Happy One and a Half Year Anniversary Morning to my boyfriend and me!
Category Archives: wine
Apparently, the other night when I decided that yes! I should blog while intoxicated! I downloaded a bunch of junk onto my boyfriend’s computer. How did I do that, you ask?
Bugger if I know! I didn’t even know that I had consumed two half bottles of wine instead of just the one – how am I to know what buttons I pressed on a keyboard that weren’t saved into the internet archives?
And here I complain about ten year olds messing around and ruining computers. I’m more than double that age, and I’m the one causing damage.
Tut tut, Nicola. Tut tut
Right. Well. That wasn’t a very good idea now, was it?
After weeks of anticipation, yesterday made its appearance. We had dozens of pumpkins to paint, a pinata, – we even filled it with candy! We had a scarecrow walking around telling the worse Halloween and scarecrow jokes you have ever heard. Photos were being taken and we had a pirate who had a lobster dog – it was all great fun.
Thursday, everything was on track. The Atrium was being decorated, the pumpkins had been washed and moved inside, we had a crew venturing out to pick up the pinata and some black paint on Friday morning. It was all going to be fine and ready to start at 4.
Oh wait, except for the part where there was no advertising. $30 for posters and hand bills out the window since none of them were put up. Then there was the arrival at 2 of our scarecrow who said that they were unable to find a scare-crow costume, so there would be no scare crow to take photos with, and they didn’t have time to stop and get candy for the pinata, and there were no bean-bags for the bean bag toss.
Ok, the posters might be a slight exaggeration, but they weren’t as sufficiently scattered throughout the county as I had anticipated and hoped.
Did I mention we have three things for small children to do??? Bean bag toss through a pumpkin, pinata, paint a pumpkin, and get a picture with a scarecrow???
Here’s a couple of things you might want to know about this place:
It’s freaking beautiful. It’s a coffee shop with a Japanese style Garden in the back. It’s not even a mile from the beach, and it’s at the base of one of the most beautiful drives you have ever taken. We are about two miles from a town called Edison, which is an artsy biker town – village really, if America had villages – five miles from Bow, which is actually just a casino and a gas station, 17 miles from Bellingham, an actual town, and 10 miles from Burlington, another actual town. These last two towns are the kind of towns with several post offices, and have at least one college, if not three and a University, contain all the big stores and so on.
So, being the problem solver I am, I abandon my post and dash off to get candy and bean-bags from Burlington, and a heater because that Atrium is not insulated and we live in the Pacific North West and we have been locked in fog for days. We are at sea level – might even be below it, I am not sure, but fog – lots of it and thick.
I returned with 45 minutes to spare before the event started, still no scarecrow, I see the pots of paint that were donated for pumpkin painting and they are tiny – I don’t even know what else was bugging me – but I was some how very angry. So I took my lunch, grabbed my boyfriend (who also works here), and we went to hide in the groundskeeper’s house (open door policy) while we ate. Except there was no peace and quiet. I endured. I began to tell my boyfriend what was getting me all riled up, and all I was hearing was “you didn’t put any one on as project manager, I was telling you these things were going to go wrong days ago and you didn’t do anything about it; You should have anticipated this; why didn’t you prepare for this -” and so on. He got a phone call then. I put my sandwich next to his and sat outside on the back porch and just breathed for a little while.
Ten minutes might have gone by, or 30 seconds – I don’t know. But I emerged to make sure things were handling. They figured out a way to dress the scarecrow, (He made a pretty great one, and played his part quite well) though some other things were going wrong – I don’t even remember what it was. I asked Toby, my boyfriend, what he did with the sandwiches. Nothing.
It was the straw that broke the scarecrow’s back – or camel, I suppose, since I wasn’t stuffed with straw. The sandwiches that were nothing more than our lunch, were still sitting in the house, un-put away.
It was more than just food being left out. It was that I felt like I have to be every one’s mother. I have to look after every one, remind Toby of everything before he leaves the house, remind him to call back so and so, remind him to get food and eat, and it was the same thing for the event – I had a list of things to be accomplished, I assigned tasks to people, and it wasn’t done – because, as Toby so graciously pointed out, I wasn’t hovering over everyone and checking up and being their mother (ok, so he didn’t say it that way, I did). Why am I task force at home, and at work? Can’t I just worry about looking after myself for a moment and know that other people have the sense to get their own things done without me mothering them? I have not committed to breeding at 26 for a reason!
So I hid. I went and sat in the office and vowed I would eat whoever’s head popped through those doors next like I would a gummy bear.
During this time, Toby’s dad had arrived, Barb, his mom was working, and his sister and nieces had arrived as well. I knew this. And I continued to hide. I didn’t have it in me to be friendly. I couldn’t make myself be the pleasant person that truly, wholely enjoys each of their company.
Me hiding was the best option for everyone, really.
Luckily, it was Danny that popped through, the pirate with the lobster dog. She let me rant at her for a moment, then handed me her pen. It made the world better. Then good. Then too good. Then – oh damn, I had toppled over the edge! Too gone! Too gone!
Her pen was actually an O. Pen Vape pen. This is a device that is very much like E-Ciggs, but instead of some disgusting tobacco juice in the cartridge (I’m looking at that word, and not seeing is spelled correctly. Is that really how it’s spelled?), it is a concentrated cannabis oil. Toby had offered me some earlier, but I turned it down. They usually have no effect on me.
But while I was ranting at poor Danny, distracted by my own rage and hand gesturing, she handed me the thing – and I have this terrible trait which allows me to turn down cannabis until I am distracted, and if I am distracted then my high-school me reaches out of my body and consumes it in some manner. It is not uncommon for most of my highs to be accidental. And this is what happened yesterday.
My high-school self reached out of my chest and shoved the pen into my mouth and forced me to inhale deeply – very deeply – three or four times. I became aware of this, and stepped outside to exhale, and watched the massive plume of smoke escape my lungs and realized just what I was in for.
And then I was baked. Very very stoned. I had been in an oven at 350 degrees for 20 minutes and basted – I was baked.
So I hid.
Just for a little longer.
I finally got up my gumption to go into the world. It didn’t take long before my boyfriend’s mom was in my face telling me I bought the wrong pain brushes and I should have known that they wouldn’t work, and how are the kids supposed to do detailed pumpkin painting with those giant things we bought and –
I looked at her. I gave her a penetrating look which I don’t know translated as I hoped it would, turned and walked away, back to the office.
My head was reeling as to why we chose the paint brushes we did – that they were easy to clean, we didn’t have the funds for nice brushes – we didn’t even have the funds for good paints! We were at the dollar store getting what we could.
It all really just boiled down to how I didn’t organize this event right.
I sat in the office and cooled off for a moment, then came walking back out, ready to face every one.
“Really?” she asked as I meandered over.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re walking like a stork,” she told me.
I thought I had been walking the way I walk when I am cold and have my hands in my pockets. So I turned back to the office, and hid, conscious of each step that I took and whether or not it made my head bobble.
I’ll make this story go a bit quicker – every time I came back outside, I was criticized or made fun of, and not in the ways which I can usually laugh at myself about, so I turned and went inside to hide. I was one raw and exposed nerve in a tooth that kept getting poked. I am not generally so sensitive, but today was just different.
This carried on for about 4 hours.
It was a day when internally I was ragging on myself for not making it perfect, for not being 4 different people, for not putting the posters and the hand bills out, and then further scolding myself for getting so high.
Our work is extremely 420 friendly – it’s almost an requirement, really. But generally I refrain. Where as I used to be that kid in high school that “could always be higher”, today I like to be functional, which is an ability I quickly lose when I have a toke. So I wait until I’m at home, and even then I don’t like to smoke too much, or consume in any way. But I always make sure that I keep it separate from work, because I am such a dysfunctional stoner. And yesterday, I broke that rule, and showed everyone why it is my rule.
But even my boss told me it was fine, that I, of all people yesterday, needed it.
I wanted to come home and have several glasses of wine and go to bed.
Instead I ate a horrific amount of food (so much for the weight loss plan, but gad-damn the munchies devour my self-control before everything else in the house!), had one glass of wine and a couple bites of some severely dark chocolate, became upset at my boyfriend when he tried to put on Raising Hope (I refuse to watch that show – aside from a select few, babies and children scare me, and I don’t enjoy watching things revolving around them. It kind of freaks me out!), and went to bed.
The good news is, the fog burned off this morning, and the sun rising painted my kitchen that burnt orange color I love so much. I might be productive this morning and clean the kitchen, fold some towels, put things away. Or I might just simply make some tea and find a book to read.
If I didn’t have to be to work in an hour, I might just sit back and smoke a bowl.
PS if you’re wondering why there was no mention of chicken in this entry even though it was called “baked chicken” – I Am the Baked Chicken
I have one question:
What, on the internet, brings you to emotion?
Ok, maybe more than one.
What provokes hurt, sympathy, apathy, anger, joy, delight, understanding?
Are any of these emotions followed by contemplation?
I’ll leave it at that. Perhaps write a haiku at some point. Allow me to meditate on these questions
You know, I battled over the use of Layed or Laid. Of course, now when I type it, it say that “layed” is not a word, so clearly these little squiggly lines are trying choosing sides. No matter. The groundwork must be laid.
I live in Washington State. You know, that liberal place in the top left corner that’s still a part of the main land. The one that just legalized the recreational use of Cannabis – oh yes, that one. Well don’t judge. It’s a functional means of relaxation that can also do a fair bit of healing, hence that ability to acquire a medical recommendation for the stuff.
I am born and raised with a background of spending my summers in North Wales. I have a great many – ok, one – reasons for this – though none of the matter other than that the experience taught me to drink!
Never mind that though.
I have considered myself a mild psychonaught, that is, one that explores the inner depths of the mind. I am intrigued in most mind-altering things, especially what I like to call “hippie drugs” – those that are none addictive but allow me to explore the innermost workings of consciousness. With this knowledge that you the reader have now learned of me, please know that my inebriated writings, rants and ramblings will not just be prompted by alcohol or cannabis (though the latter is rare), but in some (rarer) cases, induced by hallucinogens and perhaps from time to time those drugs which promote the production of serotonin within the brain.
Like I said, those will be rare.
It will be far more common for me to be indulging in red wine – because it’s good for the body and equally common – gin. It’s the English in me.
From time to time I smoke some pot, though it’s rare as well. During my higher evenings (and my sessions do generally occur in the evening, unless on quite a special occasion), I become trapped in myself – a creative whirl of thought that I can’t keep track of when using my verbal capacity to express myself, yet too much thinking to focus on the keyboard in order to hold onto the creative thought I had a firm grasp on just seconds before.
Drinking has never really been my go-to when it comes to creativity. However, I once had a few drinks, everyone had gone to bed, and I began working on a story. I wrote a whole chapter – or maybe it was just a page and a half (I’m not entirely certain), and by the next day, I had forgotten I had worked on it – until I went to go and work on it. I looked and the additional pages, saw that it had last been updated the night before, and was delighted in my brilliance I had portrayed during my slurred memory of the previous evening. I began to wonder if perhaps – just perhaps, I could in fact write when my brain was a bit wet with a bevvy or four.
This is part experiment. Part to know if I can make my way under water – fire? How functional of a writer I am? Can I hold an audience? Can my less-than-mindly-self keep to the promise that is this blog?
Well, it sounds silly when I put it that way.
I like red wine. I used to only like mead which upgraded to sweet Roses (only because I can’t put the accent over the e like I should), which altered to flowery whites. Hell, I used to even know the type of whites I enjoyed drinking. But that all went out the window because of cheese.
I didn’t like Red Wine, or Blue Cheese, until one day some one told me to put the cheese in the center of my tongue and sip at the red wine.
My world was changed. Suddenly I could not wish for any other way to spend my evenings than with a variety pack of cheeses and a bottle of red to share. White became stringy and tart and rose seemed like a fake cheer-leader in comparison to the curvy and robust red wine.
Of course, as time went on and I began my path down my nutritional education, it didn’t help that I found the excuses as to why red wine should be regularly consumed. After all, it’s good for the heart. It’s right there next to dark chocolate – which I consume without guilt as well.
Damn, I’ve done it, haven’t I? I’ve given it away that I’m a woman.
Woman. That word is an interesting taste in my mouth as well. When does a girl become a woman? Is gal an in between phase, much like guy is between boy and man?
Then I came across the book – the most wonderful book there could possibly be. I found it at the college books store when they were going out of business (sad, really. Especially in a town where there are three colleges and one university! It’s a Dollar Tree now. I’m sure there’s some form of irony there). It was there in a pile of books that were marked some 106597% off – ok, the book was 75 cents. But it was there, waiting just for me. I bought it, though I dare not read it for fear I become a lush. But it was there, hard-bound with a smart jacket and everything, ready to be taken out to dinner 0 “The Red Wine Diet”.
You see why I haven’t read it yet, don’t you.
I let it sit on my shelf and be pretty, waiting for the day when I know that I can say no to that bottle 100% of the time.
Now I do sound like a lush. Well, I assure you, that I do not regularly drink. Perhaps once a week on average. However, if I am to say watch a certain British sitcom about a book store owner who smokes worse than a chimney and puts a goldfish’s drinking to shame – well then I can’t deny the idea that a good glass of red sounds superb. Just like when I used to read certain books about a bounty hunter that used to be a lingerie buyer – I couldn’t say no to a doughnut.
But it’s red. That is the key. It is red, and red is good for the heart and is classy – and no, it doesn’t really but actually does matter that I spent no more than $3 on a bottle. It was on sale. I’m a thrifty non-lush.
Do you know what I am?
I’ll get to that later.
This will be the first and last sober entry you shall come across.
Well, that’s not true. A cider and a glass and a half of red wine down, I can’t really claim myself to be sober.
You know, I have been trying and trying to find my niche of what to write about, how to get my blog out there. Sure I write beautiful entries for myself in my own personal journal, but that is just far too – well, personal! How can I share that with the world?
There might just be an obvious answer to that.
I am the manager – or newly appointed Assistant Administrative Director – or something or other – at a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere. I enjoy making coffee. You know I actually once got myself a job as a supervisor at an ice cream shop in North Wales by simply telling them I wanted the job because I like coffee and I like ice cream – it’s amazing what a bit of honesty will get you!
There is a point to this, I promise.
I work in a coffee shop because of my honesty above – I really like coffee. What’s more than my enjoyment of coffee is my love of making coffee. It’s like a potions lesson to me. How do I get it to layer just so? What is the exact amount of time before the shots of espresso go stale? (Damn, I just realized this thing doesn’t give me the little red squiggly line that tells me I’ve done something wrong with my typing). How do I make rice milk froth as brilliantly as whole milk? – and so on! (hmm, I am venturing away from my point somewhat)
During my enjoyment of my job, a woman stopped in. We began chit-chatting, and low and behold, she is a writer – and somewhat successful at that! She told me about the books she wrote and the blog that got her known.
It tickles me when I meet actual real writers in the flesh – the normal people that pop into a coffee shop and can show you they’re nothing different than you other than they simply found their formula that worked for them. She simple told me, to every question I asked, was to find my niche.
So here I am, finding my niche.
I have many niches. But the problem is, I have difficulty limiting myself to one niche – at least with enough passion to write regularly on a topic. I am an American (kind of)! I was raised into an ADD nation! I can’t keep focus on one topic for a year! That’s perpostuous! Yes, I don’t know really how to spell that word, but it is so!
Then, in a craving for a glass of red wine to slosh through my system (I won’t lie, it was British comedy which created the craving), lighting struck, and my brain gave way to my ADD niche.
I can write about all I want, whatever I want, as long as I am far from sober, or at least, off the sober beaten path.
I will have no restraints, or rather, less restraints on my ideas and thoughts, and who knows – all manner of typing might be out the window! In these cases, those which discontinue my understanding of how to work a basic computer, I will attempt to use a video blog. There will be times when my method of inebriation will also discontinue my mental database which grants me access to speech, but we will cross that bridge when it comes!
I will promise to you, the reader, that I will explore different means to a complete utter non-sobriety (Because Sobriety is entirely over-rated) and bring completely giberish straight to you, the reader.
Perhaps I should lay down some ground work. Well, I’ll leave that for another entry.