So I am sitting there just minding my own business, having just licked the last of the whipped cream off my finger tips- And I know what you are all probably thinking right now, "Oh, I thought she was on a diet, how is whipped cream on her diet". So before you get started let me tell you in the kindest, most gentle manner possible, 'Shut-up would cha"? The fact remains, I am on a d.i.e.t. but whipped cream is part of my program. Yes, that is correct I have a program! OK, now that your worst fears for me have not been confirmed, may I please continue? Flashing on the television screen before me is an ad for a new show called, "Hungry Girl". Seriously, people, do you think there is any girl out there hungrier than I am?
I don't think so. And Hungry Girl is about all of 120 lbs- and for all my stick figure girl friends out there, 120 lbs is not obese in any understanding of the word, except for maybe if you are an eight year old girl. And of that fact, I am not even sure, but I'm sure a quick review of my grade school records will confirm this. And as long as I am on the subject of grade school- how obnoxious was it that they used to "measure" you in that manner? First off, it was never a real school nurse bound by the Hippo Oath, but instead some well intended busybody PTA president, room-mom. Now, all you PTA room moms, I'm not talking about you. But seriously, it would always be some "Heather's" mom who would smile sweetly and say, "OK, honey now let’s get your weight" and then that would be followed with an, "Ooooh. All righty then" and then she'd quickly offer the other "Heather's" mom who was assisting her in this little project a quick surreptitious glance at the staggering number. Later over a two martini lunch, they'd discuss that, "poor little, ah, well fat girl” in their fabulous Heather's class! But I have digressed from my original rant about Hungry Girl. Hungry Girl is produced by the Cooking channel and as it turns out Hungry Girl herself used to have a bit of a weight problem and a few years ago she lost 30 (cough, choke) pounds and now she is so fabulous they have given her a television show. Seriously, people- her own show just because she managed to lose 30 pounds? Those of us with real weight problems, those of us that have suffered the ravages of a Spanx generated “thigh fire” know that thirty pounds while admirable ain't nothing more than a few less bags of crunchy Cheetos over the course of a couple months. So now, I'm thinking of pitching my own show concept to the network. Yeah, and I have a few names I'm considering for my show, How about, "The Big Girl Show" or maybe “That’s not a Cameo cookie in my mouth" or my absolute favorite, "That's not a stalker, that's my ass show". Stay tuned!
Wednesday
Friday
Reeses, Butterfingers and Oh My!
It's that time of year again. You know the weather starts to get a bit cooler, which by Florida standards simply means we will see days in the 80's instead of those hated "can't get my shirt from sticking and showing all my bra fat" 90's. Oh, and speaking of bra fat or fat back, well I'm sporting less of this these days. The big D.I.E.T. is starting to work. I am saying this with a great deal of caution because typically, self gets all happy with one's self about now and decides that just one bag of frozen Cameo's in the freezer is not such a bad thing. And I know you know the problem with "just one little bag," it will absolutely lead to some of the mega sized bags of Halloween candy that are all over the shelves of your local grocer. Seriously people, I have not had a single Trick or Treater knock on my door in five years. And yet every Halloween I buy bags of candy, just in case. My biggest fear is some cute little fairy will knock on my door and I will have to reach into my bowl of pennies to offer some sort of treat. So instead, I prepare. I get out my biggest mixing bowl and fill it full of mini Butterfingers, Reese's and oh, those wonderful little chewy peanuty nougat thingies. And then I casually start grabbing just a few, you know just for a small snack or short car ride. And before I know it, I am back at the grocery store attempting to re-fill that quickly declining bowl of candy before two things happen; someone notices or God forbid, the damn fairy shows up.
This year things are gonna be different. I have already turned my small, now much more pert nose up at the legions of sweet treats lining the isles. Apologies to all you pixies and fairies, this year my windows will be dark. "Nothing to see here folks, just keep on going".
This year things are gonna be different. I have already turned my small, now much more pert nose up at the legions of sweet treats lining the isles. Apologies to all you pixies and fairies, this year my windows will be dark. "Nothing to see here folks, just keep on going".
Wednesday
Warning: The following content contains material of a sexual nature and may not be suitable for all ages.
All the good things in life are free. Really, well like what? And don't start with all that sappy crap. I know, I know the freaking air I breath is free and the memories I cherish, they are free and I am free to love whom ever I chose. But the really "gooood" things, there is a price. Right now in my life I am addicted to 32oz Gladiator smoothies, are they free? No, but they are really, really good. And don't even get me thinking about my wine, cuz, trust me, my wine is not even available in the grocery store. No sir, you gotta get in your car and travel to a specialty store to get my kinda wine. And if you tell me, "Oh, you should go to World Market, they have great wines" I will turn around and spit on the ground when you are not looking. Wine may not be free, but bad wine is dead to me. Now, how about sex, is that free? Technically, the act is free, but it is not really free, is it? And without going into too many details, what about the resulting fallout ? Priceless, yes, but free- no way. Think about the first male and female that discovered sex (and I am not referring to Adam or Eve, because that is way different then real sex). But those first few humans must have thought to themselves, "This is remarkable, if I do this and she does that, OMG". Seriously, they probably did have a somewhat direct connect to God and I am certain the discussions went something like this, "God, this is amazing, I mean, who knew? We'd all been just sitting here on this cold, hard cave floor and had no idea of the possibilities. And OMG, God, thank you so much for showing us the ropes, they really change it up". And with so much sex, people got hungry and I think the first male/female roles were established by the male rolling over and say, "Hey, I'm hungry, why don't I go out and slay a dragon or two and you clean this dump up while I am gone". But then the morality police got involved, when and where I am uncertain, but get involved they did. And then all that free sex just went away until the seventies and well, you all know the rest of the story. So, why am I, the button up, conservative being that I am writing about sex? Well, the answer is easy, I quit drinking.
Saturday
Put down those eggs and drop that bacon!
Since I'd only just gotten settled into my "suite," you can imagine my surprise when just a mere three hours later, I hear a cheery, "Good Morning". The "morning" part was drawn out, like the person who said it knew damn well that not only was it NOT morning, but it was not going to be a good one either!
As I slowly came too, I became aware of a lot of "white" noise in the background, some hissing and the realization that my right arm felt like someone had stuck a needle in it and had forgotten to take it out. My first thought was, "What kind joint are they running here." That was quickly followed by a deep sigh of regret; "I shoulda stayed at a Holiday Inn!"
"We gotta get your weight," Nurse Cheerful smirked, rolling in what seriously looked to be a live-stock scale. Squinting up at the clock, I groaned, "Are you serious? You don't need my weight, I will just tell you a number and you can divide that number by four and then multiply the results by two and you will come close enough. Who the hell wants to know how much I weigh at 4:00am anyhow?"
Evidently, there were plenty of people that wanted to know and they all had the initials DR. before their names. Pretentious lot. Just because they have like 20 years of schooling under their belts, they think they can ask ME personal questions. Here's what I'd like to know Mister - Lady - Doctor - Sir, "Just how much do you weigh?"
Geez, these people don't take any time to get to know you, they just come barging into your room demanding answers to questions best left unanswered.
For instance, "Do you drink alcohol?" Now, I was not just born yesterday, (another problem) so I was completely prepared for that one. I knew; answer the question, and only the question. Do not give away any other valuable pieces of information that could later be held against you.
So, in keeping with the spirit of my Irish-Catholic roots, I solemnly answered, "A bit". Nurse Cheerful looked at me and smiled encouragingly, as if to say she completely understood the, "A bit" part and wanted me to tell her more.
So I went on to better explain, lest she get the wrong idea, (And God forbid, think I'm a lush). "Well, you know, drinking just a bit...perhaps if there is a funeral or wake, a party or it's Wednesday. But truly, just a bit and I do try to limit it to just wine and I am working on only drinking on days of the week that end in Y".
Humph, Nurse Cheerful was now wildly scribbling notes on a piece of paper and I could tell right away that they were ALL about me. If you wanna know the truth, I think she was just a tad jealous of me, lying there all splayed out in that well worn, "easy in, easy out," it's got nothing on Fredrick's of Hollywood dressing gown. Ha, I had on a gown! Imagine that!
Right then, I knew that as soon as Nurse Cheerful left my room I was gonna find my yoga pants and my true first love, Zippy and hi-tail it outta there. But as Nurse Cheerful turned to leave she mentioned something about my breakfast being on its way, so I figured, I paid for it, may as well enjoy a meal before I go.
Sure enough, I'd only closed my eyes for a second and before I knew it, enter Breakfast - Man. My Knight in Shining Armor, or actually, white lab coat, but same thing. He rolled the cart over, raised the head of my bed, propped my pillows. I couldn't help but think to myself, "Self, I think he likes you, he thinks your gown is sexy".
I smiled and batted my Lattise sodden eyelashes at him as he pulled the lovely silver dome off my meal and rolled the tray in front of me. Glancing down at the food, so as not to appear too eager, I feigned interest like when on an airplane and the stewardess delivers a tasty treat, I always try to appear uninterested, waiting until the last moment to lower my tray table. You know, in a very non-fat lady style.
Remember; never let them know you are too happy or too hungry, that's my motto.
My eyes swept over the waiting meal and suddenly I squeaked, Ah, excuse me, Breakfast - Man, I think there has been some mistake. I smiled sweetly and said, "It's no biggie and I am certain that you will be able to work this out with the Consigliore, but umm... Hun, this can't be my breakfast, this must be leftover from what the guy next door didn't eat"!
One egg scrambled (Who eats one egg?);
One turkey sausage link measuring a total of 2" (Yes, I checked);
One small, bite size little muffin that appeared to have already had a bite taken out;
One cup of decaf coffee-water:
4oz of orange juice.
So, one scrambled egg people? I get more eggs eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough standing at the kitchen counter than what was on that plate. And certain that the other two turkey sausage links had rolled under my bed; I buzzed Nurse Cheerful in to take a gander.
Turns out, it really was my breakfast, not the leftovers from the guy next door. And Nurse Cheerful, yeah she really was a bit more like Nurse Jackie.
Moral of the story: Check your blood pressure regularly, lose the excess baggage, exercise more, skip the bacon and limit your wine to a "bit" less!
As I slowly came too, I became aware of a lot of "white" noise in the background, some hissing and the realization that my right arm felt like someone had stuck a needle in it and had forgotten to take it out. My first thought was, "What kind joint are they running here." That was quickly followed by a deep sigh of regret; "I shoulda stayed at a Holiday Inn!"
"We gotta get your weight," Nurse Cheerful smirked, rolling in what seriously looked to be a live-stock scale. Squinting up at the clock, I groaned, "Are you serious? You don't need my weight, I will just tell you a number and you can divide that number by four and then multiply the results by two and you will come close enough. Who the hell wants to know how much I weigh at 4:00am anyhow?"
Evidently, there were plenty of people that wanted to know and they all had the initials DR. before their names. Pretentious lot. Just because they have like 20 years of schooling under their belts, they think they can ask ME personal questions. Here's what I'd like to know Mister - Lady - Doctor - Sir, "Just how much do you weigh?"
Geez, these people don't take any time to get to know you, they just come barging into your room demanding answers to questions best left unanswered.
For instance, "Do you drink alcohol?" Now, I was not just born yesterday, (another problem) so I was completely prepared for that one. I knew; answer the question, and only the question. Do not give away any other valuable pieces of information that could later be held against you.
So, in keeping with the spirit of my Irish-Catholic roots, I solemnly answered, "A bit". Nurse Cheerful looked at me and smiled encouragingly, as if to say she completely understood the, "A bit" part and wanted me to tell her more.
So I went on to better explain, lest she get the wrong idea, (And God forbid, think I'm a lush). "Well, you know, drinking just a bit...perhaps if there is a funeral or wake, a party or it's Wednesday. But truly, just a bit and I do try to limit it to just wine and I am working on only drinking on days of the week that end in Y".
Humph, Nurse Cheerful was now wildly scribbling notes on a piece of paper and I could tell right away that they were ALL about me. If you wanna know the truth, I think she was just a tad jealous of me, lying there all splayed out in that well worn, "easy in, easy out," it's got nothing on Fredrick's of Hollywood dressing gown. Ha, I had on a gown! Imagine that!
Right then, I knew that as soon as Nurse Cheerful left my room I was gonna find my yoga pants and my true first love, Zippy and hi-tail it outta there. But as Nurse Cheerful turned to leave she mentioned something about my breakfast being on its way, so I figured, I paid for it, may as well enjoy a meal before I go.
Sure enough, I'd only closed my eyes for a second and before I knew it, enter Breakfast - Man. My Knight in Shining Armor, or actually, white lab coat, but same thing. He rolled the cart over, raised the head of my bed, propped my pillows. I couldn't help but think to myself, "Self, I think he likes you, he thinks your gown is sexy".
I smiled and batted my Lattise sodden eyelashes at him as he pulled the lovely silver dome off my meal and rolled the tray in front of me. Glancing down at the food, so as not to appear too eager, I feigned interest like when on an airplane and the stewardess delivers a tasty treat, I always try to appear uninterested, waiting until the last moment to lower my tray table. You know, in a very non-fat lady style.
Remember; never let them know you are too happy or too hungry, that's my motto.
My eyes swept over the waiting meal and suddenly I squeaked, Ah, excuse me, Breakfast - Man, I think there has been some mistake. I smiled sweetly and said, "It's no biggie and I am certain that you will be able to work this out with the Consigliore, but umm... Hun, this can't be my breakfast, this must be leftover from what the guy next door didn't eat"!
One egg scrambled (Who eats one egg?);
One turkey sausage link measuring a total of 2" (Yes, I checked);
One small, bite size little muffin that appeared to have already had a bite taken out;
One cup of decaf coffee-water:
4oz of orange juice.
So, one scrambled egg people? I get more eggs eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough standing at the kitchen counter than what was on that plate. And certain that the other two turkey sausage links had rolled under my bed; I buzzed Nurse Cheerful in to take a gander.
Turns out, it really was my breakfast, not the leftovers from the guy next door. And Nurse Cheerful, yeah she really was a bit more like Nurse Jackie.
Moral of the story: Check your blood pressure regularly, lose the excess baggage, exercise more, skip the bacon and limit your wine to a "bit" less!
|
Thigh Fire
So, recently I participated in my first 5k walk - pant - run, note the emphasis on the walk - pant part.
It was quite the eye opener for this previously sedentary gal, who has made a bit of a career (who am I kidding, I have no career) out of mocking those that participated in this malarkey.
Yep, I thought of myself as a wee bit superior lying splayed out on my gorgeous cream colored sectional eating bonbons and gulping fabulous wine. But all that crap came to a screeching halt a few weeks back when the guys in white coats came in, shaking their heads in unison, all thinking the same thing, "This one's gotta go".
They hauled me off my sofa, removed the bag of frozen Cameo's from my clasped fists, ignored my whimpering and whispered soft little meaningless taunts in my ear, "Stop it, stop it right now," they demanded. "Whoa, hey, wait just a fancy minute, I thought to myself, can't we all just spend some time getting to know each other? Why do we have to rush into all this diet and exercise?" And here I thought we were going to build a meaningful relationship.
But no, that was not meant to be, as evidenced by the nurse lady that actually had the nerve to give me a little tip, "Hun, why don't you look at it this way, if you put the bag of Cheetos down, while we get your weight, you may be pleasantly surprised." Surprised, how could she even think for a single minute that I'd want to friends with her, let alone that she could surprise me?
Friends, and I'm talking my good friends, they know how to treat me. My good friends ask me, "Puffed or crunchy, luv?" This new group, all they are interested in was, "Getting the blood pumping".
Well trust me, my blood was pumping that recent Saturday morning as I raced, begged and pleaded with myself to get to the finish line. The race had just started and already my faithless husband and daughter had gotten far ahead of me. I thought about just dashing into the nearest Panera and grabbing a quick cinnamon bun for moral support, or maybe if luck was on my side, I'd pass a gun store first. Maybe I'd pick up one of those ladylike guns and shoot them both for dumping me, right across their big white numbered T-shirt! That is, if I ever saw them again. I knew the odds were I might not survive all this ridiculous sweating.
Did the guys in the white coats really think I was healthy enough for all this activity? I should have demanded that they have put it in writing, "Loud, obnoxious, healthy female, most recently seen eating frozen Cameo cookies, has our permission to kill herself publicly in said 5K race." At least than my duplicitous family could sue their collective asses!
But truly, I am not a quitter. No sir, not a quitter this one. But a cheater? Why you betcha!
That is why I had the fight of my life on my hands when I was trotting down one stretch of the race and glanced to my far right and saw that the rest of the participants had made a right turn way up ahead and were coming back down towards me about two blocks over.
How simple it would have been to just take a cut through? I could get a lead on my traitorous husband and daughter and cross the finish line like a real athlete, you know, Rockyesque, style! I could almost hear the crowds cheering me on in my head. But then I told myself, "Self, how are you gonna feel if you cut corners and cheat in your very first 5K?" Self quickly assured me, that she'd feel just fine, remarkable actually!
But alas, it was not to be. First, I had that stupid white shirt on with the four big numbers plastered across the front and secondly, I had those four big numbers plastered across the front- yea, you get it. I'd cheat, but I didn't want to get caught cheating! I had standards.
Fortunately, cooler, less felonious heads prevailed and I trotted on. I'd spied one particularly big ass ahead of me and I thought, if she can do it, so can I. I began setting my sights on all the large backsides in front of me and decided my personal goal would be to pick out the biggest ass within eyesight and stride to reach and pass it. My new job was to beat all the other fatties to the finish line.
This worked fine, up until the point I had to use the balance of my water to put out the fire that had started between one guy's enormous thighs.
But in the end, I finished the race. I didn't come in first, not by a long shot. But I did get there just as the race coordinators where dismantling the finish line. I guess they hadn't heard about the fire...
It was quite the eye opener for this previously sedentary gal, who has made a bit of a career (who am I kidding, I have no career) out of mocking those that participated in this malarkey.
Yep, I thought of myself as a wee bit superior lying splayed out on my gorgeous cream colored sectional eating bonbons and gulping fabulous wine. But all that crap came to a screeching halt a few weeks back when the guys in white coats came in, shaking their heads in unison, all thinking the same thing, "This one's gotta go".
They hauled me off my sofa, removed the bag of frozen Cameo's from my clasped fists, ignored my whimpering and whispered soft little meaningless taunts in my ear, "Stop it, stop it right now," they demanded. "Whoa, hey, wait just a fancy minute, I thought to myself, can't we all just spend some time getting to know each other? Why do we have to rush into all this diet and exercise?" And here I thought we were going to build a meaningful relationship.
But no, that was not meant to be, as evidenced by the nurse lady that actually had the nerve to give me a little tip, "Hun, why don't you look at it this way, if you put the bag of Cheetos down, while we get your weight, you may be pleasantly surprised." Surprised, how could she even think for a single minute that I'd want to friends with her, let alone that she could surprise me?
Friends, and I'm talking my good friends, they know how to treat me. My good friends ask me, "Puffed or crunchy, luv?" This new group, all they are interested in was, "Getting the blood pumping".
Well trust me, my blood was pumping that recent Saturday morning as I raced, begged and pleaded with myself to get to the finish line. The race had just started and already my faithless husband and daughter had gotten far ahead of me. I thought about just dashing into the nearest Panera and grabbing a quick cinnamon bun for moral support, or maybe if luck was on my side, I'd pass a gun store first. Maybe I'd pick up one of those ladylike guns and shoot them both for dumping me, right across their big white numbered T-shirt! That is, if I ever saw them again. I knew the odds were I might not survive all this ridiculous sweating.
Did the guys in the white coats really think I was healthy enough for all this activity? I should have demanded that they have put it in writing, "Loud, obnoxious, healthy female, most recently seen eating frozen Cameo cookies, has our permission to kill herself publicly in said 5K race." At least than my duplicitous family could sue their collective asses!
But truly, I am not a quitter. No sir, not a quitter this one. But a cheater? Why you betcha!
That is why I had the fight of my life on my hands when I was trotting down one stretch of the race and glanced to my far right and saw that the rest of the participants had made a right turn way up ahead and were coming back down towards me about two blocks over.
How simple it would have been to just take a cut through? I could get a lead on my traitorous husband and daughter and cross the finish line like a real athlete, you know, Rockyesque, style! I could almost hear the crowds cheering me on in my head. But then I told myself, "Self, how are you gonna feel if you cut corners and cheat in your very first 5K?" Self quickly assured me, that she'd feel just fine, remarkable actually!
But alas, it was not to be. First, I had that stupid white shirt on with the four big numbers plastered across the front and secondly, I had those four big numbers plastered across the front- yea, you get it. I'd cheat, but I didn't want to get caught cheating! I had standards.
Fortunately, cooler, less felonious heads prevailed and I trotted on. I'd spied one particularly big ass ahead of me and I thought, if she can do it, so can I. I began setting my sights on all the large backsides in front of me and decided my personal goal would be to pick out the biggest ass within eyesight and stride to reach and pass it. My new job was to beat all the other fatties to the finish line.
This worked fine, up until the point I had to use the balance of my water to put out the fire that had started between one guy's enormous thighs.
But in the end, I finished the race. I didn't come in first, not by a long shot. But I did get there just as the race coordinators where dismantling the finish line. I guess they hadn't heard about the fire...
Tuesday
I'll tell you when to get happy.
Tell me this, why is it that people that are too happy just get me in a bad mood? I mean, what is wrong with me? I get so bugged when people get all happy and excited over something stupid, or something I think is stupid, which is just about anything that everyone else thinks is funny. I am sitting there watching TV this morning and that dumb egg commercial comes on where Kashi has substituted their cereal in the carton, instead of eggs. People are opening the cartons of eggs in the grocery store and they are all happy, laughing because the eggs are missing and instead little mounds of sticky cereal have taken their place.
They are looking around, pointing to the egg carton, as if to say, “Oh, look, isn’t this hilarious, the eggs are all gone”. Yeah, that is funny, cereal instead of eggs. I am just laughing my ass of here. Not. Am I the only person that would say, “Where are my effing eggs”? I can just see myself, barely smiling and hardly tolerant. I don’t really like being tricked and falling in beside all of humanity is not appealing to me. Give.me.my.effing.eggs.now! It is even worse for me in a group setting. I just hate to get all happy with everyone else. I like to reserve the right to get happy, if, and when I feel like it, not because all the people around me think something is funny. I have noticed that with some, it is just so easy for them to show their pleasure. Someone does something dumb and people get all happy, they get to all be part of this group- this big, dumb, happy group that thinks, “Oh, that is so cute, so funny.” I want to tell them, “No.it.is.not.cute.it.is.stupid”. Quit getting all happy. You are getting me violent. So, what is wrong with me? Go ahead, you can tell me, I can take it, really! Oh, and by the way, I know it is me, not you. I know this because I look around and I see happy people and I wonder to myself, “What are you so happy freaking happy about?” Now, that is not to say I don’t get happy, because I do. I am just not going to use up all my “happy” faces looking into a carton of eggs. When I think it is appropriate to get happy, believe me I do. But I am careful to never get too happy or to let anyone see me get too happy. Except for maybe on my birthday, I think that is a day where it is just fine to get all stupid happy. In fact, when I call to wish someone a happy birthday, I love to tell em’, “Go ahead, get all happy, today is your birthday”. But you better wipe that smile off our face by tomorrow. There is no “happy birthday” carry over. Gotta get right back into the, “I’m not that happy” business.
They are looking around, pointing to the egg carton, as if to say, “Oh, look, isn’t this hilarious, the eggs are all gone”. Yeah, that is funny, cereal instead of eggs. I am just laughing my ass of here. Not. Am I the only person that would say, “Where are my effing eggs”? I can just see myself, barely smiling and hardly tolerant. I don’t really like being tricked and falling in beside all of humanity is not appealing to me. Give.me.my.effing.eggs.now! It is even worse for me in a group setting. I just hate to get all happy with everyone else. I like to reserve the right to get happy, if, and when I feel like it, not because all the people around me think something is funny. I have noticed that with some, it is just so easy for them to show their pleasure. Someone does something dumb and people get all happy, they get to all be part of this group- this big, dumb, happy group that thinks, “Oh, that is so cute, so funny.” I want to tell them, “No.it.is.not.cute.it.is.stupid”. Quit getting all happy. You are getting me violent. So, what is wrong with me? Go ahead, you can tell me, I can take it, really! Oh, and by the way, I know it is me, not you. I know this because I look around and I see happy people and I wonder to myself, “What are you so happy freaking happy about?” Now, that is not to say I don’t get happy, because I do. I am just not going to use up all my “happy” faces looking into a carton of eggs. When I think it is appropriate to get happy, believe me I do. But I am careful to never get too happy or to let anyone see me get too happy. Except for maybe on my birthday, I think that is a day where it is just fine to get all stupid happy. In fact, when I call to wish someone a happy birthday, I love to tell em’, “Go ahead, get all happy, today is your birthday”. But you better wipe that smile off our face by tomorrow. There is no “happy birthday” carry over. Gotta get right back into the, “I’m not that happy” business.
Wednesday
You kahnt git theyah from heayah! (And that folks, is Lobstah talk)
Remember the movie Sideways? Well, this is not the wine from that movie. This is the wine from that "other" movie, Bottle Shock. The one with a ridiculously good looking cast, as opposed to Paul Giamatti, whom we can all attest to being a bit less than good looking. Anyhow, back to the wine and the movie. Never mind that the movie focused on a Chardonnay, rather than a Cabernet, that in my opinion is simply a technicality. What's really important is that we found this phenomenal wine in a cute little "wanna be" wine store in Southwest Harbour Maine. I was just in the middle of throwing one of my now infamous wine rants to anyone that was willing to listen, when suddenly, right before my eyes were the words, "Wine sold here".
Figuring it was a sign from above, I yelled, "stop the cah". And inside was the most unusual and glorious assortment of wines we'd ever gotten our grubby little paws on. I turned to my hubby and declared in my best Mainah dialect, "Ayah, Fathah, we've arrived". And there it was, down almost at floor level, several bottles of Chateau Montelena, 2005, Cabernet. Of course, having seen the movie Bottle Shock, both hubby and I almost became giddy. And believe me folks, giddy, is not something the good folks in Maine understand. No sir, In the state of Maine, acting giddy can get you put in the "big house", these are a conservative group here. Giddy soon became a serious understatement to our condition when we spyed a bottle of Spottswood Cab, 1998. Because the price of the Spottswood (be still my heart) was double the price of the Chateau, it was time for some tough decision making. I consulted with self and asked, "What would you prefer, two bottles of what is sure to be a fabulous wine, or one bottle of what is sure to make you take off all your clothes? Now, self, having been present for my most recent, soon to be epic lobstah eating marathon, felt it was only prudent to keep the clothes on and go for the two in lieu of one scenario, and so I did. And here ladies and gents, is the rest of the story...
CHATEAU MONTELENA, 2005
Cabernet Sauvignon. Napa Valley
$$$- $65
Don't go into sticker shock with the price on this wine, it is worth every penny. And besides, I never promised you a rose garden. Life is just too short for bad wine, so save this bottle for a special occasion or drink like I would on any Monday night. It is time to take the plastic wrap off your sofas people and use your crap. Now, with that said (so eloquently too) this is a wonderful, full bodied, dark and powerful wine that grabs you the minute it hits your palate. Hello people, are you paying attention? This is luscious and rich with a great sexy depth. Think Joanie from Madmen in her red dress and now you are just beginning to get this fabulous wine. And the fun is just starting. This wine is well balanced, with just the right amount of fruit forward, followed with a long slow french-kiss finish. Make your next bottle (if you can find it- as I have never seen it in the South) a special occasion and skip the dinner, and slip right between the sheets. You will not be disappointed- er...in the wine that is!
Figuring it was a sign from above, I yelled, "stop the cah". And inside was the most unusual and glorious assortment of wines we'd ever gotten our grubby little paws on. I turned to my hubby and declared in my best Mainah dialect, "Ayah, Fathah, we've arrived". And there it was, down almost at floor level, several bottles of Chateau Montelena, 2005, Cabernet. Of course, having seen the movie Bottle Shock, both hubby and I almost became giddy. And believe me folks, giddy, is not something the good folks in Maine understand. No sir, In the state of Maine, acting giddy can get you put in the "big house", these are a conservative group here. Giddy soon became a serious understatement to our condition when we spyed a bottle of Spottswood Cab, 1998. Because the price of the Spottswood (be still my heart) was double the price of the Chateau, it was time for some tough decision making. I consulted with self and asked, "What would you prefer, two bottles of what is sure to be a fabulous wine, or one bottle of what is sure to make you take off all your clothes? Now, self, having been present for my most recent, soon to be epic lobstah eating marathon, felt it was only prudent to keep the clothes on and go for the two in lieu of one scenario, and so I did. And here ladies and gents, is the rest of the story...
Cabernet Sauvignon. Napa Valley
$$$- $65
Don't go into sticker shock with the price on this wine, it is worth every penny. And besides, I never promised you a rose garden. Life is just too short for bad wine, so save this bottle for a special occasion or drink like I would on any Monday night. It is time to take the plastic wrap off your sofas people and use your crap. Now, with that said (so eloquently too) this is a wonderful, full bodied, dark and powerful wine that grabs you the minute it hits your palate. Hello people, are you paying attention? This is luscious and rich with a great sexy depth. Think Joanie from Madmen in her red dress and now you are just beginning to get this fabulous wine. And the fun is just starting. This wine is well balanced, with just the right amount of fruit forward, followed with a long slow french-kiss finish. Make your next bottle (if you can find it- as I have never seen it in the South) a special occasion and skip the dinner, and slip right between the sheets. You will not be disappointed- er...in the wine that is!
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