About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Flaming shots of absinthe
I made one crucial mistake when bemoaning the lack of New Year's Eve festivities at our house. I forgot that Chuck is a party animal and that no matter how small the crowd, if you’re coming to our house, you will be inebriated within five minutes of arriving at our front door.
No ifs, ands or buts about it.
My husband’s motto is “18 for life.” Personally, I despise the saying because it implies a complete lack of regard for responsibility and/or maturity and what wife wants to hear that her husband thinks he should be able to behave like...oh shit, I don’t know one delinquent celebrity who is 18! A Jonas peckerhead? Miley Montana?
Crap, I’m ancient.
Part of me knows he is kidding about the whole 18 for life thing. (Hah, hah, right honey?) Although now that he’s going to be home with Junior I do worry I will come home one day to find them doing a collective crotch scratch to Skid Row while shot gunning apple juice.
Crap, I’m nervous.
But really, back to New Year’s Eve. Chuck bought a bottle of absinthe and practically pitched a tent when a Polish friend of a friend mentioned she could light the shot on fire, which is popular in her home country. Everyone tried it, even my father (yah, go ahead, chuckle ’cause my dad was here—he’s 21 for life yo!)
Crap, I’m hokey.
Tonight, I’m afraid there will be more flaming shots of absinthe because Chuck has invited a whole new slew of people over for a little birthday pre-game (that’s how he explained it but I know the truth—the man will invent any reason to party).
The good news is that if tomorrow's Date Night III is tame and tequila-less, I have valid reasons why.
Crap, I'm going to be 34.