I wrote this Beer Granny post once already.
Then, my laptop did this thing and I lost every single goddamn word.
I’m going to recreate from memory. I wish I could see the before and after, because quite frankly, my memory isn’t what it used to be. I’ll just choose to believe this is the better version.
Randy gave each of our children a name that he would call them when he wanted them to fetch a beer for him. Beer Bubba, Beer Girl, Beer Boy and Beer Baby.
On the occasion that I would get him a beer, I was always thanked as Beer Diva. For a decade, I have been Beer Diva.
So, as I am a considerate and observant wife, I noticed that Randy was working in the office, but had left a full glass of beer in the kitchen.
Me: You left this in there.
Randy: Thank you, Beer Granny.
Me: What the fuck?
Randy: I don’t know, I think it fits.
Me: The number of times I shall ever fetch a beer for you again is zero.
I don’t normally talk like that, but we had just re-watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail which is why that had the slightest “hand grenade of Antioch” feel to it. Probably.
I grabbed my laptop to write this post to tell on Randy. Beer Granny?
Randy: You better not. You know that term means something else.
Me: You’re thinking of “Granny juice”.
I already get traffic to my blog from fucked up search terms. This is only throwing fuel on that particular fire.
Back when I was writing articles and submitting them for publication, I used the term “granny juice” instead of booze. I was informed by the editor that “granny juice” is a porn term. I mean, I guess it’s fairly clear what it means? But I never looked it up. I took their word for it. Also, what the shuddering fuck? Humans are weird.
I guess, in the big scheme of things, being called “Beer Granny” isn’t the worst thing in the world. It’s just that I’m exhausted by the big scheme of things these days.
Sometimes, you just need a pointless and silly conversation with someone you love.
Photo courtesy of Lothar Dieterich.