You've come a long way, baby

There is this unspoken notion that as you move through life, you mature, and some of your maturity is expressed through the items you own.  For instance, in your 30’s your furniture generally matches, the shelving you have came from a  furniture store or at the very least you no longer have shelves built from 2x4’s and cinderblocks.

It’s one of the few rights of passages I don’t seem to mind.  Having disposable income to buy ‘nice’ things, such as designer handbags and shoes, clothing that lasts longer than two wash cycles, and jewelry, that falls into the category of ‘real’.

Perhaps it’s my countless years in the Wine Industry, but there is another category that hits home with me, one that to quote the Virginia Slim tag line “You’ve come a long way, baby”.  Glassware.

Specifically, I am talking about the kind that you quaff your cocktail from after a hard day.  Nice glasses say to that single malt bottle of bourbon, I have prepared myself for you, and I fully comprehend what you are about, and I am here to appreciate your $95 price tag.  You sir deserve more than to be imbibed from a juice cup with a screen printed penguin.

If glassware were a status symbol, then I would be royalty.  I have varietal specific wine glasses made from some of the finest crystal from around the world.  Edges so thin, bowls so large and perfectly hand blown that on the rare occasion you can actually get every last water spot off of them, they really are a sight to behold.  My obsession doesn’t stop there, perfect sized brandy snifters, martini glasses constructed so thin, it resembles a shard of ice, and when they accidentally break your wallet cries out from inside that designer handbag.  Whiskey glasses replete with whiskey stones so your drink is the perfect temp, but never watered down. (Side note: HUGE waste of money on the stones, a little ice melt does wonders for a drink)   Sounds fan-fucking-tastic right?

So now that ya’ll have me as the picture of refinement, allow me to tell you what I did Monday night.   I came home from class late. I had just turned in my first law school final. My brain was drained.  I walked into a house, that looked like a hurricane hit, Richard (cat) had destroyed the back screen door in a herculean effort to get out and a very puzzled G wandered about the house trying to discern if we did in fact still HAVE a cat, and perhaps if so, how to punt him THROUGH the ripped screen door.    Fast forward, an hour of me in the dark, with a flashlight, outside yelling Richard! Here Dickie Dickie Dickie…

No cat.  I should mention we only adopted this cat two weeks ago, and after sweating through the application process, I was marginally surprised they accepted us, and here in less than 14 calendar days we had ‘misplaced’ the responsibility they had given us.  Son-of-a-bitch. G is staring at me, arm’s crossed and says – So um, if we lost this one, do you think that black balls us from future adoptions?

This comment, coupled with the fact that I hadn’t eaten since noon sent me over the edge.  I open the fridge, and the first thing I see is a jar of green olives.  I open them up, and start filling my mouth with them.  Hamsters have nothing on me.  I’m 8 or so olives in, when I realize that I could really use a drink to combat the brine flavor filling my mouth.  I proceed directly over to the bar in our dining room. Yes, yes, we have a bonafied bar in our dining room.   Plopping down my olive jar on the bar, I don’t bother to reach for a glass, just the 1.5 liter bottle of vodka, spinning the cap off with two more olives firmly tucked in my palm, I take a large swig straight from the bottle, swishing it around through the olive particles in my mouth.  I realize that perhaps I’ve taken a bit too much as there is no longer salty brine flavor.  G is staring at me, silent, mouth open, awe.  For good measure I pick up the olive jar and take a slug of the juice then pop the remaining fist full of olives in my mouth and lick my palm for good measure to remove the juices from the slightly smooshed olives.  I capped up both the vodka and the olives, and properly put them both away, before going about cleaning the mess left by hurricane Richard. 

G was still staring.  Silent, watching me walk around the kitchen picking things up.  I’ve already begun muttering to myself my plan for setting up something to trap Richard.  Finally I looked up at him. 

What?

He shakes his head at me.  “and you think I’m gross when I drink out of a milk carton in the fridge and don’t get me started on the fact that you licked your palm....”

*sigh* I’ve come a long way, baby.