Yup. That’s yours truly, my sister and Wanderlush herself, my mom. She was in the middle of telling one of her crazy life stories. And people wonder where I get my humor?
- We pretend to be wine snobs but honestly in a pinch we’d drink the Welch’s grape juice that has been fermenting in our grandmother’s cupboard for the past 30 years. Out in public we’re like “Oh. Yellow Tail? I suppose I can if it’s all you have.” While in the privacy of our own home we’re like, “Honey, can you help me lift this gallon of Thunderbird Chianti? I’m trying to fit it into my gym bag.”
- We really don’t need you to count the number of glasses we’ve had at a dinner party or gathering. We’re lushes, not idiots. We can count.”Honey, I think that’s your seventh glass of wine tonight.” And we’re like, “Hey, Nagatha Christie. Mind your own business.” And then we run out the next day and buy bigger wine glasses.
- We don’t care about tannins, legs, or hints of currants and smokey oak. Does the wine make us forget it’s still only 2 p.m. on Monday afternoon? If so, it’ll do.
- There’s no classy way to de-cork a wine bottle. Most of us are just fine straddling that wine bottle with our legs like we’re trying to subdue a wild tiger and gnawing the cork right out from the bottle’s neck. Even if a corkscrew is readily available. And quite honestly the twist cap is a kind gesture to all wine lushes around the world.
- Don’t even think about making that contemptuous face when you float over to our table and introduce yourself as the Sommellier and assume we’re clueless. We saw Black Hawk Down and Captain Phillips. We know what Somalia is.
I respect people of all faiths and beliefs, even when those contradict my own beliefs. I don’t always agree but I do always try to understand. However, this whole Starbucks cup thing is driving me nuts. I have a strong suspicion this whole story is a farce but if there is any truth to it, here are my thoughts.
- I don’t ever recall seeing an image of Jesus on a Starbucks cup so it’s not as though Starbucks is kicking Jesus to the curb. Geez. Calm down. And if you’re that worked up about it, bring in your own ceramic mug. You know, the one you made at last year’s Bible Bazaar that’s in the shape of the manger. That would settle the issue.
- What does a missing snowflake or two on a paper cup have to do with Christmas? They celebrate Christmas near the Equator, too, you know?
- If I’m paying $7 for a Vente Latte, I’d prefer to have my own picture on the cup. Airbrushed. Great back lighting. Bulging abs. Etc.
- To quote my younger sister (even though it’s not the same Holiday, the point is valid)… “What the hell does Jesus have to do with Easter?” For decades, we have allowed retail businesses to redefine the true meaning of Christmas. Nowadays, its all Santa, Reindeer, cheesy Yankee Swap gifts, empty checking accounts, guilt, and aggressive Walmart shoppers. It’s a bit unfair to pin the destruction of Christmas solely on Starbucks.
- I’m sure when Jesus returns he’ll likely spend his first few hours securing a restraining order against Michelle Bachman before popping over to the homeless shelter to help serve Christmas dinner. I don’t see him organizing a boycott of Starbucks. I’m willing to take bets on this.
- We must have an aisle seat. Everywhere.
Poops don’t come very often but when they do, there better be a clear f@cking path to the nearest restroom. Not to come off as rude, but I don’t really care if you’ve just settled down into your aisle seat and popped open a bag of salted peanuts. I have to sh#t. Do you see the pupils of my eyes turning brown. That’s not the reflection of your salted nuts. It’s my small intestine backing up into my head.
2. Public Restrooms Were Designed By People Who Don’t Have IBS.
IBS symptoms are triggered by stress. Believe me when I tell you there is nothing more stressful than sitting on a public toilet trying to squeeze out a rabbit turd only to make eye contact in the mirror with several people who are washing their hands at the sink. Whatever progress I had made up to that point is surely to retreat back into the dark, mysterious depths of my colon. Don’t you understand that in order to go poop I need a hermetically sealed stall, soft lighting, and Burt Bacharach’s greatest hits playing on a loop?
- I Get It. You’re Normal.
I know you’re trying to be helpful but continuously reminding me how normal your bowel movements are doesn’t help. At all. If I hear once more someone proudly say, “I pooped three times today already,” I could either choke them to within an inch of their life or spiral into a nervous breakdown. Has it ever occurred to you that I spend a significant portion of my waking hours stewing in jealousy that you have a consistent poop schedule? Well, I do.
- Fiber Doesn’t Always Help.
I’ve tried all of the remedies and possible cures. Olive oil shots. Coconut water. Bikram yoga. Coffee colonics. Oh yes, and then there’s fiber, once thought to be the panacea for all “incomplete evacuations.” Don’t believe everything you read. I ate so much fiber over the years it’s a miracle I haven’t crapped out a tree house.
- IBS Isn’t a Disease. It’s a Lonely Journey.
I don’t need more doctor visits or colonoscopies or sympathetic glances. I’m done with wild honey teas, peppermint leaves, and meditation. What I need is for people to understand that every single gray hair on my head represents a complicated story of a failed effort to poop. So the next time you look at me with those patronizing eyes, yes I’m referring to you – the one in the aisle seat, do me a favor by dropping the peanuts and getting the f@ck out of my way.