Skip to main content

The Triumphant Return of the Beer Coozy


Well I might as well admit I've been dying to start a blog. OR. I have been feeling guilted into starting a blog ever since I went to AWP back in February. Potato, Potato. Huh. That only works if you say it out loud.

Moving on. I've been waiting and waiting for inspiration to strike, or for a theme to pop out at me, or for my life to settle down. Here's the thing about that: never going to happen for me. Inspiration is going up in smoke along with my state, themes make my head itch, and the adorable 18-month-old scaling my kitchen table and squeezing all the bananas in my fruit bowl says, "Settled life? Dream on." Well, no she doesn't. Because she doesn't talk. We're all just going to pretend I'm not responsible for her silence, OK?

Last night, my parents dropped by because they know it gets a little lonely in my hot apartment. As fun as single mamahood is, I admit to them on a twice-daily basis that I crave adult conversation. So they pop in--sometimes, with gifts. Last night, the gift was beyond inspired. A beer coozy! The first thought that popped into my head? "The houseboat called. It'll trade you that beer coozy for your T-shirt sleeves." Because let's be honest. Nothing says, "I'm a little trashy" like a beer coozy.

Turns out, I'm a little trashy. In all the years between last night and 1993, I have missed this little foamy sleeve. Back then, I was keeping my quarter pops cool and my hands dry--but the concept hasn't changed just because the beverage has. And with hard cider, which is the first thing I sunk into my brand new (probably really, really old and used) beer coozy, it's way more important. Hot grape soda may taste a little like Dimatap, but hot hard cider tastes like feet. Unacceptable. 

So as my debut in the blogging world, I want to encourage all one of my readers to take a trip down memory lane and get yourself a beer coozy for this fourth of July. And if you run across one of those plastic rings you feed your T-shirt through to get that sassy little bit of stomach to show, call me. I am exactly that trashy.

Comments

  1. An inspired debut!

    I feel as if you have brought into the eyes of your readers the necessary requirement which a beer coozy brings. I love coozies. I have made a coozy for my French Press, and have thought about making one for my coffee cup... just because. I wonder how long of a stint you could manage about the musings of coozies? ;)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Did you knit the coozy, Daniel? Because that would have NEVER flown down on the lake. Neither would a French Press, now that I think of it. Leave it to you to really class up something so redneck. As always, you're an inspiration.

      Delete
  2. I didn't know t-shirts and beer cozies went together. I guess it's the plastic ring, which must have come along AFTER I had a sassy little stomach to show. We had to actually TIE our shirts between our breasts. But, on the plus side this was before cut-off shirts and frizzy perms.

    Fun! Can't wait for the next them...er...subject.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I could be wrong here, but I think the plastic rings were for the girls without breasts. It's always a good idea for me to draw attention away from my flat chest and toward my flat stomach and sharp little hipbones;)

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

We're Off to the Icecapades! And Other Roads Paved With Cold Tears.

You know how your Great Aunt Margaret always looks at your baby's long fingers and says she's going to be a piano player? And how that guy bagging your groceries always tells you your slightly-taller-than-average boy is going to be a basketball player? Or how, when you accidentally leave the scissors on the counter and your toddler gets ahold of them, she's going to be a Monster Truck driver for three months because of that sweet mullet she gives herself? Well...I've got a long-legged African baby. And let me tell you, folks, she's destined to be a runner. At least that's what I've been told by no less than three thousand people in the last two years. If qualifying for the Olympics happened based on popular vote of the people, Ayana would have run last year. It would have been a staggering disappointment for Americans everywhere, but she'd have been there. (Shut up, fact checkers. I know the summer Olympics didn't happen last year.) But here&#

31 Things I Learned Before 32

Tomorrow, I turn 32. So with no more ado or fanfare than that, I share with you 31 things I've learned in 31 years of life. In no particular order and with no promised gravity. The Golden Rule doesn't ensure you'll get treated the way you wish to be treated. It just means you can sleep at night, knowing you did right. Sandal tans garner an inexplicable degree of respect and admiration. The book is always better than the movie. So all you book snobs out there can just hush up about it. We know. (Yes, I'm a total book snob. But I'm so snobby I don't even try the movie. You're welcome.) If you don't water the plants, the plants die. When you're going through some shit and people tell you, "I could never do what you doing," the appropriate response is: "Yes you could. You just haven't had to." Dog people have hair all over everything and cat peoples' houses smell funny (which is a nice way of saying bad ). Children a

When Your Daughter Isn't Turning Into You, But You're Turning Into Your Mother

And by you , of course   I mean me . So here's the story as it has been told to me over the years. For reasons that were undoubtedly religiously motivated, my mom decided she was going to home school my brother and me. She started with Jesse at whatever early age because he was reading in the womb and dividing cheerios in his highchair and blah, blah, blah. It was so much fun and he was so smart and remember the time he related the word sequel to the  Back to the Future series?! What a genius! What pure joy to watch this child learn! And then I came along. There are no stories about my great mental prowess, my clever anecdotes. There is only one story. The story that ends quite abruptly at, "And then I enrolled you both in school." Thinking on it now, I'm not sure we can even call it a story. It's really just a crude reenactment of a poor young child struggling to read the word bug . "B-U-G. B-U-G. You kept saying the sounds, but you just couldn't put