Safely bedded in the dry, dark and friendly basement sits a rather large and active carboy of spirited cloudy mashy brew. Soon to be ale. Yet another batch of Wicked Women on the Porch IPA, with its hoppy, lemony zippiness and satisfying kick in the keester.
And before anyone thinks that home brewed beer is a scary proposition, I had the delight of sampling an Organic IPA at a local area brew-pub last night that bore a suspiciously similar taste to our very own WWOTP IPA. So how did this brew-pub get our secret recipe? This smacks of brew-espionage to me. I see more sampling and batch-tasting in my immediate future, just to determine what goes on here. And the brew-pub had an excellent wheat beer, amber ale, and then I lost track. And quit drinking other people's beer.
How do people suffer through those 24-packs of red-white-blue label cans of factory swill?
Although it appears I was lost in space for three days, I was earnestly working on The Sweater, only one short sleeve to go, taking pics for Etsy, doing some cost analysis of supplies and expenses so far, boxing up more to take to the Groovy Rhubarb space, and writing. Like, as in fiction, sort of like starting a book. A (novel) mystery (maybe?). "I'm scared, Brad, hold me!"
I hate to mention something so early-begun so early, so as to not jinx it, but I am surprised by the concept, and have to drive it a bit to see where it goes for me. And that's all I'm-a gonna say.
Speaking of trouble, Mr. Torso was in the pool with me at the gym yesterday. Sometimes he joins me in the steam room, too, and then we sometimes share the hot tub before he goes and swims hundreds of laps in the fast lane. I know he wears goggles, and wears a close-cropped haircut, but any other description would involve extensive details of his amazing torso, and I would have to admit I have no clue what his face looks like. Am I being too much like a guy here? And is that bad?
So this is where I have to confess to a torso weakness. Not surprisingly, most straight women admit in mixed company to noticing a man's eyes first, but then amongst friends, they talk in lower voices about lower anatomical areas. I notice a guy's eyes first, too, but then...how does he fill out the shirt? That sounds really bad, I know. Even if I'm not wearing glasses or contacts, somehow I have 20-20 vision when it comes to a fabulous torso. How can that be? And, honestly, that's about as far as I notice much. Obviously have not watched enough "Sex in the City" or bad soft-porn. But I did drop an entire large tray of freshly baked bread and other treats upon walking out a busy restaurant door and seeing a spectacular man in front of me stretching with his shirt completely open. As long as I worked there, I could never live that down. And now I share it with you. (I need a moment.......)
So Mr. Torso is a swimmer, and he likes steam and hot tubs, and I can't even tell you a rough estimate of how old he is. Under 35, over 20? And he forgoes that pesky chest waxing ordeal, thank all the greek gods I can think of. So...should I say hi and mention what a great swimmer he is? And not make a Freudian slip with the word lap or stroke or steamy dreamy?
And the whole world knows how I got busted at Fred Meyer's last weekend scoping on this hunky guy in the produce and natural foods department. Dark hair, tied back in a short tail, tan or olive skin, about 6'3", lean, clean but casual, probably between 30 & 35. Meaning, I have no business even looking at this guy. I was going about my usual invisible shopping errands, "Oh, it's just Mrs. Robinson shopping, don't mind me," when--- suddenly---there he appeared, reaching into the cold case right next to me for juice, and my left brain went on break. C-ya!
What the F happens here? I can see it all, my eyes following him as he browses, he looks like a swimmer, or a model, and I'm sure my mouth is hanging open, struck speechless, and I re-position my shopping cart as he circulates around the produce aisles. This sounds so self-deprecating, but pudgy women over 40 really get used to being invisible, or in the way of younger and thinner people needing your space. So I'm sure I was solidly staring at him. Good god. I pretended to look at a shopping list when another woman a tad older than me caught me scoping. She didn't even meet my eye, but she did check him out thoroughly. So, after about 7 or 8 minutes of this, and I know I'm being so silly, he's at the self check-out lane and having trouble with his card but the line to get help is three deep, so he waits, and I move my cart again, and from almost 100 feet away, he turns around and looks directly at me. Remember, no left brain function. I reach for my cell phone, and pretend to answer it. Could I be a bigger dork? (The answer is 'no')
My neighbor Steven giggled at me, and thought it was a good sign that he didn't call security.
It was only a few minutes. I had a ready excuse---"You look just like my son's friend" or, "Sorry, you look just like my sister's baby daddy," or the best--- "Wow, I thought you were the guy I shagged last night at the Bagdad". But, not needed. He was gone. So I put my silent cellphone away and finished my shopping. "No waiting in the 10 DORKS OR LESS line!!"
Always happy to amuse.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Bubble, Bubble, Toil & Trouble
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2 comments:
Colorado here.
Speaking of dorks. I'm arriving at Discovery Farm on Sunday morning, revved up on Chai tea and loving the fact that Sunday is the one day I have no radio show to do, no ties to the cell phone, no-one looking for me and my day with my horses stretches out ahead. And I am driving quite slowly on the winding road of the front 100 acres of the farm, taking in all of the wildflowers that have popped up seemingly out of nowhere in the last two weeks. Indian Paintbrush with flaming red tops, Lupines with their marvelous blue tops that are just everywhere right now, Flax, taller blue and more dainty than the Lupines, and the native Sedum with it's bright yellow buds that are colorful and nt even open yet. So I'm crawling along the road at this point, loving this riot of color that shows up on these fields this time of year, when, (here comes the dork part)I see the tractor. More to the point I see one of our farm hands Manuel, driving the tractor in jeans, boots and a straw cowboy hat, kind of that Tex Mex slouchy style brim, but oh honey look...no shirt. Yes Mam! It's a warm sunny Spring day and there he is mowing the field...goodbye wildflowers but in the moment I am only thinking Hello Manuel. Never mind that he is 30 or younger, speaks not one word of English. Ok Maybe he knows Horse and Hello, but that's about it. But he is there glorious torso bared, olive skin for all to see, fabulous build for all of the hard labor he puts in six days a week with us...smiling and waving at me as I DRIVE RIGHT OFF THE LANE! "Jeez" I say to myself out loud as I jerk the wheel to the right, while at the same time...
My daughter, Oh! humiliation! That's right she's right here beside me says, Mom! What are you doing! Watch where you're going!
I'm thinking Dork!
I drive around the bend and through the pines as she says, "what happened?"...thank God for her cell phone upon which she was playing some sort of game and never caught the whole Mom staring at bare chested Manuel part. I really have to get a grip on my thing for dark-skinned guys. Shades of Elias. But that is quite another story eh?
Anyway. You go girl! And, given that there is no teenager to humiliate you for it... stare all you want. Once we are old enough to be invisible to them I say it is our Goddess given right to stare. And even flirt a little ( or a lot) if the occasion presents itself.
Hola Manuel!
You are my true friend, and the Whore-Baggery continues unabated. Did I ever tell you about the time I was checking out the hot guy while pulling into a parking space, and actually hit the car? And it was his car? I was young, but "the eye" claimed another soul very early, and my dad knew exactly what happened.
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