dan lacey

Have you disappeared down the parenting rabbit hole?

My parents think I don’t understand them (at least I think they think that). So today I’m making an effort to get into their brains. [Full disclosure: MY PARENTS ARE TOTALLY BORING. FEEL FREE TO SKIP TODAY’S POST.]

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After seven years of parenting, my mum and dad aren’t doing so well in the social department. While they were never so outgoing that they had to fend off friends, prior to this millennium they at least hung out with people, phoned people, and found themselves in mingling situations more than once every two years.

Simultaneous nap. As rare as a blue moon. (I think they’re faking.)

Parenthood changes the way you make friends—profoundly. No longer do you make connections casually, gradually, or naturally. The intense first year with a newborn, during which you get an immediate burst of attention and then withdraw into diapers and mush, effectively destroys whatever spontaneity you once had. At first friends call…barbecues, dinner parties, golf games, poker nights…but if the invitations don’t jive with naps, or feedings, or bedtime, you turn them down. Turn them down for long enough, and people don’t call any more. And you don’t call them, because you’re tired. You can’t hold a conversation without interruption any more. You can’t hold a coherent thought in your head. Pretty soon, nobody calls anybody, ever.

You realize you don’t know anybody. Moreover, you’re barely fit for human company. But that constant barrage of parenting advice that streams from the ether is commanding you to socialize your child.

So you find yourself at playgrounds, scoping out other families. Gone are the days when friendship sprouted organically. A newfound desperation to network finds you sizing up the kids…Are they the right age? Do they play nicely? Do they look like they have the occasional bath? Do they bite? Could they possibly be inbred?

Then, secondarily—and distantly so—do the parents look okay? Because the thing is, okay will do. If they seem nonviolent, moderately social, aren’t screeching profanities, and have kids that will play with yours, it’s now or never. You’re going to make it click. And so, like a speed-dater, you court them, aware that any second one of your respective spawns will start caterwauling and truncate any opportunity to network on their behalf.

A week later you’re sitting in a strange family’s living room wishing you’d had the foresight to medicate your allergies against their seven cats. You’re wondering why anyone needs 14 bibles and how these juxtapose with the Harlequin-romance-stuffed shelves. Casual conversation reveals your new friends don’t allow their boy-children to play with pink or purple toys for fear of homosexual contagion, further armor against which (you fear) might be offered by an improperly stored firearm somewhere in the house. Aphorisms chatter from copious wall plaques, and you glean from the family’s countless photo collages that the kids are busily engaged in cheerleading, apologetics camp, and—yes—beauty pageantry.

You realize that if and when you reciprocate with a playdate at your house—if it’s to be a repeat event (and aren’t your kids playing nicely together?)—you’ll need to hide half your books and at least one painting. You probably shouldn’t mention the alcoholic bear who lives with you and whose typing you do, nor should you heed random temptations to diss Mitt Romney or ask, “How about those freaks outside BC Women’s Hospital? Forty days, huh?” Already, in their house, the Third Rail is arcing electrically, taunting you to leap upon it…

But your kids LOVE each other.

You realize that, in your own way, you’re probably being more inwardly judgmental than your hosts ever would be toward you. You wonder…are you being a snob? Are your misgivings valid? Or should you just tamp them down for the sake of your kids, who don’t know or care about the politics or lifestyle mismatches you think are such an obstacle?

With your kid(s) at playdate age, the tail has been wagging the dog for a long time. Socially, you’ve disappeared down a rabbit hole. You probably go days on end without anyone calling you by your given name. It has not been about you for a very long time. And until grade school, when the little ones start making their own friends, awkward playdates are a fact of life.

Fact 1: The weirder the other parents are, the more your kids will attach to theirs.

Fact 2: The weirder the other parents are, the more inclined you’ll be to always be present for the playdates. Just because.

Fact 3: After years of uncomfortable playdates, you’ll have no idea how to make your own friends any more.

If you’re very lucky, by the time Kindergarten dawns, some of your playdates will have translated into genuine parental friendships. When naps and baby food are phases of the past, you might just be able to hang out with the adults while the kids play. Sure, they’ll have a fight every two minutes or so, but you’ll be able to complete a sentence here and there, and eventually get to know each other as adults, above and beyond your kids. And then you can be yourself and let it all hang out. And then you can allow the resident alcoholic bear onto the counter, where he can sample from everyone’s glass. And there won’t be a resultant awkward silence. You can explain that he’s your bear, not your kids’, and that he’s an alcoholic. And that since he’s beyond hope, everyone should just keep pouring for him.

Really.

Curating the new LBHQ…another must-have

Not only does the new LBHQ lack liquor cabinetry; it has bare walls, my fellow inebriates. We need art.

Nyan Pancake Cat by Dan Lacey. Compatible with altered states. But whence comes the rainbow?

Commanded by ELDERTON COMMAND SHIRAZ (2003)

My Fellow Inebriates,

When my parents nixed the Star Wars liquor cabinet, it was my mum turning the killjoy switch. My dad agreed that thing is epic, although he stopped short of agreeing it was ideal for our new headquarters.

My mum said she’d prefer something like this:

…Which is pretty awesome too, although in an obviously different direction. Honestly, I’m not sure it would go with our art. And, more troublingly, a highfalutin cabinet like this one cries out for spectacular wine in a price range—ahem—above ours.

Only one such wine has crossed our doorstep recently, courtesy of the inestimable Christine, whose booze expertise would be necessary to outfit such posh furniture.

Several weeks have elapsed since Christine brought over the Barossa Valley Shiraz in question, ELDERTON COMMAND (2003). A suitable grieving period had to pass before I could reflect on it, and even now it’s painful to contemplate the empty bottle.

For several years Christine had been saving, if not strictly cellaring, the bottle, which originally came from her brother, and we were honored to partake. While she didn’t build it up to be all that, she did advise some extra breathing time for it, which we whiled away with some less pedigreed hooch.

There’s nothing more sensorially expanding than the trade-up from barnyardy plonk to a silky, plush Barossa Valley Shiraz. It’s like turning from your moon-crater-examining backyard telescope to the freaking Hubble. In fact, I barely remember what wine we were sipping before Christine unleashed ELDERTON COMMAND.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh does not cover it, my fellow inebriates. A rich, jewel-toned purple, ELDERTON COMMAND exudes bounteous aromas of plum and blackcurrent underlaid by American and French oak, presaging its total seduction of the palate.

The first sip is immensely mouth-filling, enchanting the palate with luxuriant dark fruit, teasing hints of violet and vanilla plus the sense that chocolate is in the same room somewhere nearby. How many angels can dance on the head of the pin? gasps your brain’s reward center as it fumbles willingly toward utter enthrallment, incognizant that the small clichés your tongue might summon to explain this wine’s power are just that trite.

Now, much of our descriptive helplessness owes to LBHQ’s ongoing adherence to the $15-20 price range. COMMAND commands $90, which puts us in Christine’s debt for exposing us to this rapturous product.

According to oenophiles who actually know what they’re talking about, 2003 was a rough year for the Barossa Valley, demanding a special artistry from vintners. That Elderton soared above its fellow producers with this inky, complex, and concentrated Shiraz speaks volumes about Elderton’s virtuosity. Smooth and lingering, COMMAND offers the sort of soul-enslaving depth you won’t find in an everyday wine, and at 14.5% alcohol it will get you freaking hammered.