We're gay, we have candles out the wazoo.

As I'm typing this, it's getting dark outside. Unfortunately, that means it's getting dark inside too. You see, we were in Hurricane Irene's path - Eastern CT, to be exact. We lucked out and didn't get all the rain they had been forecasting (that fell to our west) but we got wind. Boy, did we get wind. we got crazy fucking wind. We lost power (and a good portion of one of our trees) about 12 hours ago.

Last night, Kitty Mom, my dad's girlfriend (and my aunt - yes, it's a weird family I belong too - but it's not like we're inbred or anything), texted us, to make sure we were ready. She had seen my Facebook post about how we were ignoring the mandatory evacuation. When we found out it went something like this:

me: Uhm, Punk? An emergency services truck just drove down the street broadcasting an announcement that we need to evacuate by 6pm.

Punk: Fuck that. We have a gas stove. We're hunkering down.

A knock on the door a few minutes later proved to be our across the street neighbor Rob. As we all talked, he echoed Punk's sentiments. Then again, he & his wife are also the proud owners of a $2000 generator. Fuckers. Shortly after that Heather, our next door neighbor, called. She had also decided to stay put. Our other next door neighbor, Mrs. Duncklee, didn't call. She died a few months back, so that's probably a good thing. Not that she died, but that she didn't call - because I would have freaked the fuck out if a ghost called to ask if we were staying or leaving.

Oh, so anyway, yes, my father's girlfriend/my aunt texted to make sure we were going to be okay. She's adorable, and was all like "You have batteries, and water, and candles?" I could only text back "We're gay, we have candles out the wazoo." 

Sure enough, we lost power 12 hours ago, and now it's getting dark. Our house looks like something out of a Stevie Nicks video, with candles burning everywhere. The food in the fridge may be slowly spoiling, but the great room smells like pears. And freshly mown grass. And grapefruit with sage. Yeah, we're gay. And we have the candles to prove it.

But damn I miss the interwebz.

P.S. The story about how my dad's girlfriend is also my aunt is really NOT that weird. Really.

Kidnapped. And in love.

So we decided (okay, Punk decided.) to take a spur of the moment road trip. It went something like this:

Me (showered, but pre-coffee groggy): So what do you want to do today?

Punk: I was thinking about Burlington, Vermont. It’s pet friendly.

My husband is a genius. He’s done several things in one breath. He has:

A:Figured out a plan of attack for the day.

B:Made it exciting.

C: Negated any worries about leaving Sophie behind.

D: presented an”open road challenge”!

Sure enough, less than an hour later, we were on the road to Vermont. About 40 minutes after we crossed the border, Punk started telling me about his friend Maggie, who had moved up to… Vermont. We texted Viv, and it turned out we were not even 20 minutes from her restaurant, White Rock Pizza.  So we decided on a side trip, and 5 hours later, our stomachs full of awesome pizza, and me with mucho chardonnay, we are sill here.

Maggie is holding us hostage. She momentarily ran out of the kitchen to proclaim “I’m taking you to the best place for breakfast, ever!”. Did I mention I love this woman already? She’s a tall, thin Stan. Oh, and we are staying here tonight. Given the amount of beer & wine consumed, it’s for the best.

So we are here. In VT. Drunk. We really have earned it. I’m sure T-shirts were involved somehow.

I gave that man a blow job, and all I got was a book of poems??

A pool conversation to be filled in. Ask Alan to remind me.

Been there, done that, was at the funeral.

This past weekend, at Tommy's (the same night as The Riding Crop), Stan  I were sitting at the corner of the bar talking to a couple of people. It was towards the end of the night, so we both had good buzzes going. When Stan & I get going, we can egg each other on in the worst ways possible. Okay, generally I'm the enabler, spurring him on. It's rare that I'M the one causing the trouble.

So were were chatting with a few other guys, one of whom is a little bit of a stalker. I can't recall exactly what prompted it (my mind was fuzzed by multiple Stoli & Tonics) but in reference to my stalker, I literally said "Been there, done that, was at the funeral." I think there was an actual audible gasp from Stan, but I could be wrong. At the very least, I know he gave me a look that said "I can't believe you had the balls to say that within earshot."

In order to preserve any remaining sense of dignity I have, I won't go into detail, other than to say that while I am amazed I used this line, I am NOT proud by the back story.

But dear god. it was a funny line.

Houston, we have a problem. Yes, but we have a riding crop

This past weekend, we went to a bar party. Long story short, it was supposed to be a Bear Run (newbies can google What is a Bear Run) that got cancelled due to some massive fuck uppery by the douche bag who was supposed to be organizing it. Rather than call it off, the bar owners (our friends Frank & Chris) decided to just have a party at the bar for whoever could make it. So there we were, 50 or so bears hanging out, drinking & chilling.

A bunch of us (Punk & I, Stan, Stamford Steve, Joe C. & The Maldens) were there. Side note - this crew (plus Randy & Jason, Stan's hubby Steve, and a few others) is the main "Juice Box Journals" crew. Any time we get together, in whole or in part, you can be sure trouble, chaos and maybe the apocalypse are soon to follow. Stan, Stamford & Randy are, in particular, a dangerous trio.

So we had all caught a pretty good buzz, and were off chatting with different people. Suddenly, and I'm not exactly sure when, where or how, Stamford had a riding crop in his hand. Now I know it's his (Stan teaches horse riding, and introduced riding crops to our group years ago. They show up all too frequently), but he should NEVER be allowed out in public with one. Especially when drunk. He'll start out gently swatting people on the ass with it, but will inevitably forget his own strength & start smacking the shit out of some unfortunate soul.

Luckily, Stan somehow got the crop away from Stamford. Keeping it out of Stamford's hands was paramount, but it didn't mean that we couldn't have fun with it.

Am I in the right place?

No really, am I in the right place? A majority, I mean a big majority of the blogs I read all seem to exist on blogspot. Am I missing something? I mean, it's early enough that I could probably move over there without disturbing the 4 or so people who have become my stalkers. Okay, maybe 4 is being generous. But I'm SURE it's more than 2. Surely it's more than 2. I hope...

[caption id="attachment_157" align="aligncenter" width="425" caption="Who will win the battle royale!?"][/caption]

 

So that's it, short and sweet. Should I move over to blogspot? Oh, and a side note. Will autocorrect please STOP changing blogspot to bloodspot?

...Aaaannnnnnd this is why I'm fat.

Did I mention that Punk is a chef? He's owned/run his own restaurant (The North End) for over 20 years. There's almost nothing he doesn't know how to cook, and cook wonderfully - and I've benefitted/suffered because of it. So this morning, as I'm finishing walking on the treadmill (walking off last night's delicious BLT's), he sticks his head in and says "I feel like making something." This is a common sentence in our home. When I say it, you know there's a pitcher of cocktails in our immediate future. When Punk says it, something tasty (and usually sweet) is on the horizon.

[caption id="attachment_131" align="alignleft" width="360" caption="Are they as good as they look? Fuck yeah."][/caption]

This mornings concoction? Cupcakes. Not just cupcakes, but Key Lime Curd Filled Lemon Cupcakes with an Italian Buttercream Frosting. I came downstairs to see the kitchen aid whirring, and Punk boiling the sugar for the Italian buttercream. I've been with him long enough to know that "You are insane" is not the thing to say when he's in a baking mood. Because do the two of us really need 2 dozen cupcakes? If I mention that, he will inevitably respond with "You didn't get that way from looking at it, douchebag."

Here's the thing. He's used to cooking "restaurant scale". I'm not sure if he's even capable of cooking for two anymore. A Pasta dinner for the two of us will involve a pound of pasta, a dozen or so meatballs and a full loaf of Italian bread. During the week, I'm a hero at work for the amount of leftovers I bring in.

So yes, I blame my husband for the 40 pounds of weight I need to lose. If he was a shitty chef, I'd be much thinner. But then again, if he was a shitty chef, I wouldn't be noshing on this fucking awesome cupcake right now, trying to decide just what cocktail would best complement them...

 

Edit: After much experimentation, it was determined that Cosmos were the best complement. But then again, I say that to a lot of things.