Where my wine goes

I'm not talking about my whine.  

Because ya'll, I can shove it and leave that for the birds.

Or can I?

I am talking about my wine.

Where does it go?

Stored in my vintage wine rack?

In the fridge for cooling before uncorking?

Nope.

It goes to my thighs.

My ass.

My waist.

Boy does it.

Even with all the running I've been doing.

The tubage of wine fat won't freaking go away.

The fine commentary on Yahoo! this morning just depressed me beyond belief.

I mean, we all know wine is loaded with sugar.

But, the French drink it and swear it's good for their health.

Doesn't red wine help with cardiovascular diseases?

Can I get an Amen for antioxidants?

Brother, please!

But to compare my beloved Blood of Christ to sugar donut holes.

Well, that just about put me over the top.

So now I'm whining.

And by the way, I haven't had a donut in effing YEARS.

Years people.

I gave that shit up like a whore gave up her virginity.

 

 I am American Bridget and I suppose in this entry I am whining about wine.  Go figure.

Cougarness

A few Saturdays ago was filled with tasks such as cleaning the shitters, vacuuming, dusting, taking out the trash and the obligatory 3+ hours of yard work.  It was a day I set aside to take care of all my grown-up responsibilities that just had been staring me in the face for days.  The loads of dog hair I swept up could have stopped a train dead on its tracks.  And cleaning the toilets is always a good time and reminds me that I am not yet royal enough to have the monarchy attend to all my medial tasks.  Needless, I was committed to attending to my home rather than spending a gorgeous afternoon patio-side drinking sangrias with friends watching college football.

But then I received an invite to (hold for it)….. to join a group of girls consuming sangrias patio-side.  Of course, I dropped my cleaning sponge like a bad habit, jumped in the shower and spent some time in the mirror fighting with my hair.  And then I spent some more time in the mirror screaming at my hair and berating it to death in disappointment.  It was just one of those days where what ever I tried, my head of faux brunetteness wasn’t going to cooperate. 

Fast-forward two hours, 2 shots and 2 sangrias in.  I have forgotten about my rat’s nest head of hair and kibitzing with a group of funny gal pals.  College sports make me happy and so does the blanco queso served with warm tortilla chips.  Part of the group dwindled due to family responsibilities and children to tend to at home.  The remaining warriors and I moved on to another locale with visions of filling our wine glasses with quenching new wines.  Throughout the afternoon I had befriended one of the ladies in our group who I respectfully referred to as the Cougar.  She was hilarious, pretty, straightforward, divorced and holds a powerful job.  We hit it off immediately and began exchanging jokes and camaraderies.

So on we went.  We ran into a fine gent who stopped to give us a lift and befriend us in the 4 blocks it took to drive to the next watering hole.   He was good looking.  He was charming.  He was my age.  He was personable.  He was well groomed.  Did I mention he was my age?  He was also more interested in the cougar in our group than holding a conversation with me about well, anything.  Maybe I had food in my teeth or a booger hanging out or something?  She had charm, she had confidence and she had great one-liners.  She told me right out of the gate she was going in for the kill and that I needed to layoff.  I didn’t realize chics marked their territories so quickly.  Apparently, those of the feline species do.

Even if I  were interested in him, I had struck out before getting up to bat.

I don’t mess with cats.

Via Urban Dictionary

$28 Worth pre-date convo

Monday, July 11, 2011.

$28 Worth and I had scheduled our first meet-up.

A quaint lil' wine bar in my n'hood.

1) Because it is close and, if the date failed, I could hit the eject button and get home swiftly and lock my doors without having to drive too far like a bat out of hell running from Freddy Kruger.

2) Because we are both wine enthusiasts lushes, or so Match pointed out to us in our profile considerations. 

11:14 am

“Good morning.  Hey, we still on for tonight, say 7:30?”

11:49 am

“Sounds like a plan to me.  Are you ready to bring your wine and cheese A Game?”

6:45 pm

“Do you know if this place is tank top friendly?”

6:46 pm

“Yes, and jort friendly too.”

7:01 pm

“I might beat you there.  I had to stop and pick up my Ed Hardy shirt I left at the bar last night.  I guess I took it off there in the midst of my shenanigans.”

7:15 pm

“That’s OK.  I’m wearing my fav hooker 6” heels.

7:21 pm

“Great.  It’s possible I will come up to your boobs depending on how hookery your heels are. I’m also running out of jokes…meet you in a few.”

And, that's how my Monday pre-date lead-in started.  

Sense of humor?  Check.

Sarcasm? Check.

Wine Gulper?  Check.

I'm AmericanBridget and I might have consumed one too many Pinot Grigios on Monday evening.