I had this friend, the type who is sweet and smart and appears to be "normal" by conservative American standards, but who in fact has a husband and a boyfriend in the same house, both who help with their pagan coven and raising their child. A delightfully wonderful though clearly non-traditional family. Anyway, it seems fitting that this friend should be the one who introduced me to my long distance lust-object: A pirate sorta guy named Trader Joe. Or as she puts it, she took my Trader Joe's virginity. Oh I'm no fool; I know that Joe makes his way around the country, never once considering the idea of coming here, and I resist but after a while resistance is futile and I make excuses to dive 80 miles to meet him, get my fill of him, and come home sated with cheeses, greek yogurt, japanese dumplings, smoked trout, sweet hand lotion, all kinds of things that make me ignore my bank balance and suck up everything in my passioned frenzy in my attempt to bring some part of him home with me. We do not meet often, but always just after I've left him I begin fantasizing about the next time, because there will always be a next time. Always.
And Joe... well, we know our place with each other. It's totally a passions of the flesh sort of thing. It's a seasonal chocolate truffle orgasms in a gift box type of thing, you know what I'm saying? Not the type of guy you bring home to mother.
But this time, it was different. I'd heard of Joe's friend Chuck (aka two-buck Chuck, three-buck Chuck, etc.) but he was never around when I went to get my fill of Joe. But this time I caught Joe by surprise at a central Jersey rendezvous point, and there he was: Charles "Chuck" Shaw. I'd been warned that he was a fairly nondescript conservative dresser, but I'd heard of his ability to seduce, and the temptation was too strong to resist. I snagged a selection of his wares: A Shiraz, a Cabernet, a Merlot. I brought them home, pretended not to hear their sirens' call to me, but finally tonight, I succumbed.
I'm sipping Charles' Shiraz, and oh baby is it good. I think this is love. I think this is can't get enough gotta set up a place to store this stuff in my basement after driving all the way to Jersey to get it kinda love.
Besides, we're a match made in heaven: We're both cheapass dates. Charles earned his nickname "two-buck Chuck" by daring to sell wine for 1.99 (or in my case "three buck Chuck" at 2.99) a bottle that was actually a reasonable competitor for wines costing five, ten times as much. And I'm sitting here writing an embarrassingly nonsensical post based on one half glass of his sweet glory.
Pathetic, isn't it. But oh so good.
Joe, I'll never give up on you, but Chuckie, baby, just tell me you love me, even if you don't mean it. Yes, I'm that pathetic.
And lord help me, if I post something else after I finish the other half of this glass, just look the other way. Don't stare at the mangled bodies on the roadside as I spew out a drunky post to follow this tipsy one. Just move along, move along.