lifestyle

Everything you ever (and maybe never) wanted to know about LBHQ

Last night it occurred to me that this blog might not make much sense to my newer readers. Only so much can be rationalized by the statement “I was drunk,” so perhaps a summary would help catch new readers up.

LBHQ (Liquorstore Bear Headquarters) consists of four humans (five if you count Dolly—more on that later) and countless animals. Occasionally humans visit from outside (grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends), and of course the animal pile grows with every gift-giving occasion. Of all of us, there’s only one self-avowed alcoholic (guess who). But there are plenty of liquor aficionados, which keeps the supply slowly trickling through LBHQ (and I do mean trickling, as in seeping). So, MFI (that’s you, my fellow inebriates), here are the short strokes.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The Humans

Dad

Formerly self-employed but now working for the man, Dad is the quintessential geek. Never without a handful of electronic devices, he is plugged in all day, all the time, without ever being punctual.

Hobbies
  • Music
  • Stereo gear
  • Golf (in his dreams)

Mum

Brimming with frustration and often spinning her career wheels, the Talking Heads lyric “How did I get here?…” best explains her parenting. Although she usually has my back, she would be fully capable of buying a bear-skin rug.

Hobbies
  • Eating
  • Reading
  • Heaving steel

Miss P

With two months till her seventh birthday and a smile devoid of the important teeth, P’s power to frighten bears has recently ratcheted up.

Hobbies
  • Dressing up
  • Dressing bears up
  • Bonking bears on the head

Miss V

The most intense personality at LBHQ, V loves all animals, as long as they do her bidding. She is that kid who, when you say you’re really leaving the playground and she’d better come along or she’ll get left behind, will never fall for it.

Hobbies
  • Demanding food and then ignoring it
  • Celebrating birthdays (Chihuahua has had at least 15 this year)
  • World domination

Nana

Part cyborg, part human, all mama to my dad, Nana doesn’t visit us often enough, but when she does she brings Italian and French wines, enlarging our tasting repertoire and messing with my dad by making him guess how much they cost.

Hobbies
  • Hosting massive parties
  • Creating one-of-a-kind cakes (the kids say they “want kirsch” in the next one; don’t ask me how they thought of it)
  • Replacing her knees with high-tech implants

Papa

Not a cyborg but married to one, Papa is my dad’s dad, and very good at it. Industrious and project-oriented, he always has something going on.

Hobbies
  • Co-hosting massive parties
  • Wine tasting
  • Spying on birds

The Animals

Scarybear

Apocalyptic and mangy, Scary can remember a time before kids when he had the TV all to himself. Asked about his origins, Scary will tell you he was caught in a leghold trap and brought by force to Toys R Us, right before he caught a giant salmon…

Hobbies
  • Science fiction
  • Conspiracy theory
  • Speculating how the world will end

Blackie Bear

My go-to friend when I feel anxious, Blackie also hails from the liquor store, although he doesn’t romanticize it the way I do. He thinks we need more girl bears at LBHQ, and he’s probably right.

Hobbies
  • Relaxing
  • Chilling
  • Letting me misquote him

Chihuahua

Three inches tall and attached to a hook, Chihuahua is Miss V’s most prized animal. The one time she “accidentally” tore its hook off, she screamed until it was sewn back on.

Hobbies
  • Yapping
  • Getting lost in small spaces
  • Appearing suddenly at the dinner table

Fluffy Bear

Scary’s long-lost and much fluffier twin, Fluffy lived seven years in Ireland with our granny. Shipped to LBHQ after her death last year, Fluffy is perpetually catatonic. He uses his mind (presumably under Granny’s control) to make things go bump in the night. I am totally freaked out by him.

Hobbies
  • Staring
  • Listening
  • Plotting

Dolly

My sometimes-but-mostly-not girlfriend, Dolly often gets lost in the toybox. Her open-minded attitude toward interspecies coupling lends refreshing perspective to LBHQ. Because she is a proven furvert, I’m including her with the animals.

Hobbies
  • Sarcasm alternated with confusingly genuine affection
  • Bear-baiting
  • YouTube projects

 

ASTROLIQUOR for October 5-11—What the stars say you should drink!

My Fellow Inebriates,

Here’s your booze horoscope:

Aries, your decision to deliver a giant gift basket of Bailey’s and cherry vodka to a gravely ill friend may not be in good taste. Then again, it might net your friend a steady stream of visitors and help with everyone’s bedside manner. Hospitals don’t have to be creepy. And if you sampled from the basket before you arrived, the creepiest thing in the hospital might be you.

Taurus, the stars have chosen you to be Designated Driver this week. This will alter your social pattern considerably. At first it won’t be easy staying sober. It’ll seem weird being alert. Then you’ll look in your wallet and be like, OMG, look at all that money. I was going to spend that on creme de cacao.

Get serious about finances, Gemini, and track this week’s expenses. The stars favor math for you, which means your spreadsheets will add up (at least before Bloody Mary hour). Consider cutting expenditures by 10 percent…ride your bike; put on a sweater instead of the thermostat; go commando so you don’t have to buy underwear. Speaking of this last bit, Friday looks flirty for you.

Cancer, your stars are talking diet and exercise, food logs, and gym memberships. OMG, they’ve got to be joking, with Canadian Thanksgiving coming up. INSTEAD: Pour four parts bourbon, two parts rum, and one part whipping cream over ice. Ahhh! Keep this to yourself (and your money too; lending is star-crossed this week…although if you lend liquor you will get it back—on your carpet).

Leo, let’s get physical this week. Don’t join a gym, though; if it’s like S_e__ N__h F_____s W_r_d all the machines are covered with old gum and the bathroom door has a four-inch hole in it. Try walking instead of driving. You’ll save a ton of gas money, which you can spend on vodka. No lending money while drunk! You’ll never get your cash back.

Vodka, Pernod, Malibu, Tia Maria, and pineapple juice. If you call this “breakfast,” Virgo, it’s no wonder you’re having trouble remembering where you put a particular item. It’s one of those small, useful items that you need occasionally and don’t want to have to buy again—especially since it’ll turn up as soon as you do, and then you’ll have two (or more if these breakfasts are typical). Search everywhere!

Libra, you’ll suffer some minor Long Island Iced Tea–related bruising this week during a sensational party, from which you’ll stagger home and immediately drop a small appliance on your toe. It will break (the appliance, not your toe) because you’ll have read this horoscope and put on steel-toed boots. In some cultures, dropping things is good luck. In your culture, it means you’re pissed.

In happy contrast to last week, Scorpio, strangers feel like friends and friends feel like family. You’ll make valuable contacts, clear up some debt, and enjoy a flirtation. It doesn’t get much better—unless you add equal parts Drambuie, Napoleon, and Parfait Amour to a really killer Scotch over crushed ice with juice to taste (I’m having “none”).

Sagittarius, your thoughts are spacey and futuristic this week. In a hundred years, how many people will populate the earth? Will your descendants colonize Mars? Will doctors be able to grow a new liver for you? On Saturday a friend joins you, and together you invent something that will change the world. OMG, what’s fueling this creativity? Could it be Malibu?

This is a good week to finish projects, Capricorn. Don’t be anxious; there’s no need to compete with colleagues. You can’t, really, with a brainful of Southern Comfort and vermouth; and they like having you that way in the office because it makes them look good. That’s why they don’t rat you out. After a lovely work week you’ll receive good news about a sick friend. (Do I hear a champagne cork?)

Aquarius, not everyone appreciates your directness. You mustn’t transfer your vodka- and rum-infused insecurities onto colleagues, nor should you use words like “asstard” at board meetings. Not only will you hurt people’s feelings; you’ll incite revenge! If you must tank up on Long Islands at work, try to remain very, very quiet.

Pisces, you’re bucking for an unpaid holiday, but it’s not working. No matter how much incompetence you demonstrate at work, you keep getting pats on the back. This would have been awesome a month ago, but now you’re eligible for unemployment, so ratchet up the misbehavior. Is there an annoying coworker you could pick a fight with? If you need fuel, try dumping a case of Bud Light into a vat of pink lemonade. Add 13 gin shots and put your concoction in the lunch room. Voilà! Cardboard-box time for you.

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.]

 ♦  ♦  ♦

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.