The husband has an obsession. Ok, he has more than one, but none of his other obsessions equals his love, fascination and true passion for scotch whisky. (Please note the spelling, as I have been lambasted in the past for incorrectly placing an "e" where most think it belongs, but actually doesn't! If you require further explanation on this grammatical anomaly, please forward all inquiries to the husband and I know that he will be happy to answer your questions and concerns!) Husband's obsession has grown over the years of our marriage. There used to be one or two bottles of the cheap shit cluttering our cupboards, but today, nothing but the best and finest for the husband. There are upwards of one hundred different bottles of whisky stuffed in our bar, and that is a conservative estimate. And what is scotch without proper scotch glasses? It can't be just any glass. It needs to have the right size, mouth, opening and weight! I have wanted to crawl under more than a few restaurant tables when the husband and his twin son of a different mother have actually quizzed wait staff on what kind of glass they serve their scotch in! That said, I have to hand it to both guys in that they have turned their obsession into business. They have persevered over these past three years and developed their own scotch company. Being a total ignoramus on the subject, I will not even attempt to describe the nature of said business and will leave that up to the experts. I will say that both of them are having a blast doing what they love. But every so often, by virtue of my wifely status, I get dragged into a world so foreign to me, it tests all of my long buried neuroses!! Last night was one of those occasions. The twin son, his better half, the husband and I made our way into the city to attend the monthly meeting of a local scotch club. (Yes, it is true! There really is such an animal as a scotch tasting club!) The guys were featuring some of their latest and greatest and hoping to make some inroads into a totalitarian province, controlled by a many-headed government bureaucracy! (read LCBO!) We found ourselves in a many leveled, oak paneled club on King Street that my ancestors would NEVER EVER have been invited to unless they were cooking the meals or scrubbing the toilets. As the husband quite astutely pointed out, I had two strikes against me and the other one was that I don't seem to have a penis! This is the kind of club where Sir John A was a past president and his portraits grace ever floor. This is the kind of club that had paintings of Victorian era gentlemen with mutton chops adorning it's walls. This is the kind of club that had photographs everywhere of all of the movers and shakers that were and currently are members and their faces lacked certain hues of ethnicity! This club smelled of port and oak and if you smelled really hard, you might just get a whiff of old stogies! In short, it was slightly intimidating for a short, dumpy Jewish girl of Polish descent currently residing in Thornhill! This is a world that I have never been a part of and I am quite certain that without the husband's foray into the scotch world, I never would have been. But there we were, being piped into dinner by a cute young guy in full Scottish regalia! (An aside--I loathe the bagpipes!!! As a musician (?) I am usually open to all kinds of music irrespective of the instruments that are used, but the bagpipes are another story altogether! How can one warm to "music" that is extruded through the bladder of a sheep! It truly sounds as though said ovine is continually being slaughtered every time the instrument is played!!) Being the centre of attention for the evening, we were placed up close and personal with the piper. So close in fact that the reddish blond hairs on his legs were clearly visible! I think that I now know what indeed a Scotsmen wears under his kilt and keeps in his sporran. The room was filled with so many WASPS that it was a veritable hive of activity! (pun intended) And the piece de resistance was the pork tenderloin for dinner. (Thank God for whitefish!) Of course, what we were really there for was to taste scotch. Given my unsophisticated palate, (it all tastes like isopropyl to me) I kept pushing my drams onto the husband. He finished his, mine and then some. Needless to say, I was the DD for the evening, although he says that one can never get drunk on scotch. In fairness, the host of the evening was a lovely Scottish gentlemen with an affinity for internet jokes, and our table mates were a charming gay couple, who made for delightful company. But I found myself feeling very much the whitefish out of water. There are just certain things that are truly cultural and inbred, and no matter how much the husband feels this affinity for whisky and the Scottish culture, he and his twin son need to understand that they are, in no uncertain terms, JEWS!! Polish Jews!! Hairy Jews!! Dark and Hairy Jews! And that both of them, no matter how much they would like to think otherwise, would look really stupid in a kilt. Gentlemen, you just don't have the legs for it!!!
A quick update on Shithole the outside contractor. He showed up yesterday and was forced to admit that his construction of the deck really sucked! He is due back tomorrow to redo the project. We shall see!!!
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