Too stressed to type?

The move from the old to the new LBHQ is 75% done, with only odds and ends (plus dirt) remaining at the old place. Over the years we’ve come to call this the “shrapnel phase”—everything left to move is odd-shaped, loose, and defiant of categorization.

In some ways the shrapnel phase is the worst part of a move. You no longer have a truck (or we don’t, at least), so all this crap has to be moved piecemeal in car trips. You’ve moved all the stuff you care about and use everyday, so it’s hard to generate enthusiasm to finish the job—you start to think about abandoning the shrapnel…but you’re not quite sure what might be hiding in it or underneath it (like the brandy glasses that disappeared two moves ago?). Psychologically, you’ve moved on. You’re in a new place; you’ve put things away nicely, and it sure looks tidy without…the shrapnel.

And that’s where we’re at, my fellow inebriates. The mega-stressful part is over, and there’s a sense of renewal and rebuilding. But there’s that nagging pile of crap back at the old place, which we really should go and get. So my dad’s doing it today. And once it’s done, his stress level should  go down.

Which is bad. I mean, yeah, sure, I like my dad and all; I don’t want him to give himself an ulcer. But I’ve been enjoying the way my parents have coped with this move—they’ve bought alcohol. And I worry that when they’re finally finished moving, they’ll stop doing that, or at least reduce their liquor spending to the dull roar they aspire to.

This is what we had been buying per month:

  • Beer: 1 case plus the occasional specialty one-off
  • Wine: 2 bottles

This is what we bought up to and during our move:

  • Gin: 2 750mL bottles plus mickeys for our Shoot-Out
  • Beer: 3 cases and two six-packs
  • Wine: 3 bottles

This represented a sizeable uptick. Sadly, I can’t count on them to keep the spending up. They’re already remorseful. Did it at least relieve their stress?

Apparently not. No one wants to be my paws tonight on the keyboard. Looks like we are stressed.


My mother and I made twin (fraternal, not identical) realizations this week.

Hers: When we buy gin we drink it all. We mustn’t buy gin.

Mine: When we buy gin we drink it all. We must buy in bulk. We must get more samples. We must take our gin consumption to the next level.

These complementary insights aside, it was a good week for drinking. We moved house, which involved a lot of beer, and my dad went on another golf-tourney-calling-itself-a-business trip, which always means white wine. You see, my fellow inebriates, my dad isn’t a fan of white wine, so whenever he goes away, we buy it. For several reasons:

We deserve it. We are doing all bedtimes, all meals, all playdates, all the time. We need it.

We are afraid. We don’t know yet if Fluffy left his paranormal squatter at the old townhouse or if he moved with us. And since this house, being older, naturally goes bump in the night, we won’t know for a while if Fluffy is still haunted. So we need something at night to take the edge off while Dad’s away.

My dad is useless about white wine. He doesn’t get it at all. So we break it out when he leaves town.

This time we chose THE WOLFTRAP VIOGNIER CHENIN BLANC GRENACHE BLANC (2011). We hadn’t been disappointed by this much-lauded South African winery before, and we had $15 bucks (and not much else) left over after paying the movers, which amounted to a hell yes.

The only downside to drinking white wine are the tall glasses. I have to stand on my toes to get any—you’ll have to believe me because my mum wouldn’t take a picture (she said I was a narcissist). Although we have a set of Reidel stemless red wine glasses, we’ve resisted buying their white counterparts—because why would you want to get your sweaty paws all over your lovely chilled glass? Whether the glass shape makes a perceptible difference…I defer to The Dogs of Beer.

After a long day of unpacking (one of us) and observing the unpacking (the one without thumbs), THE WOLFTRAP was exactly the wine we needed. French oak-matured, this intriguing blend features 57% Viognier, 32% Chenin Blanc, and 11% Grenache Blanc. It wafts scented pear and grapefruit peel with ripe peaches behind—all items bears crave and would root through someone’s garbage for. But unlike my friend Scarybear’s Ideal Lunch, these aromas are zesty and fresh, with satisfying follow-through on the palate. The mouthfeel is generous and layered, almost buttery yet zingy with hints of vanilla and hazelnut, lingering much longer than I had any business expecting.

This intriguing white blend is a find for under $15—well worth having again, even if my dad’s home, which he is now. Did I mention he won a bike at his company’s golf tournament? Not bad, Dad! But he forgot to wear sunblock, so now he looks like a lobster.

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?