Just to illustrate the mismatch between my stated aim of achieving drunken oblivion by the earliest hour possible daily and our family’s ongoing attempts at normal domesticity, today we went for a neighborhood stroll. The goal? Not to eventuate at a pub, but to snap pictures of every single flower we encountered.

We did this INSTEAD of staying inside and getting hammered.

This was rabidly wholesome, if anyone’s asking.

As you may have gathered, this was a freaking long walk. Enough to make a drunken bear desperate. And then…

THEN, my fellow inebriates…

We came upon this:

It was a wine tree.

Beribboned and festive, there the wine tree stood. My friends, I do not know how this tree managed to sprout wine bottles. Suffice to say it was a miracle. We approached tentatively.

It was beautiful.

Just as magically, near the wine tree there was a wine bush.

And a wine hedge.

I was overwhelmed. This was a vision of religious proportions, people. Was it an illusion?

It was. Those bottles were empty—every single one of them. The neighbors had strung them for the 50th birthday party of “M,” whoever that might be. But where are the contents?

“Why don’t we know these neighbors?” I asked my dad. “Why are you guys so antisocial?”

We need to get to know neighbors like these. Then we could wish “M” a happy birthday. AND find out what’s happened to the contents of the bottles.