Tag Archives: Wine

Point Me To A Boxing Ring, & Place Your Bets

10 Jun

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I’m pissed.

…Not pissed as in “drunk” (yet)…but pissed as in “holy reign of terror.”

…It is 100% fueled by frustration.  Frustration in a field issue, I only rather recently overcame to begin with.  So this is pissed over an old wound being re-administered for the same reasons, in a different region.

The region is immaterial. 

This is still a compound fracture of nerve-temper being fucked with.

Which isn’t good.

It’s not good in my head.  Not good on a sunny day.  Not good with a week of work still ahead, and shows to open and bills to pay, and all the things that go with being a grown-up.

What I want right now, is a goblet of whiskey, certain pictures tacked on a wall, and some butcher knives for aiming practice. 

…No it’s not.  Why lie?  What I WANT is an explosive confrontation that leaves flames and general carnage in BBQ’d after-wake.

…What I have, instead, is a bottle of wine and plans to watch a super blast-your-fucking-ears-out action movie.

I am hoping the explosions help eradicate the rage.

…And as for the grape in lieu of grain: I learned long ago not to feed the Hulk beast with the hard stuff.  It only makes him Hulkier. 

Technically speaking, the wine isn’t practiced medical procedure either.  In fact, they frown on it.  I know, having been in therapy.  But if I’m not aloud to break things, or yell a lot…(and I refuse to take a Xanax)…then this is my deal breaker, people.

Me: and this bottled vineyard.

Much like morphine, it does absolutely nothing at fixing the actual problem, but does (if given in heavy enough dosage) keep you absolutely from even giving a flying fuck.

…Which, given the time crunch, day of week, and mental obstructions, is about the best I can hope for at the moment.

So: Go Me!

I will drink this fucking fermented grape juice, STUPID, and unnecessarily blast my TV sound system in something supremely obnoxious, and try my damndest to intoxicate the living-a-shit out of my current situation so that at some point tonight, I will be not-pissed-off-enough to actually sleep.

How the hell I deal with it all again tomorrow, is of course, an entirely other deal.

Suggestions are welcome.

…But only if they are artfully retaliatory, deliciously devilish, or painfully pointed in overall plot and procedure.

I have zero patience for reasonable, responsible, resolutions at the moment. 

Thank you.

~D

Post-Rehearsal Coitus

21 May

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Am absolutely buzzing from tonight’s first off-book rehearsal, on Act 1 and parts of 2.

…As Mdm Director noted: There were an insane amount of exceedingly complicated lines, running through the thought bubbles popping out of our heads, and following us about the stage as we strategized sex and manners and conversation…like fucking CHAMPIONS!

…Also: we laughed.

We laughed a LOT.

Mostly we managed to stick it together when it really counted, but good god this show is funny, and these people are funny, and even the accidents and line-calls: are funny.

…Terribly good bonding.

And now…I am wired.

I want to DO something.

Instead, all this excess of joyous yummy-feeling, is seated on the couch, punching away at my blog post, with a little picnic of sorts laid out and waiting for me to finish so I can tuck into some more words of Wilde, and a little delectable treat.

…Of course, I’ve started the wine already.  But it was poured out and just sitting there, so what ELSE is one to do in such situations?

Never waste what your scene partner is giving to you.

…My current scene partner is a glass full of wine.

Challenge: accepted.

…Also TWO consecutive dates of cast-meets for bonding and chats have been secured for post-rehearsal this week. 

…And our Merriman brought in Bourbon-Chocolate Butter-Cream Cupcakes at 9pm.

…Which (in retrospect) might ALSO have something to do with why I am so wired right now.

(A full cup of bourbon to the batter. Just. Do. It.  I’m telling you.)

…And now, as I take another sip, I contemplate on if this is a sizable enough post to call it a day, and move on to more treats.

…Not that I don’t think you’re delicious, too.

Because I do.

…Just as tempting as the Butter-Cream.

And I’m being completely sincere.

Have you SEEN “you?” 

Exquisite, my dear!

~D

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Hungry

29 Apr

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Am eating classic BFF Fajitas…a major staple of our bestest kind of days…where we’d run to the market for fresh veg, a bottle of cheap red wine, and come home, setting on Swing or Samba or somethin’ equally sassy, and drink and cook until the light left the sky and we were well buzzed and comfy.

…I miss those days all the time.  But it’s even worse on “Big Days.” 

Yesterday was the first Birthday since I’ve known her that she wasn’t here to resume her place of festivity-planner.  Foods from here to kingdom come, delights in outtings, special specifically NOT “cheap red wine”…the works.

…That girl does it up!

But dammit if she didn’t manage a co-feat-wonder with The Fella, being all the way on the totally wrong-opposite coast of America at the time, or not.

This was my BD gift of wonder, delivered with epic joy and hugs by The Fella, and slobbered over by me after he had left:

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…”So, what’s the big deal?” you might shrug to yourself, if you’re new to the blog, and it’s earlier epic drunken posts of foodage joy…in days when The BFF lived just there: at the end of the street, and would ramble over many times per week for our cooking sessions, punctuated with theatre debates and history talks and men worries and all the things that BFF’s always fill the space of time with.

Each food and drink and goodie, represents a very specific memory…a grin…and by the end of her little note tucked in the back, a mess of tears.

* A tiny watermelon. (In memory of the Gray Goose spiked one, that sat in my fridge all prepped for our naughty-secret of a picnic lunch, while we three watched Shakespeare in the Park, one summer.)

* Peppers & zuchinnis (Our oft-repeated BFF Fajita days, spread out over the entire coffee table, piled high with zillions of add-on sides n’ fixins.)

* An articoke. (The epic 100th BD of Julia Child, when we decided totally on a whim to tackle a full-course spread straight from “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” while drunkenly blogging our exploits.)

* Garlic. (A BFF staple in every. single. dish. Probl’y even the dessert ones. “Stink and think of me,” the note said…)

* Cabbage. (My refrigerator staple, for Polish kielbasa and potato stew — where both foods of “our people” gather in happy harmony, like we do.

* Spinach. (The major base for every epic salad we ever invented.)

* Dubliner Cheese. (Only the best sharpness of delish, also nodding to her time in ye old Irish Capital, together with Medium Tillamook, to be included somehow in some way, in nearly every meal we ever made.)

* A bottle of red. (Pin-up style, WWII ex-airfield-grown, an obvious toss up to our forever scout of delightful new reds, My obsession with WWII, and The Fella’s delight of period warcraft…bringing us all together in one bottle of joy.)

* Gourmet chocolate-covered cherries. (As with all the fresh veg, reminders of endless trips to Tacoma Boys, and their expensive little treats sections, upon occasion, finally splurged on with combining of fundages ‘tween we two.)

* A duel mix-tape CD. (Our greatest hits, our sing-alongs, our late-night cooking sambas…songs that each — like the foods in the basket — represent something you can’t always put in words…though the lyrics certainly help.)

…The last: a package that guided me with giggles and weepies all the way to my final “Anne Frank” show, and back home again.

Good thoughts.

Good memories.

…Proving that you don’t need to be “present” to be present on a day, in a thought, to make a moment special.

The BFF is just that good.

🙂

…Off to go and tackle the dishes now.

KP was always my job…along with the sous chef-prepping.

Dear The BFF,

I don’t cook the big stuff, good as you do. But I’ll try my best! And think of you with every chop, and fry, and bake, and swig, and garlic-stink.

I promise!

Love you lots and lots,

The (now) Double-Three

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~D

…And In Sweden, They Do It With Fire On Their Head!

17 Dec

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St. Lucia.

…An Italian Saint with about 1100 notations of conception and trials of faith, but I can’t for the life of me figure out which is the right one, or why a bunch of Nordic peoples, chose her, specifically, to celebrate.  Her day falls within the Yule, however, so its very possibly a turn of convenience, and great excuse for a party. And since she’s attributed for feeding the hungry…a feast is held, simultaneously.

…Being roughly a quarter Swedish, I always knew “about” the shindig, but had never taken actual part in it, until Marty showed up in all her blond-haired, blue-eyed, candle-burning, best.

She was always St. Lucia, while growing up, ceding the crown now to her carbon-copy niece. 

…And the honor of BEING St. Lucia comes with the ability to make special spiced and raisin-dimpled Lucia buns, and coffee, at the crack of dawn for the Mom and Pop of the house, bringing it to them, while wearing a white dress with red ribbon belt, and sporting a crown of melting candles in a wreath on your head.

…And sometimes this whole deal is repeated again later, when all the older relations come over for the feast…

…So you have to be careful not to set fire to yourself, not just once per year, but multiple times.  Apparently, it’s the elder’s jobs to sob over you, while watching you wander around singing songs at them, bending over with a tray of goods to offer, while praying to all that is holy that the hot wax dripping and drying on your hair, won’t actually ignite.

…It almost never does (just for the record.)  But I’m still not totally clear on the kind of percentage that “almost never” constitutes.

What I do know is that a LOT of food is involved…and a LOT of that food is made up of meat, spices, potatoes, creams, breads and butter. So I mean, it was immediately obvious to me, that this was going to be an awesome thing.

…Then too, there is the liquor.

…Liquor that took us three stores to find and collect. Because this magical mix called Glogg, the St. Lucia drink of choice, is made from not just one, not just two, but THREE kinds of alcohol, simmered in a pan with a bunch of spices, raisins, and almonds thrown it…then lit on fire with the help of Aquavit, and finally sieved and drunk.

…Which is a magical experience that can seriously fuck you up by evening’s end…especially if you “Skol” a shot of Aquavit with every new party arrival before hand…which was apparently Marty’s Pop’s job, every St. Lucia Day.

Being “traditionalist” is every sense of the word, we felt obliged to take up that banner, and roll with it as well.

Family peoples came.

We “Skol’d” ’em.

They “Skol’d” us.

…We watched (and helped as needed) whilst Marty, flushed a deep red, resided over Johnson’s potatoes and lace cookies and Lucia bread and spritzes and Swedish Meatballs…and then everyone ate, and drank, and laughed for like the next forever-hours, until it was time for Marty to go home.

Our guts, rumbled from so muchness in foods and drinks, that we switched then to waters…and the party distilled even further, leaving Ma n’ Me n’ Uncle Big Guy, swappin’ stories and poking our bellys to help in the digestion.

…This was all (btw) after a five-hour emo rehearsal, directly following an until four in the morning party-fest sleep-over, which directly followed an almost three-hour screening of the Hobbit with some very excited individuals, which directly followed a full work week.

…Which is why I spent all yesterday having an affair with a long-running TV series, while wearing my pajamas.

I ain’t no fool.

~D

…And The Footie Pajamas

25 Nov

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We are in pajamas, post show (and first read), decorating cookies (part 2), eating cheese plates and doing a “White Christmas” sing-along.

…It’s our thing.

The BFF and I are in sweats, but The Fella is wearing full-out long underwear footie pjs.  With the escape hatch.  He looks phenomenal.  I honestly didn’t know they made them for full grown people.

…Also, by time of blog writing, The Fella is drunk.  He’s now in the prone position, with said butt flap open, airing his pirate underwear and threatening to fart us into oblivion.  He’s now to the point of drunk where you lay in dead weight and grin at things…like the air…and have whole conversations with your eyes closed, your voice in falsetto.

I’m totally writing this whole night off on “character study” at tax time.   

***

The Fella is now splayed out in the farty chair, and “White Christmas” at it’s end, has led onto “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.” 

…They are worried about me having to work tomorrow…which with only two days left of BFF-dome, before she escapes back to Tinsel Town, is just erroneous.  Tomorrow will come as it always does, and I will crawl from the bed like a Darwinian evolutionary sludge, as I always do…be it on six hours or three. It is far more important to be building these memories.

…Unless someone pukes. 

I call the kibosh at that point.

***

So here we all sit…a small pile of humanity across all of the general couch area.  The Christmas tree lights on, the heater humming busily…our decorated cookies that look like a five-year-old baked and decorated them (though that is totally unintentional), on the table in front of us with little bottles of sprinkles and candy pieces, and wine bottles growing around us. 

…We begin deep philosophical discussions, like people do when they are buzzed after a long day…such as the political significance of the Lesba-whos, that are The Grinch’s parents…and if being green is a commentary on race relations…

…In between, we giggle, till it starts to get quiet and we get sucked into the movie.

The wine starts to mix in our tummies, the sugar cookies, soaking it up…our eyelids start to get heavy.

…Just like kids, we fight the sleep fairy and insist we are wide awake and ready to party.

…But we ain’t.

It’s late. Our tummies are full. The bottles are empty. And even Jim Carey in ten pounds of green fur and prosthetic can only seduce us so far. Not gonna lie, m’pillow sounds pretty amazing. But we are captivated with brilliance…in both what’s happening on the screen, and in the room right now. We are our own ultimate family…the kind that people can build if all the best of circumstances align…and at least one of the people are really bossy.

…As The BFF just stated, “Lookit this! If we were all siblings growing up, we woulda been awesome!”

…To which I replied, “Well yeah, but then you can’t have sex with your brother, so, maybe it’s gooder this way.”

“Also, she’d have been the bully,” The Fella pipes up through his wine-haze, before going back to grinning at the atmosphere.

“I would not!,” she insists, ironically punctuating it with a punch.

Touche. And stuff.

(Yawn)

“He’s out, ” The BFF sighs, leaning over The Fella, some minutes later. “Hey babe, wanna stay here on the futon or go home?”

“Mmfubbbub,” The Fella replies.

We take that for “home.”

…They stuff themselves into boots and scarves and coats and start on their journey…all of two city blocks away.

I watch them, lit by street lights on their early morning quest, before finishing with my typing.

…Night, friends. May you pass out well into noon. For me: I’m lookin’ at six hours. So I guess I’d better get at it…

~D

Why Yes, And Thank You

18 Oct

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I always feel such a sense of accomplishment when a friend from Russia reads these posts.  Just to see that massive landmass all shaded, indicating readership coverage.  It sorta makes me feel like a mini Dictator to watch SWAL’s words take over the globe.  Either that or the History Channel’s maps they put up charting how plagues have spread across the world, and the total devastation they leave behind.

…Which is basically the same thing, when you think about it.

I am nothing more than a word dictating disease.

Wow.

…I need to work on some more metaphors and similes, I think.

In Other News: I am on day 4 of a self-inflicted booze abstinence. I think I pulled something last time I made trips out to the recycling bins, and decided that there is really no need for me to consume more than one can carry, in one trip, over the course of two week’s time. Sure, I’m not the only one swilling at my house, but even if you cut those arm loads in half, there is still a whole lotta rotting grape going on in the “me,” on a consistent basis. I thought it was time to scale it back a bit. And by a bit, I mean cold turkey for now…firstly to make sure I can (and haven’t catered to my family habit of turning accidental drunkard), second: to drop some weight off, and third: because I am perpetually broke right now, and something had to go.

…So far, so good.

…Of course I haven’t really fed the beast by enticing myself either…with things like pasta and steak and pub hang time, which are the usual catalysts for gross amounts of boozing intake. But I’m pretty confident that I still could withhold even then. After all, I do have a full bar set-up in my living room, (with all the fixins.) And I do pass by it multiple times per day. And there are two bottles of red still corked and flirting with me from the corner pocket there. And I haven’t considered even tasting them, right now.

…Don’t feel any different physically, haven’t begun to lose any weight as yet (which could totally be Mrs. Johnson’s fault, as she waits just there in the wings.) All I know is: I know it ain’t “essential” to me, which is good. And I’m sure I’ll miss it at one point, which is fine. And eventually I’ll pour me out a glass and enjoy the hell out of it, like always. So be it.

And Also: My Horoscope (which I don’t really believe in, only this one app I use is like freakishly accurate 95% of the time) yesterday said that I have some really cool things coming my way, and that if I just accept the gift of them instead of balking it, almost everything in my world will be coming up roses. I can only assume that this means one of you will be splitting your Lotto winnings with me, or gift me a house, or car, or a much needed vacation in the Bahamas. For which I am stating, right now and for the record:”Why yes, I will take this boat/car/house/vacation/million dollars that you are willing to give me. And thank you.”

~D

Shh…I’m Writing This From Rehearsal

8 Oct

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The swords are crossed on stage and I’m huddled in the corner, picking this out at speed.  I should be running lines, but those last fucking four just WILL NOT STICK, and I’ve been chanting them nonstop for like an hour.  It’s stupid.  Also, I have to start out with my laughing hysterics scene today, from outta nowhere.  Do you even know how hard it is to BE in laughing hysterics from out of nowhere and even more so when the Production Manager is in her seat over there, watching us for the first time?  A lot “hard” is the answer.  Also, I feel like a giant idiot when I do it, cuz I’m like half way through it before people can even understand what in the hell I’m talking about and can finally start laughing with me.

…People, few things in life are more awkward than scenes like that with a house full of eyes watching you, as you pray to all that is Holy, that it WILL be funny and work.  Cuz if NOT…wow.

I am drinking hot passion fruit tea, which isn’t at all what I’m feeling, but is keeping me warm, so it’s doing a job.

…Why is it always cold in the theatre?  Stuffed with humans and lights et al, and it’s still fucking freezing in here.  That is, if it isn’t melting you with excessive heat.  There is no happy medium. 

***

Later: Cocked it up. Fuuuuuuck.  Well, there was that.  Brain is just not “having” it today.  Monday’s being what they are, I don’t know why I even expected it.  Sometimes it’s just best to pick up the script, say “fuck it” and just go with the book…don’t try to save it, there IS no saving it.  And it’s okay.  We have only just blocked it, and shit happens.

***

Later Even Still: I am off the stage for the duration.  Plenty of time to lick my wounds through the next scene and entire act, finish this, run more lines and review entrances and exits.  Act four will be my bitch.  My bitch, I tell you!!! 

…Running things out of order is like filming scenes out of continuity….’specially when it’s the weakest acts in lines and so new to my brain parts.  Am looking forward to finishing our first runs, and getting back to the digging and working of French scenes.  That’s the speed I need to be at right now…just one chunk at a time, and working it till I kill it, before moving onto the next.  I feel no sense of accomplishment or gain any ground on early runs when everything is still a hodge-podge…however necessary they may be.

…Also, I owe “M” like four glasses of wine now, ‘tween all these past post-rehearsal days of pub tabs.  And she’s making me go out and get “girl clothes” for the Opening, so that she can wear her “girl clothes,” and feel like she hasn’t over-dressed.  And also, just to torture me.  I already explained The BFF’s and my last expedition in this realm, but she not only refused to feel sorry for me, she said it doesn’t get me off the hook at all in any way, and that I have to do this thing, it is just the rules.  Because she “said” so. 

…It’s kinda hard to fight that.

…Mostly cuz it isn’t a “cause,” to believe in or not.  It’s just “fact.”

…That dame is sly.  I’ll need to keep an eye on her.

Tired.  Going to bed now. 

…For reasons I will never understand, none of my scenes got picked to “work” tomorrow, so I’m no longer called.  Prob’ly cuz the Director pities me.  And she knows I’ll spend all that time working on lines and running them until my brain bleeds.  Which is no doubt her entire intent.  Director’s are crafty creatures.  It’s like they know you will fit your own punishment far worse than anything they could dig up themselves. 

…Well played, Madam.  Well played.

~D

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