Box of Wine

Tonight I succumbed to a box of wine.  This isn't just any box of wine, it's a gold medal winning box of wine.  I didn't realize that boxing wine was an Olympic sport, but apparently it is, and my wine won.  Out of all the other boxes of wine, my box of wine prevailed.  I feel pretty good about that.  I feel like I also prevailed. It takes a certain personality, you know, to buy a box of wine.  It takes a personality that isn't afraid to stand in line on a Saturday night with a box containing the equivalent of 4 bottles of wine for roughly the cost of one really good bottle ("really good" being kind of a personal measurement, you understand).  And I just want to pause here to mention that it was a really long line.  I was in line for a long time with this box.  The people ahead of me seemed to be having an issue with their 17 different kind of craft beer, and the line behind me just kept getting longer and longer, with all eyes glued, I imagine, on my gold medal winning box of wine. But I did not care.  I've heard the siren call of wine boxes before and have resisted.  I've told myself my line is drawn at screw caps.  But this wine, well, it's won awards.  I haven't won any awards.  Who am I to turn my nose up at award-winning wine just because it's stuck inside the box.  Sure, we all like to think outside the box, but I am here today to advocate, perhaps, thinking inside this particular box.

It takes up less room in my fridge.  It doesn't use up cork resources.  It's easier to recycle than glass.  It's 4 bottles of wine, for God's sake, in one square foot space. It's award winning.  In case I've forgotten to mention that.

After I bought my box of wine, I went to Whole Foods to buy some food.  Is it just me or is Whole Foods getting more annoying every day?  Between the vegans, the hipsters, the hippies and the yuppie throwbacks, I can't seem to get close to anything I want to buy, and I swear they are piping in subliminal messaging that causes people to stand in place, swaying side to side like sun flowers, examining each and every choice of organic, small batch, grains.  I don't fit in here.  I'm just this average person who wants to buy 2.5 pounds of bone-in chicken thighs and some almond milk, for God's sake.  And then I want to go home and pour a nice glass of wine out of my convenient box spout and call it a day.  Is that too much to ask?

Award winning box of wine

Isn't it Ironic?

Irony is on my list of favorite words for the week.  According to Wikipedia it comes from the Greek word, eirōneía, meaning dissimulation, feigned ignorance.

Encyclopedia Britannica says it comes from a Greek comic character named Eiron, "a clever underdog who by his wit repeatedly triumphs over the boastful character Alazon."

Alanis Morissette says it's the black fly in your chardonnay.

Speaking of Alanis, did you know that she has a twin brother named Wade, who is an accomplished musician and yogi?  An Epic Rap Battle between Alanis and Wade would be fun. Ironic even.

If you've never seen Epic Rap Battles of History, here's my favorite, Shakespeare Vs Dr. Seuss

Have a great weekend!

Chicken out

Me: On a Diet

The day before the diet:  No sugar, no dairy, no wheat, no problem! It's just 14 days, right?  I can do anything for 14 days.  That's it!  I'm totally going on this diet.  Tomorrow. First, I have to watch all the videos about the diet, post them on face book, buy 45 pounds of fresh produce, buy some cute new clothes in my future size and drink all the wine in the house.

Two weeks go by: 45 pounds of once fresh produce are emptied from the vegetable bin.

The day before the diet (take 2):  Oh. My. God. These can't be my fat pants.  And where are my feet?

Day 1:  This is the most boring diet ever. Water. And more water. And celery. Oh, hey, look, a thumb-size portion of salmon and 4 cups of raw cabbage!    

Day 2:  Dr. Oz is a raging psychopath.  Sure, he looks nice.  Ted Bundy looked nice. I haven't lost one bloody pound.  I hate this diet.  I hate Dr. Oz.

Day 3:  What I could do is, get tickets for the show, disguise myself as a harmless elderly person, and then when that psychotic bastard makes his entrance, I could leap onto the stage, smash him in the face with my purse, then run up the middle aisle and be out of the building before anyone has time to react.  That would show him.  Why hasn't someone already thought of this?

Day 4:  Or I could kidnap him, tie him up in my basement, and force feed him donuts and wonder bread for three months.  Then, when he's fat and hooked, I'll feed him nothing but water, celery, and the occasional 6 ounces of chicken. See how he likes it.

Day 5:  I could just eat him...

Day 6:  Remember when we could have wine?  Remember cheese and crackers? Oh oh oh, remember that chocolate fudge birthday cake that time? Good times.

Day 7:  If I were rich, I would buy my own liposuction machine. I'd suck all the fat out of my ass and inject some into my cheeks. Then I'd send the rest to Dr. Oz.  In a red wagon.

Day 8:  If I were rich and had my own liposuction machine, all of the housewives would want to be my friends, except maybe Lisa Vanderpump.  Her house probably has its own liposuction salon.

Day 9:  Lisa's liposuction salon probably employs mean, ridiculously attractive millennials who'll make up the cast of the next Bravo reality show, Vanderpump Hoes.

Day 10:  I mean Hose.

Day 11:  The next person in this house who asks me, "What's for dinner?", is going to get pistol-whipped with this bunch of celery.  They'll be like, "Hey, Mom, what's for dinner?", and I'll be like, "Oh, hey, meet my leetle friend! Smack. Smack. Smack."  That's what you get for being able to eat potatoes.

Day 12:  I could make a documentary about dieting.  I'll renovate a Winnebago and travel cross country interviewing people on diets.  The cinematography will be stunning; the narrative, life-changing.  I'll dedicate it to Dr. Oz.

Day 13:  In the movie version of me making a movie, Nicole Kidman can play me.  I'll hang out on the set. We'll eat broccoli and chia seeds together.

Day 14:  If I film part of my documentary in Hawaii, and I'm invited to a luau, I won't be able to eat anything but the pig.  I'll bet that's considered bad form."Oh, hey, Aloha, where's your pig?"

Day 15:  It's probably not that easy to get a Winnebago to Hawaii anyway, which is too bad because I LOST 10 POUNDS.  I would look stunning in a muumuu.  If Bruce Springsteen saw me in a muumuu, he'd probably write a song about it.  And sing it at the luau.  Then we'd sit in a corner by ourselves, eating all the pig.

Day 16:  Mmmmm Wine.

2 weeks later:  Whaaaaa?  Who inflated me????  And where are my feet?

You can have the fruit.  I'll take the pig.