My Fellow Inebriates,
Miss P had a lingual frenectomy yesterday. I hadn’t been paying attention to her orthodontic odyssey, otherwise I would have known about the laser snip to her sublingual frenulum—that thin membrane stretching from mouth floor to tongue underside—which had became an obstacle to inserting a new orthodontic appliance.
The whole thing seemed so sudden—like some sort of periodontal whim on the part of our crazy parents. Why didn’t they mention it??? I would have been sympathetic. Maybe I would have volunteered to serve as Comfort Animal. Certainly I would have offered blender drinks afterward.
According to Dad, P was beyond brave, especially when he and Miss V had to leave the room for the 15-minute procedure, leaving her in the hands of a strange doctor with a laser. But seriously, how sudden. Is this how we do things now? Take the kid in for a check-up and next thing you know, we’re slicing up her frenulum?! I mean, “WTF?” is what P should be saying, if she can manage to say it yet.
Parents often go for the old ambush when it comes to vaccinations and other scary shit. By this time “just a check-up” should be a red flag for P and V. But it’s never certain…sometimes a check-up is just a check-up. Sometimes you get stuck in the arm. And sometimes a doctor singes off your frenulum with a fucking laser. OMG.
Still. If we wanted orthodontics to proceed (and why wouldn’t we want a dentist to have all that liquor money?), this appalling thing needed to be done. So said my dad. So I decided to learn more about the frenectomy. How much did it hurt P? How long would she need blender drinks? Did she need medicine and/or tequila in said blender drinks? Would that crazy frenulum thing grow back? And would she ever trust my parents to lead her into any sort of medical building again?
I googled “lingual frenectomy” hoping for these answers. But I got other answers I hadn’t thought of.
Holy crap, this was a whole other tangent. Sordid and irrelevant! But intriguing! What the hell was this thread about? What kind of activity was this guy engaging in? (It sounded vaguely cannibalistic.) I’m just a bear, so I had no idea, and I was afraid to google anything else. So I asked Dolly if she knew.
I haven’t mentioned Dolly in a very long time because she asked threatened me—specifically about using the word “girlfriend,” which she maintains she never was, never has been, and never would/will. Ask her if she’s a furvert, she’ll titter, cuddle up to Red Bear, and issue no denials, but with me? Absolutely not. Dolly wishes she had one of those gadgets from Men in Black so she can erase the sweet memories my two brain cells occasionally swap back and forth about her. That or a machete.
Still. Dolly read the frenectomy thread. “And your question is, LB…?”
“What the hell is that guy talking about? Is he actually eating people? Eating beautiful women?”
“LB, you are a total embarrassment.”
“Oh. Well, I kind of knew that.”
“It’s okay, LB. But you’re on your own with this one. After all, my underwear are sewn on.”
Now I was even more confused. “But who can I ask? You’re the smartest in the toybox, Dolly. I can’t ask Scarybear. He’ll kick my ass. In fact, I’ll have no choice but to tag this post with the phrase ‘eating beautiful women out’ in the hope that someone will explain it to me. ”
“You don’t need to know everything, LB.”
“There’s no danger of that!”
“Be that as it may. But maybe you should stick to what your brain can handle. Have you tried any new gins lately?”
“I have actually. I had some PINK 47, which tried to kick BROKER’S ass with 47 percent alcohol. Not a bad gambit.”
“That’s why you smell like juniper,” said Dolly.
“Juniper’s nice, right?”
“It is. But you also smell like persecution and mange.”
She’s probably right. How can I not feel persecuted when just last night my dad suggested we take a little trip to the laundry room? “Just a rinse with some Woolite,” he said.
OMFG!! That’s kind of like “just a check-up.”
My Fellow Inebriates,
I’ve been sulking.
You would too if you were a bear with the DTs. On Sunday I received this pic:
OMG, look at that, I thought. My parents are sending me a message; they want me to come and share some delicious wine with them.
But I couldn’t find them anywhere. In fact, the house was empty—every window and door shut. Where the hell were they, MFI?
I started to panic. One Direction was not simpering from the living room speakers. The car was gone. Purses and wallets were gone. It was 30°C and climbing at LBHQ. And suddenly here was this cheeky photo, along with several others.
Calm down, LB.
It’s hard to calm down when your only company consists of panting bears confined on a sweltering day. We were dying, people.
A quick snoop through my parents’ e-mails told us they were at a 50th anniversary party. Who the hell would invite them to such a thing? Who would invite them anywhere?
Next came a text: tasting notes for BERONIA RESERVA RIOJA (2008).
Intensely concentrated yet nuanced flavors of blueberries, ripe cherries, and deep cocoa with supporting notes of vanilla and oak—perhaps some coconut? Definitely a slow sipper that develops nicely as it breathes. Nice tannins—much more refined than we’re used to at home, LOL. Yummy, yummy wine here, LB, too bad you can’t have some.
OMFG!!! How sincere do those condolences sound, my fellow inebriates??? “Too bad”? Too bad!!
Meanwhile, the butter was doing this.
The thermometer said 34°C now, and my fool parents had forgotten to shut the blinds. The house was cooking, and so were we bears.
The only saving grace was that the kids had put Scary in handcuffs sometime that morning.
Did they know somehow that he’d be getting ornery and need containment? Good kids. Too bad our their parents are such tools.
Congrats to our two little graduates, who rocked grades K and 2 this year. Obviously their accomplishments call for a toast, but when I suggested it, my parents accused me of appropriating the occasion as a drinking excuse. “Never!” I protested, while sidling over to our one bottle of red wine on the counter. But they nixed it and instead shared a solitary beer.
My mum had bought only one bottle of this Czech dunkel, LOBKOWICZ BARON on the weekend after watching a fellow customer load his entire basket with the stuff. He raved about it, pointing out the excellent price ($2.17/bottle) and describing it as dark and “sweet but not too sweet.” It sounded normal enough, so Mum shot out her hand and grabbed one before the dude could empty the shelf, and before long it was beckoning yours truly from the fridge.
Advancing to grades 1 and 3 is a big deal that warrants free-flowing liquor, I maintained, but it was not to be, so I will tell you about my tiny portion of LOBKOWICZ BARON. As promised by the dude in the liquor store, it was dark brown with persistent tan foam and a doughy aroma. Accompanying notes of malt, caramel, and yeast was a somewhat unwelcome metallic note all the more evident because of the beer’s simplicity. To be honest, it tasted like my dad made it, which I wish he had, because then we’d have a garage full of the stuff.
Overall, LOBKOWICZ BARON is friendly and uncomplicated, quite mainstream and, being on the sweet side, a good pick for drinkers who dislike being shit-kicked by wayward hops. But LOBKOWICZ BARON is very ordinary, and therefore inappropriate for significant occasions such as today’s. Certainly V, who was touted for her “inventive spelling techniques” and P, whose stint as “Goat Three” of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” won her accolades, would side with me and advocate hitting the sauce early and wantonly. Too bad they are not in charge. But one day they will be.