I was watching a scary movie alone on Saturday night when a real terrifying experience happened at home. No, the phone didn’t ring with some creep on the line saying,”Hey hottie, I’m watching you get drunk and scratch your butt.”
A zombie didn’t knock on my door and ask for sugar.
And I didn’t doze off and wake up with Gerard Depardieu peeing in my living room…this was sick.
I paused the movie when I realized that my glass of wine was empty. There wasn’t any in the kitchen so I had to go down into my boogie-man basement and get some vino out of the basement fridge. I fumbled for the light. The bulb was burnt out and a voice was telling me to run for my life—but I grabbed a pack of matches from Le Colonial, where I dined earlier—and made my way down the treacherous staircase by the dim light of a match. As I nimbly inched my way to the frige, I heard a dog going nuts barking. I felt chills and fever. Finally, the glow of the frige light cast an angelic light on a beautiful bottle of Frei Brothers reserve chardonnay. It was worth the trip.
I lunged up the stairs, like I used to jump into my bed as a kid in an attempt to avoid the monsters that surely lurked and tried to grab me by the ankles. On TV screen was the image of some bludgeoned chick who’s eye was popped out. She was being pulled out of a swamp. I hit play to revive the movie and reached for the wine opener. As I pulled the arm of the opener. I heard a “boing”, and the sound of a small metal ball rolling. I watched as this ball rolled to someplace where all my missing socks must be. I looked down and realized the wine opener was in pieces!
Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously, what the fuck? Stupid bullshit is what it is.
So, I had to go back down into the creepy basement where I felt many eyes were watching me. I looked all over for a spare wine opener. I even went through the camping gear. I thought about breaking the bottle, or screaming for help…but I just said, oh well, there’s always vodka (Cîroc, at that)!
So, the next day, my husband inquires about my bachlorette night and I told him that the wine opener is broken.
“How did you break a steel wine opener?” He asks (annoyed).
“I didn’t break it. It just wore out,” I said.
“This is the second opener that you’ve broken in a year!”
“Babe, it’s like a car. It was time for the wine opener to die.”
“I don’t understand this at all. I mean you have little hands and you’re not that strong. How could you break two really expensive, steel wine openers in one year?!!??”
What am I on the stand? Obviously. Greg doesn’t get the whole “pick your battles” concept.
“Greg, I did not break the wine opener. It just broke. On it’s own,” I say.
“So, you weren’t opening a bottle of wine when it, ‘broke’?”
“Whatever. I managed a wine bar. I think I know how to open a bottle of wine, (buddy).”
“Well, I’ll fix it. And I think you should let me open the wine in the future,” he says.
REALLY? What’s next? Opening a bottle of wine is one chore I don’t mind doing. And people wonder why I drink! Straight to the moon with ya!
