Wine-Not?

It is a well known and documented fact that I love my wine. It is also a well known fact that I am crazy. Sometimes, those two facts blend together and a brain baby is born. A beautiful, bouncy nugget of wine splashed insanity that I show off at dinner parties and during my visits to the therapist. Just kidding, I can't afford a therapist.

Generally, my crazy is well contained in my home. A gift I give to my family over and over and over and over. And over again. To know me is to love me, some say. When they say that, however, they are talking about someone else.

So, what happens when I birth my brain babies? Well, I find it's crucial to surround myself with a tribe of hilarious doulas to make the birthing experience a joyous one. It's helpful to have support because, as with any birthing process, there is very little sleep and plenty of second guessing your ability to actually deliver. After the birth, there is ample joy and celebratory drinking as we embrace the miracle of creating life. Even if, in this case, it was a birth that more closely resembles the rise of Frankenstein. That's Doctor Frankenstein to you.

So, please grab your beverage of choice and enjoy this first brain baby of 2013; an advertisement for the newest and most sensational parenting product to EVER hit the marketplace.

Feeling overtired? Underappreciated? Overworked? Don't fret. Help is on the way!

Wine-Not? GUARANTEED to ease your troubles.

Love and thanks to my fantastic doulas who helped bring Wine-Not? to life. With friends like this, it's best to invest in Poise Pads. (in order of appearance)

Ninja Mom
Suburban Snapshots
Hollow Tree Ventures
Toulouse and Tonic
Motherhood, WTF
HouseTalkN
Let Me Start By Saying

And, a huge thank you to my husband, "Mr. BPM". When I told him it was my dream to create a fake infomercial (an infauxmercial, if you will), he not only wielded the camera, piano, and co-edited, but, also agreed to remain married to me. 

No One Talks About My Thirst.

These days,  you can't seem to throw an extra comma into a sentence without hitting the well meaning advice of others. For example, I personally like to serve my children dinner while twirling a baton, but, I bet there are some anti-baton twirling parents out there just waiting, in my bushes, or in the pile of dried wipes and coffee cups on the floor of my van, to jump up and tell me that batons have been known to cause concussions. Well sure, but, if you haven't caused a concussion, clearly you didn't throw the baton high enough. Attempting a grilled cheese plating and quadruple spin is tricky even with acoustic ceilings. If you miss the catch and no concussion occurs, you have some work to do on your power throws. Rookies.

My current favorite thing to do to invite scorn and disgruntled, angry eyes is to emphatically state how much I enjoy my evening glass of wine or cocktail. This bunches an amazing amount of freshly pressed pantaloons. In between sips of my delightful wine, I adjust my glasses and take special note to not listen to any of the impassioned cries urging me to enjoy my children uninhibited by numbing agents. In response to these pleas I say, do you even have children or have you just seen them in passing? I also say, I've gotten quite comfortable in this spot on the couch, do you mind refilling my glass?

In my time as the accused, I can honestly say, it's always best to let someone know how sorry you feel for them as they enjoy a delicious cocktail. "Do you KNOW what you're missing in your state of wine daze?", they cry. Unless your answer is, the slightest edge off of the shrill death cry of freedom, then no, I don't. I also don't know where I put my glass. Have you seen it?

If you're going to insult the very simple pleasures of others, here's a bit of advice, it's always best to do so with absurd and over the top statistics. Why no, I was not aware that 2 glasses of wine a day made someone who clearly has it all figured out seem like an overbearing, statistic maker-upper. Oh wine, you have clouded my judgment yet again.

In the eyes of the tsk-tskers, I am the Miss Hannigan to their Donna Reed. I hate to burst anyone's bubble, but, even donning my best Miss Hannigan boa and compression knee highs, I can't pull off the bathtub gin. I don't have a bathtub. It makes my accurate depiction nearly impossible. I'm doing the best I can. Those are big shoes to fill.

I imagine that even if I opted to find another outlet that provided release and relaxation, there would be no way to please everyone. And, if you can not please everyone, you should strive to make several people unimaginably and unreasonably offended for no valid reason. In this way, I am a huge success. Mission accomplished.

Cheers.