A glass of wine on the table
Merlot, smooth and deep red
Grains of sand on the patio
A new book waiting to be read.
Drowsy sighs escaping lips
A touch of lethargy inspired
By recurring sips from the
Depths of a broad bottomed bowl.
Call me to your boudoir soon
With opened, welcoming arms
And I will answer eagerly
My love, I’m coming home.
Is wine the culprit
for the mistakes made tonight,
or for my regrets?
Only I claim fault
for my words, unrepentant;
no pinot to blame.
But the warmth inside
ameliorates the guilt
soothes me off my feet.
I might get drunk tonight
on red wine and solitude
lost in the depths of a
full-bodied zin and the whir
of a palm-leaved fan.
Disappointment weighted
afternoon, damn fool who let
you in? Now I feel the scorched
earth aftermath while he eats a
well done steak.
A better woman might have
walked away, held her tongue,
but she does not live here.
I said my piece, now there’s
a consequence.
Pardon me, I’ll be in my room.
For awhile I gave up wine and took up the drinking of beer. But the really good beer is so high in calories and my waistline was growing at such an incredible rate that I had to follow Nancy Reagan’s advice and just say no.
For about ten minutes I considered completely eschewing alcohol in the pursuit of clean living. I actually went two weeks with nothing more potent than a splash of mouthwash. Unfortunately Listerine doesn’t come in a Cabernet Sauvignon or a Chardonnay.
For the first time since beginning my blog I stumbled headlong into a mild case of writer’s block. Then I ran across a really profound quote:
I wasn’t doing it right! I was writing sober and left with absolutely nothing to edit.
Good old Papa. He also said:
Needless to say I’ve begun having a single glass of wine in the evenings. My doctor says it’s fine. I’m finding things to write about again. Life is good.
Peace, people!
Last night I had a dilemma. I could take the anti-inflammatory drug prescribed by my doctor to fight the pain in my lower back, or I could take a sinus/allergy pill in order to breathe.
Since the anti-inflammatory cautioned against taking anything with acetaminophen or ibuprofen I was forced to choose. Did I want to lie awake all night due to an excruciatingly painful back or due to a headache from the depths of hell? Decisions, decisions.
Then I remembered that Studly Doright had just bought an economy sized bottle of the antihistamine Benadryl. While it wouldn’t necessarily help with my congestion, it might just knock me out enough that I didn’t care about breathing.
Studly has his own medical stash separate from mine, a tradition started back when he once accidentally took the menstrual cramp reliever Midol and subsequently tried to puke them up lest he develop feminine attributes. Since then our drugs don’t occupy the same space. It’s a rule.
His nearly full bottle of Benadryl was front and center among his medicine collection. It took a couple of seconds to negotiate the child safety cap, but soon I had all those little pink pills at my disposal.
That’s when Studly chose to surreptitiously come up behind me and playfully demand, “What do you think you’re doing?”
I shrieked and lost control of the bottle, sending it on a vertical trajectory aimed for the bathroom skylight. Little pink pills went everywhere. Everywhere. I was still finding them behind perfume atomizers and cosmetic jars this morning.
And since my back wouldn’t let me bend over, poor Studly had to pick up all of the pills that landed on the floor. That’ll teach him to sneak up on me when I’m thieving.
Fortunately I salvaged a couple of pills last night ensuring a deep sleep. Of course I still have the same dilemma tonight, and Studly has declared his medicine cabinet off-limits. I wonder how many glasses of wine equal two Benadryl?
Peace, people.
Written in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:
Tell us about the most exciting big night out you’ve had lately.
Life at Doright Manor is tame. Generally, a big night around here involves watching an extra episode of Ray Donovan while splurging calories on a second Shiner Bock.
Yet once a month we head to Studly Doright’s golf club for a rousing night of trivia competition. I know, a lot of readers will be jealous, as they should be. You see, in addition to the trivia, there is music, great food, and just enough wine to make me feel like a wittier, prettier person. And, I’m not bragging, sometimes we even stay up past midnight!
January’s event was especially fun because our friends from Indiana were in town and we dragged, er, invited them to go with us. I don’t know about them, but I had a blast. We didn’t win the competition, but we didn’t come in dead last either.
I’m certain today’s prompt was written specifically to demonstrate what a lackluster life I live. Gee, thanks WordPress.
Peace, people!
A little Cat Stevens for your entertainment (following the dadgum ad)
http://youtu.be/aLeWB3C2cLo
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/saturday-night/”>Saturday Night</a>
Winter, and the impending Christmas holiday, are heralded in Florida not by cooling temperatures, but by the arrival of catalogs. I estimate that Studly Doright and I began receiving between four and eight of the glossy mailings daily beginning around the first of November. Today there were 12 catalogs in the Doright Manor mailbox. Twelve. I almost needed to make two trips to carry them all.
Some of the catalogs go straight into the recycling bin, while others are put into a stack for future browsing. Generally, the future browsing pile never gets browsed, but I like to give them a sense of hope.
The Hickory Farms catalog is one I always take a few minutes to thumb through. Back when Studly and I were newlyweds the Hickory Farms catalog was about the only one we’d get in the mail. I’d read each page and daydream about someday hosting a Christmas Eve party where I’d serve all the cute little cheese and sausage trays. I’d be the hostess with the mostest for sure.
One year I scraped up the money to place an order and was so very disappointed in the sizes of the cheeses. I had looked at the pictures and not the dimensions. So much for my hostessing abilities. Nowadays I know to have plenty of wine and beer on hand so nobody cares about the size, quantity, or even the existence of the hors d’oeuvres.
That’s why my new “go to” catalog is the one from Wine Country Gift Baskets:
Of course I don’t often buy anything, but I’m still planning that perfect Christmas Eve gathering…chestnuts roasting by an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose…
Peace, people.
City girl always
dresses for dinner,
has drinks at six
at a cafe
by the river.
Country girl still
cooks biscuits
and gravy each
Sunday morning for
breakfast with family.
Come live here
in the big metroplex
City Girl pleads
to her rustic
relative.
We’ll dance ’til dawn,
and see the sights
chitchat with
politicians and rich
socialites.
No thanks, said the
Country Girl, I’m
happy out here,
but you come see me
and we’ll share a beer.
I’ll fry up a chicken
with all of the fixings
then we’ll sit on
the porch and solve
all the world’s issues.
I think I’ll pass,
City Girl said
I don’t think I’m
suited for a life
that’s so bland.
head throbs, stomach roils
nausea threatens to rise;
drunken aftermath.
unwelcome symptoms,
consequences of
over indulging.
should know better now
in fifth decade’s last hurrah
I learned too slowly.
Peace, people!
I might’ve had way too much to drink at my high school reunion this weekend.
A glass of wine
a jug of bread
and thee.
i might be drunk.
Praying for Eyebrowz 