I don’t need ball wash soap or help with a bigger orgasm. I also don’t need ball hammock underwear, yet the hits just keep on coming. The latest is Halloween themed… and so very, very wrong.
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Do I need to see Frankenstein gettin’ his freak on? I most certainly do not.
But every once in a while, the algorithm hits a bit closer to the mark.
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And horrible grammatical translation aside, at least this one includes alcohol….with undertones of barn bar which we all know is near and dear to my heart.
Yes, I finally chose a beer to tap. Naturally it was the most expensive one out there at literally twice the price of my husband’s.
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But look how much more fabulous my tap handle is.
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Duchesse de Bourgogne…. a richly textured sour red Flemish ale with a chocolate top note and wild cherry undertone. Brewed in Belgium and aged in oak barrels for 18 months, it’s pure heaven!
And the husband hates it so it’s mine. All mine.
*cue the evil laugh*
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Look at this handle. I mean really, it doesn’t get much better than that.
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Except for the fact mine towers over the husband’s. That’s pretty sweet as well.
Small, rustic and not at all fancy. But the food is fresh and tasty, the drinks are strong and cheap. What more could you want?
We’re regulars and feel good supporting a local business. Our town has never had a pub before so the owners had to fight long and hard for licensing as well as acceptance. Some of the older residents of our little hamlet thought a bar would attract a bad element, but this small establishment is just as likely to be serving lunch to a troop of Girl Scouts as they are the functioning alcoholics. Lawyers and fisherman. Bankers and construction workers. Hippies and veterans. You never who will sit on the neighboring stool.
We’ve met more locals here in the past 2 years than we have living in this town for 19. And it should come as no surprise that when we introduce ourselves and explain where we live? Everyone always says… oh, the big red barn with the nice porch. Sure!
And if you’re wondering just how rural my town can be? Take a look at who pulled up the other day…
Next up in the man cave? Blinds. Which were really fun to shop for considering all the windows are different sizes and thanks to my do it yourself I’m too cheap to pay a carpenter to do the finish work husband.
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The price of custom blinds that would have fit perfectly was ridiculous.
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That window, the smallest ( not to mention crookedest ) was quoted at $310. For one blind! I bought all 6 of these light filtering cellular linen shades for $272. That’s a no brainer.
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Working his way around the room, I followed and tried my hardest to get right in his way.
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At least that’s what he’d tell you. I prefer to think of it as active assistance.
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Which is why I was banished to the other side of the room…. where I sat quietly and read a few blogs.
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But when it came to the final window behind the bar I had to speak up.
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Because after he installed this one, which had the best fit… only 3/8ths of an inch off… he plopped his big bullet back on the sill.
( I know it’s a round and not a bullet, I just say that to get a rise out of my husband. Did it aggravate you as well? Then yay for me. . )
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The problem? The blind won’t go all the way down because the bullet is too fat.
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When I told him this was unacceptable (the main reason for putting up blinds in the first place was to keep the sun from fading the bar) and suggested alternate placements for the big bullet, he forbade me to move it ( as if I could, it’s live and weighs a ton and a half ). When I stressed the need for it’s relocation due to the sun baking on the glass door of the mini fridge causing it to work harder, he told me he’d “think about it”. FFS, what is there to think about? Bullet too big, blind doesn’t close, move big bullet. It isn’t rocket science.
This time of year brings the return of warmer temperatures, green grass and two of my favorite things.
They’re baaaaack!
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Well, at least one of them is. Our first returning woodchuck has made an appearance in the back yard. Let the games begin.
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And speaking of games….
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Red Sox baseball is back and available for viewing in the newly used to be a barn filled with crap remodeled man cave.
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Yes, watching my favorite team at my beloved Fenway Park while perched at our private bar sipping a cocktail is the very definition of sweet.
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The first few games? Not so much. Pitching will be a problem this year and getting swept by the Orioles on our home turf was depressing to say the least. But we whooped Florida and swept Baltimore in their home park. Life is good.
While at our local pub last week, a patron who was sitting on the other side of the bar bravely ordered this:
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Yes, you read that correctly. The beer was brewed with gummy bears. Why such an atrocity should take place I don’t know… but he laughed and gagged and promptly pushed the can back at the bartender who attempted to throw it away. I say attempted because you know my husband wasn’t going to let that happen.
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Yes, the beer was pink.
Yes, it tasted as horrible as you would imagine pink gummy bear beer would taste.
But you know what? The husband drank it anyway… because free beer is free beer.
So the free pool table… the one that has cost us approximately $14,000 ( and counting ) in storage barn to man cave renovations… actually saw some action last weekend.
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Two of the husband’s coworkers came by for the afternoon (no worries, all 3 men are fully vaccinated) for Cajun gumbo, beer and pool. I don’t play, so I know my other half was happy. And me? I was happy because I received another bar christening gift.
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I’d never even heard of this whiskey but it turned out to have a pleasing toasted undertone.
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After two games of pool, it was determined the table needed to go from horizontal placement to vertical to allow more shooting space.
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Which then required multiple leveling maneuvers. Turns out the barn floor is not at all level. Shocking, I know.
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Play continued into the night, as did the whiskey drinking and strange reflections from the overhead lighting.
A good time was had by all… and let me tell you, it was nice to host even two people after a year of no socializing with friends.
The husband’s birthday was this month, and for the past decade I’ve been giving him experience gifts rather than material things…. because we all know the man has more than enough stuff. Over the years I’ve gifted him a trip to a spooky old hotel in the Poconos that felt like the Overlook in Stephen King’s The Shining…
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The place was huge!
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So huge I could never manage to get a shot of the entire thing in frame. And we were literally the only guests.
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Room after room.
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Floor after floor.
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All to ourselves.
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I expected to see the twins every time we walked to our room. Uber creepy.
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I’ve given him beer making classes….
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Look at all those serious student faces.
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And seeing him stir an actual pot? Was well worth the student fee.
I even gave him falconry training.
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That was awesome. If you ever have the chance, take it.
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They really are spectacular creatures.
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And hey, where else do you get to walk around with a bag of decapitated quails?
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But last year brought Covid and the romantic getaway to the coastal resort I chose was cancelled. This year? We didn’t go anywhere either so along with a few Marine Corps themed items and a handful of vintage Red Sox collectibles… I got him something for the man cave.
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Doesn’t look impressive you say?
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Trust me, it is.
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I’m imaging many alcohol induced oohs and ahs when we plop this baby on the bar.
Fashion is ephemeral. One day something is trending hot and everyone has to wear it/do it… the next day it’s passé. Here’s hoping this never catches on, because honestly? Eew.
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Sorry, but that just looks like five globs of mucus…. and if I don’t eat the slimy shellfish? I certainly don’t want them on the end of my fingers.
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I added the perfect glass to the man cave bar shelf yesterday. Because I do, to both.
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It’s official, I will be calling our vacuum the rollsuck supreme from now on.
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Yeah, because I need Dudley to stare at me more than he does already . Not!
And speaking of Dudley, for your viewing pleasure here’s a quick clip of him enjoying his latest hobby. Fly catching.
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And while it’s a bit disgusting he insists on eating them? On a positive note, our house will be fly free for the foreseeable future.
