening, well... Sewing requires certain skills, like handling sharp pointy things and stitching in a straight line, that are incompatible with that.

This. But no ice. Every night.
As I said, that's another post.

Anyway, with both of those issues currently out of the way (at least for now - I'm not tempting fate by saying otherwise), I've started sewing again. I've finished one top, I'm working on another, and I plan to move on to dresses that I can wear in the Spring. I do find it immensely enjoyable and a wonderful way to pass the time that, ideally, results in a practical, wearable product.

Do you know what I find to be the two hardest parts of sewing?

The first is silencing the internal monologue that ensues when I cut into a pristine piece of fabric: You should have saved this for another time a different pattern an easier project oh no you can't take it back you've ruined it FOREVER.

Me thinking about anything, really.

The other is collars.

I am so bad at collars. There are a lot of sewing techniques that can be tricky. Set-in sleeves. Zippers. Linings. I'm pretty good at all those things. But collars. Are. Maddening. Give me a top with a simple round neckline and I'm aces. Add a little flap of fabric that needs to be neat, symmetrical and look good sitting only inches from my face where everyone can see it...freaking Waterloo. I feel you, Napoleon.

I'm making a cute blouse right now, having successfully navigated the arduous process of selecting just the right fabric and just the right pattern and talking myself out of forgetting the whole thing and looking for even more fabric on eBay that I can store away for months or years without using. Yeah. Anyway, the blouse has a sort of Mandarin-style collar. It looks very simple. It is trying to kill me.

Why, it wouldn't even harm a fly.
(Cue Bernard Herrmann score)

When I'm done writing this, I'll go back to what I was doing before I started writing this, which is tearing out the collar and starting again. I do not want to do this. I want the collar to look neat and tailored and perfect. Barring that, I want to throw the entire blouse in the trash and forget it ever existed.

But I won't. Because, as often happens with hobbies when we're not looking, this damn sewing project has become a metaphor for my life. It's not perfect. It may never be perfect. And giving up on it won't change the fact that I could have made it better - not perfect, but better - if I'd kept going and tried a little harder. 

So I'm going to rip it out and start over. Maybe if I pin it differently, it will fit better. Maybe I'll end up cutting out an entirely new collar piece that works with what I've already sewn. Maybe I'll find a way to hide the fact that I'm simply unable to make it look the way the pattern says it should look. Hey, just because I'm bad at collars doesn't mean I can't make a cute top.

I don't go looking for metaphors in my daily activities. But when they're in my face and begging for recognition, I let them have it. It nearly always makes me a better person and all that crap. I'll take self-improvement where I can find it, you know?

Bur my next sewing project will definitely not have a collar. 

So and So

Check it out, Drunkards: I got my 30-day chip.

I mean, my  30-day chip.

No, no, no. My 30-day CHIP.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, as of yesterday I'm 30 days sober.

So yay, me.

And in a completely unplanned coincidence, yesterday was also the 30th anniversary of my first date with my ex-spouse. And in a holy-shit-you-couldn't-plan-this-if-you-tried twist, my ex and I had a sort-of date last night.

Totally not a date: Precocious Daughter is playing in the orchestra for her school's musical, and last night her dad and I saw the show. PDaughter had my car, and I had the tickets, so it worked out logistically that the ex picked me up at my place and we sat together in the auditorium.

So not a date.

The show was "The Little Mermaid," by the way. And it was fantastic. In particular, the young man who played Sebastian the Crab basically stole the show and also happens to totally not be PDaughter's boyfriend. I know this because I ask her every time they spend hours texting, and she always says he's not her boyfriend. Also, I asked her after the show when she introduced me to him and I took a picture of them smiling like loons together. And she said he's not her boyfriend.

So there's that.

I feel really, really good, you guys. And for the record, despite my references to 30-day chips, I am NOT, in the parlance, "going to meetings" or "working the 12 steps" or being "a friend of Bill W." Alcoholics Anonymous (probably) has helped a lot of people. And I'm a huge fan of people doing what works for them. But for me, personally, AA has three strikes against it:

1. I'm not down with the whole "giving up control to a higher power" thing. I've spent the last few years - not to mention the last 30 days - seizing control of myself, for myself. No offense to the God of my understanding, but I don't need another in a long line of father figures to chart to my course for me.

2. I don't want to sit in a room and talk to people. If you know anything about me, no further explanation is needed.

3. I'm not an alcoholic.

Don't go tripping all over yourselves to say that only an alcoholic would insist she's not an alcoholic. I'm a stupid person who stupidly developed a drinking problem. I have within me the capacity to return to said stupid behavior at any time. But I don't want to, for now. I'm enjoying being sober, I love the fact that I'm losing vodka-weight, I dig not having to sift through my brain cells every morning to figure out what I need to be embarrassed/ashamed/apologetic about from the night before.

Alcoholism is a thing. It's not my thing.

This is also not my thing, but it is extremely funny. Each to his own.

So where does that leave me?

Getting there, mainly. Getting healthy. Getting happy. Getting back to doing the things I enjoy. Getting to be part of PDaughter's senior year.

I couldn't do this without her, and Drummer Boy. And my dad, who loudly, lovingly shamed me into putting down the bottle (thank you, Daddy).

And you guys. Turns out I was lying to myself when I thought I was a better writer drunk. Maybe Hemingway actually was, but I'm not Hemingway. If you haven't figured that out.

So stick around.

When and if I make it to 60 days, I'll let you know. You'll probably know if I don't.

So.

Land of the Armed, Home of the Drunk

There's a Constitutional amendment that gives Americans the right to own guns.

There's also a Constitutional amendment that gives Americans the right to drink.

Let me say from the outset that two rights
can most definitely make a wrong.

Few question either right, although some strongly disapprove of one, the other, or both. But everyone gets to choose to exercise or abstain from their right to bear arms or knock back a cold one. That's how America rolls.

Yet despite the Constitutional mandate, the right to get your drink on is far from unrestricted. You have to be the right age. You have to be in the right place. And you definitely have to refrain from certain behaviors while under the influence.

Like driving. Or harassing/assaulting others. Or serving on jury duty.

And don't even think about combining these two Constitutional rights. IT'S A VERY BAD IDEA.

Please refer to my earlier caption.

Literally no one balks at the idea that drivers should be licensed, insured, properly trained, and subject to extensive regulation of their behavior behind the wheel.

But merely float the idea that perhaps gun ownership should incorporate similar public safeguards, and certain supporters of the Second Amendment go apeshit.

Shown here: Literal gorilla poop.

I personally don't get this. I mean, if I drink 12 shots of vodka and subsequently threaten a similarly drunken stranger with physical violence, I totally expect to be held accountable for my behavior. That's how law and order works.

According to the 57 shows bearing that name.

But if one person with a gun encounters another person with a gun, I'm supposed to have faith that one boasts moral superiority because they're a "good guy" and also because somehow their aim is automatically perfect because they believe they're John Wayne?

Yeah. So. I'm as wary of gun owners with a marksman complex as I am with drunks who insist they can "handle it."

I don't want to take away any American's rights.

I simply want to be confident that my personal right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness can't be destroyed in a split second.

I promise not to piss and moan that I can't down a handle of Smirnoff while driving down the freeway if 2A folks promise not to pretend that only pure-hearted, law-abiding citizens are able to obtain/use assault rifles.

Hi! The ability to shoot an assault rifle WAY outweighs
the lives of your loved ones! Signed, the NRA.

Right here, right now, gun people:

Tell me why the Second Amendment is inviolable to the rule of law but the Twenty-First Amendment can be abridged all to hell and gone.

Tell me why you pay a tiny group of people to advance the interests of gun ownership over all other American rights.

Tell me why you stubbornly believe that Americans have a right to self-defense, while simultaneously pushing the false narrative that a "good guy with a gun" is somehow the answer to preventing/thwarting crime in any and all settings, regardless of the danger posed to people by an untrained private citizen attempting to affect justice via a personal weapon.

Tell me why killing innocent people because I'm drunk driving is a terrible offense, but killing innocent people with a gun is somehow the price of freedom.

I'm honest to God listening.

I await your intelligent, reasoned responses.

For as long as it takes.

Today Has Been So Awesome, You Guys

A good friend messaged me this today:

"Call me when/if you stop drinking."

And I'm like, OK. Will do.

But...what does that mean?

If I wake up tomorrow and decide I'm not going to drink any more, does that count? Will you really say, "OK, we can be friends again because you've stated this decision"? Or will you  say "Yeah, fuck that, your words mean nothing"?

I totally understand.

So, what if I go a week without drinking? Does that prove to you that I've "stopped"?

If not, what about a month?

What about six months?

What if I call you one year from now and say, "It's been a year since I've had a drink."  Will that be good enough for you?

Does it need to be one year? Or two? Or five?

Do I need to call you on my death bed and say, "I definitely have stopped drinking, because I'm about to die and so you don't have to worry that I'll have another drink"?

The point is, you gave me an impossible ultimatum.

I could answer it tomorrow or when I'm 90.

Which means I interpret it as "I don't ever want to hear from you again."

So OK. You never will.

Thanks, friend.

By the way, I stopped drinking as soon as I got your message. Because you mean that much to me.

Bye.

...In The USA. Damn Right.

From the How Far Have We Come? department:

I've often thought that my Precocious Daughter is an old soul in a young body. That may be because she is a 21st-century human but also is among the last people born in the 20th century. Or maybe because she has always seemed smarter and more perceptive than her years - I'll never forget the day she complained that she was bored because her teacher kept repeating the same things over and over...in kindergarten.

Or maybe I simply admire the grace and tolerance with which she puts up with me on a daily basis.

One more way Hillary Clinton let me down.

Yet for all her poise, strength, and general shit-having-togetherness, she is still just a teenager. She doesn't know everything. I don't care how many A's show up on her report card, she is the product of her environment, and her environment at this young age is (blissfully) limited in scope.

Case in point.

Tonight we were watching TV, and a commercial came on for...I don't know, some damn pickup truck. And the soundtrack to this commercial was John Mellencamp's "R-O-C-K in the U.S.A.," which was a big hit when I was just about PDaughter's age. Because apparently I'm now the target demographic for buying big ugly pickup trucks, even though I'd drive the old dilapidated 1984 Subaru hatchback I owned in the 90s for the rest of my life before I'd drive a goddamn pickup truck.

The story of how I came to drive this sweetheart
will totally be in the book, I promise.

Anyway, PDaughter asked me, in all seriousness, "Why is it called 'rock' music? Where did the 'rock' come from?"

She wasn't kidding. She really didn't know.

WHOOOOOOOO!

Now, PDaughter has, um, been deflowered. She's experimented with certain medicinal herbs. She regularly explains memes to be that I had no idea were scandalous and/or salacious. She's no wallflower.

Yet she lacked the slightest clue how rock and roll got its name and reputation.

So, being the mom I am (DON'T JUDGE), I explained that the prhase originated in the blues community, for example, with the Trixie Smith song "My Daddy Rocks Me (With One Steady Roll)."

Eventually, black R&B culture, and subsequently white America, adopted "rock and roll" as the pet name for the new, raw musical movement that engulfed the country circa 1955 and later the world in later years.

To this day, the greatest rock 'n roll songs are about sex. And sex. And also sex.

But we owe it all to R&B and blues of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s,

John Mellencamp, bless his heart, is both entirely relevant and woefully behind in his attempt to influence young (car-buying) culture.

One steady roll?

Your opinion is more than welcome, Drunkards.

On Sharing My Divorceaversary

Tomorrow, June 14, is Flag Day (here in the USA).

As seen on "House of Cards."

On a more personal note, tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of my divorce.

I'm in a good place.

I was planning on celebrating my divorceaversary and whatnot.

With cake, perhaps.

But then I found out what else June 14 is.

It's Donald Trump's birthday.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

I realize that I only got divorced a year ago.

I know that June 14th has been Trump's birthday for much longer than that. Hell, it's been Trump's birthday for longer than it's been Flag Day.

But I've been planning to mark this milestone for a whole year. A year since I signed the papers ending a long and once-successful marriage. A year since the judge scolded me for not requesting child support (knowing that I'd spend more trying to get it than I'd ever actually receive). A year since I was able to post a life event on Facebook.

It's been a hell of a year, Drunkards. There's been good, there's been bad, there's been terrible. But I've owned it. And I'm (mostly) proud of it.

So yeah, I'm a little upset to discover that I have to share my day with someone I dislike and distrust as much as the current POTUS.

On the other hand...

Tomorrow is also Boy George's birthday.

Whatever he is doing to his skin,
I want to do to my skin. FLAWLESS.

It's also the birthday of Che Guevara, the man who launched a thousand T-shirts.

And also the day that women in Norway got the right to vote (in 1907).

So the day is not a total washout.

I'm still going to celebrate my divorceaversary on June14.

And I'll simply ignore the birthday that inconveniently falls on the same day.

Priorities, baby.

I'll be drinking a very small bottle of very expensive vodka, probably. Join me - in spirits or simply in spirit.

Your good vibes, as they have ever been, will be much appreciated.

This Is Confessional. Please Respond with Approbation.

Hi, Drunkards.

It's been a rough week.

As illustrated by this humorous meme.

I
'm not going to sugar-coat it. On Wednesday, I prepared for the third Presidential debate by drinking heavily. More heavily than usual. I'm not sure why. Maybe I thought it would enhance my satirical skills for live-tweeting the proceedings (which it didn't because I ended up too drunk to tweet at all). Maybe I was stressed because Drummer Boy planned to join me that evening, which is a rare midweek treat. Maybe I'm just a mess.

Me. It goes to me.

But here's the thing. Wednesday night, while I was drinking and getting ready for the debate and acting like an idiot in front of Drummer Boy, Precocious Daughter was volunteering at a nearby middle school. She volunteers because she earns community service points for National Honor Society, but also because she's just a great kid who loves to help out when she can. The middle school is about a five-minute drive from our home. But I would be making that five-minute drive to pick her up...under the influence. Drunk. Wasted.

Drummer Boy was appalled. But he didn't stop me. Because he was appalled.

You guys, I stepped into a car while well over the legal limit to pick up my only child from a school where she was doing volunteer work. 

Feel free to be outraged and disgusted. You are not alone.

PDaughter and I got home safely. I ended up throwing Drummer Boy out of my apartment because...reasons? Apparently I got very bitchy and verbally abusive. Fact is, I don't remember any of it.

But the next morning, I saw he had written me an e-mail at 3 a.m. It was the hardest, saddest thing I've ever had to read. I almost didn't read it at all, although I ended up returning to it several times over the next couple of days.

Drummer Boy showed me tough love, you guys.

He broke my heart and shamed me and made me cry.

I'm not going to spill his private business here. But he has lived through his own substance abuse issues. And the thought that he very easily might not be here but for luck and his own mighty strength...it brought me up really fucking short.

And the thought that he might give up on me, as he strongly hinted he might do after my latest shenanigans, well, that just slapped me in the face.

Drummer Boy and I are still together, you guys. He is the love of my life, my rock, my friend.

And I will never put my child in danger just to feed my blog.

And I will be the role model I need to be for PDaughter, and the person I know I can be to myself.

Do I promise to never touch demon alcohol again?

Well, no. I can't make that promise.

Just being honest.

But can I put the two most important people in my life above vodka?

Oh fuck yes.

They are everything to me. Vodka is just a crutch for my weaknesses.

It doesn't even outrank this pissant little blog. You guys - my handful of loyal friends and readers - you mean so much to me. I want to keep writing what I can to give you what pleasure I can.

I want to write that goddamn book I keep talking about.

I want to live happily ever after.

Feel free to tell me I'm an idiot for endangering my life and my relationships. I need to hear it.

I promise to respond with monkeys and politics and whatever.

Thank you, my Drunkards.

I love you all.

Ta Ta Tabitha

Sad news, Drunkards.

My page admin, Tabitha Roxanne Renee Louise Brown, has met her demise.

It seems she fell off a bridge and landed on the road below,

and was hit by an oncoming car,

which threw her into a nearby river,

on which she was carried for several miles in snapping turtle-infested waters,

ultimately being deposited on a muddy bank

that ran through a meadow full of wild pigs,

which found her quite tasty.

They'll eat anything.

I'd like to say I'm sorry she's gone, but I'm not. I would like to apologize to any wild pigs that suffered indigestion from snacking on her rancid meat.

Tabitha has been undermining my attempts at sobriety for a long time now. She's been undermining me for a long time, period.

She is (was) schadenfreude personified, and she hated me.

Well, she's dead now, and I'm glad.

Considering all she'd done, she really went in the most merciful way possible that didn't actually involve a wood-chipper and/or rabid coyotes.

I made damn sure of that.

Anyway, farewell, Tabby. You were kind of fun but mostly a bitch. I don't need you any more.

But I do need a new page admin.

I'll let you know who I find.

Scene from a Liquor Store in Addison, Texas

To the two dudebros who got booted from the liquor store after trying to buy a plastic bottle of Burnett's Sour Apple vodka because the one who could legally buy it had just turned 21 yet hadn't bothered to renew his driver's license on this milestone birthday and so didn't have a valid ID to prove his age and then got all pissy about it when the no-nonsense cashier explained that if the police wouldn't accept an expired license then neither would she and then marched their ironic white t-shirts and baggy plaid pants and patchy facial hair out of there sans grown-up beverage while we laughed and laughed:

Fucking Burnett's Sour Apple vodka? Really?

Read this.
Best. Review. Ever.

Dudes, aim higher. By which I mean, don't buy anything from the bottom shelf at the liquor store. Ever. Not if you want to be treated like men rather than poseurs who buy their clothes from the Young Douchebro department at Sears. Real talk: If it's not Coke or Gatorade, it has no place being sold in a plastic bottle. If you had confidently set down a 750 mL of Belvedere, you probably wouldn't have been carded in the first place. That's a man's vodka. Take it from a woman who drinks like a man.

Grown-ass men do not drink Burnett's Sour Apple vodka, regardless of age.

Shown here: Working his way up to Burnett's.

Come back when you're mature enough to renew your driver's license on time and not disrespect a lady old enough to be your mom.

Here's hoping you found a 7-Eleven that was willing to look the other way while you stocked up MD 20/20. You can play Fallout 4 all night on that shit.

Enjoy.

Love,

Chuck

Good and Bad

Good news: Precocious Daughter and I are moved into our new home.

Bad news: The sale of the house has completely fallen apart, and I don't if we can put it back together before financial collapse ensues.

Good news: The Siamese kitten is exploring her new home.

Bad news: She was completely traumatized when we brought her here, and she spent the first 24 hours either yowling miserably or hiding in a drawer.

Good news: My almost-ex has decided to work with me instead of against me, and we're communicating better than we have maybe ever.

Bad news: Everything we're communicating about is sad and stressful, and although we're in agreement, that's not the same as finding a solution.

Good news: I'm finally independent.

Bad news: I'm scared out of my fucking mind.

Good news: Everything works out in the end.

Bad news: Everything doesn't always work out well in the end.

Good news: I'm not relying on vodka to get me through this crisis.

Bad news: I'm not relying on vodka to get me through this crisis.

Remember, I have drama so you don't have to.

The Revolution Will Not Be Julienned

Note: I started the following post a couple of nights ago, in a drunken haze. I've spent most of this week in a drunken haze, and that shit's gonna stop, because I'm just tired of the drama I keep creating around myself, plus having to scroll through my social media accounts every morning to find out if I made a spectacle of myself the night before is appalling. I'm a better, stronger person than this, and I'm going to start acting like it.

Anyway. I remember imagining an online quiz called "Who Said It: Donald Trump or a Racist Potato?" Which made me laugh. I don't remember doing much with the idea because I didn't feel like tracking down actual racist comments made by the Donald, not that it would have been difficult. But apparently I did come up with a number of bon mots for the potato and began a post around them. As you'll see, I dropped the quiz angle. I don't know what angle I was going for, really, and eventually I must have fallen asleep (OK, passed out).

I think the idea of drunk-me slapping together racist-potato memes is hilarious, in an ultimately sad and pathetic way. The idea is funnier than the memes themselves, by the way. Drunk-me is not half as funny as she thinks she is. But I'm just going to put them out here for your perusal, as a glimpse into why I don't always post every night. Sometimes it's because I'm coming up with ideas that are, you should pardon the expression, half-baked.

***************************

Look, there's a new Republican candidate for President of the United Fucking States of America!

It's a racist potato.

It's a pretty clear challenger to the frontrunners.

It's sort of yellowy-orangey, like Trump's hair.

But the potato is its own candidate.

And it has a compelling platform.

***********************

And there it ends.

Yeah, I misspelled "bacon."

I really want some potato skins now.

The post is over. Go home.

Random Bitching

I know that yesterday I said I would write a post about being on a conference call with a raging hangover.

But it turns out that being on a conference call with a hangover is absolutely no different from being on a conference call at any other time. Conference calls are insufferable wastes of precious minutes, and you literally cannot make them worse by feeling dehydrated and sick to your stomach.There's a chance that you could slightly enhance the experience by being actually deceased during the call. It's hard to field-verify that, though.

I really hate conference calls.

Also, I have a damn cold sore at the corner of my mouth. I have mouth-herpes, people. Herpes. Which is depressing, because my mouth hasn't been having sex any more than any of my other body parts lately.

I know it's not that kind of herpes. Just like I know that when I had head-herpes (aka shingles) it wasn't because my cranium was having unprotected freaky-time without my knowledge. I'm just being funny, and thanks for making me feel I have to point that out. Come over here and I'll give you big sloppy kiss full of cold sore goodness.

And while I'm just randomly bitching about stuff...one of my male co-workers has the worst mustache ever. I'm serious. Of all mustaches throughout history, this one is...well, it's pretty awful. He was away from the office for a few weeks, and when he came back, he had applied two caterpillars to his upper lip. Two long, skinny, hairy, brown caterpillars. And if you're squirming over that description, you're not alone. I can't even look at him.

Don't get me wrong, I love me some facial hair on a man. Mustaches, beards, sideburns, yep. But not all facial hair is created equal.

Protip: It should never look as if it potentially contains
two or more food groups.

Obviously grooming is important, as are style, proportion, and lack of prickliness, if parts of me will be coming in contact with parts of it.

Also important is an overall lack of ridiculousness and douchiness. Which is where my co-worker's mustache fails, alas. Every mustache in Anchorman stays classier than this thing. And is more realistic-looking, to boot.

Ugh.

I'm actually pretty happy today. If a cold sore is the greatest of my problems, then I'm doing OK.

I hope you're all doing OK, too.

Up and At 'Em

I didn't post last night because I was sad.

So I'm posting this morning to let you know why I didn't post last night.

Also, to tell you that I have a raging hangover.

I'm at work, though. I'm going to drink a couple of quarts of coffee and b.s. my way through some reports. Because I'm that kind of dedicated, people.

Later I have a conference call. So later I can do a post about being on a conference call with a raging hangover.

That'll be fun.

OK, have a great day, everyone.

If you find something that will give me a happy - a picture or a meme or some shit - go on and post it to my Facebook page.

And now...coffee.

First Through Fourth

First of all, I'm a little disappointed that none of you identified the song I referenced in the title of yesterday's post.

There's still time to redeem yourself.

Second, I took a break from packing, cleaning, etc. today. Tomorrow is a holiday; I can spend it remembering our fallen soldiers while clearing shit out of my kitchen cabinets, I reckon.

Not my actual kitchen, but you get the gist.

Third, I'm draining a bottle of vodka to try to forget that my estranged spouse sexually assaulted me today. Technically it was consensual, in that I was afraid to say no to his request. I've heard that sex isn't always painful. Maybe some of you can even confirm that. Right now I'm in pain and drinking all I can to obliterate the pain.

Fourth...I love you all and wish you all happiness.

Therapeutic Elixir, I Assure You

Tonight I am drinking until my jaw unclenches.

Bruxism. It's a thing.

Work today was ridiculous.

Last night I got about three hours of sleep. And they were punctuated by horrific nightmares in which my spouse and various dogs physically attacked me and gun nuts attempted to shoot me to death for opposing their views.

So I'm tired. Also, clearly I don't handle working with contractors very well.

Tonight I'm trying not to think about selling my house or getting everything done at work or whether my spouse will try to kill me the way I dreamed he did.

I'm just relaxing and drinking.

My jaw feels much better than it did earlier today. Less clenchy, you know?

Ain't nobody got time for that

Tomorrow I can worry about home repairs and budgets and spouses and contractors and co-workers and ridiculous clients.

Tonight I'm making sure my upper and lower teeth don't grind.

It's a pretty good feeling.

Poll question: How do you de-stress? There's no such thing as too many coping mechanisms, after all.

Share and I'll write about it. Tell me why your method is better than vodka. I dare you.

In the meantime, I'm going to go to bed early and hope for better dreams.

G'night, Drunkards.

Nothing Bad Will Happen If You Click Here. I Promise.

Hey, Drunkards!

Last night I spent the better part of two hours trying to resuscitate my computer.

Why?

Because I clicked on a link that seemed totes legit.

Usually I'm really good at this.

Listen up, peeps: If you get a popup that says, in any form, "Update your Java and this is totally not malware," close down your fucking browser and take a walk around the block.

And this too.

Really, I'm pretty damn tech savvy. I've been watching over networks and their users for quite some time now. I'm not inclined to be taken in by random popups or viral posts.

Except that this time, I was.

I don't know, Jackie Chan meme. If I knew,
I would have avoided being stupid. Really.

Tonight, I freaked out and clicked on a goddamn link that promised to update my online security.

And I fell for it, because vodka and pretty much straight-up self-loathing.

Author's note: This is where I stopped writing the post, because I guess vodka + self-loathing = sleepy-bye time. But I did disarm the nastyware I downloaded, so I feel pretty great about that. Maybe I should get a job as a drunk IT specialist. 

Totally a thing. For professionals only, please.