Husbanding the Hooch

The Man I Married suggested that we open the expensive bottle of vintner’s reserve red that he had bought as part of my compensation package for the three 55-gallon drums that he also purchased that day. (We had both forgotten to drink the special wine on our anniversary.) He made the suggestion on a Thursday, with nothing going on, not necessarily a reason to not drink special wine, but I wasn’t in the mood. For one thing, it was the first warm day of the year—not when I want to drink a room-temp red.

So I said, “Nah.”

“Well, we need to drink it soon,” he said.

“Why? It won’t go bad.”

“Because you have all of this wine lying around. It bothers me.”

I had maybe a dozen bottles of wine, tucked away in the pantry, not taking up room that he would use for something else. Half of these were wines that guests brought that we would likely take to other people’s parties, like fruitcake. “Um, but you have hundreds of bottles of cider, and kegs and fermenters and–”

Never mind THOSE bottles

“Yes, but those are moving out. I don’t hoard it. I don’t save it until I’m in the mood.”

Very little that I do bothers MIM. He’s a pretty accepting, easygoing guy, or at least he keeps his mouth shut about the things that do bother him; or, more likely, he forgets about whatever’s bothering him before he has a chance to bring it up. But this “habit” that I have of buying wine or beer and then not drinking it for perhaps months (gasp!) annoys him, which annoys me. The wine and beer aren’t in his way and they’re not hurting anything or being wasted.

I think it’s because it’s such a foreign idea to him. He can’t conceive of liking something but not immediately consuming it, which I also do with chocolate, making it last a long time though I eat a little every day. What bothers me is the idea of getting a craving for something but not having it when the mood strikes. So I keep a few varieties of beer and wine stocked for that perfect moment of wanting a sparkling white or a robust red. MIM, on the other hand, is from the school of “don’t buy more toilet paper until you’ve used the last roll.” Which hasn’t happened for 25 years because he’s married to me.

MIM can’t control himself with ice cream, like me with chips. There’s never any leftover ice cream in our house, though I rarely eat it. And once a bag of chips is opened, consider it in my tummy, though MIM rarely eats them. Poor Little Monster. Between LM’s two parents, he’s rarely left with ice cream or chips the next day. But the candy and jellybeans, which LM can’t control himself around, are all his.

MIM wasn’t asking me to stop eating his chips, which would be impossible. He just wants me to drink the booze. I think he’s lusting after the emptied bottles.

So be it. There are worse things than starting to drink more in order to please your spouse.

But when I proudly pointed out to MIM that I’d made some progress through a few “hoarded” bottles, he shrugged and said, “Oh, that. I’m over it.”

I swear, it’s enough to drive a person to drink.

The Erotica Writer’s Husband & Other Stories by Jennifer D. Munro
Kindle ebook and paperback at Amazon

12 humorous stories about sex and the sexes. These sensual yet comic stories offer a fresh take on literary erotic fiction, as if Anaïs Nin and Erma Bombeck met at the library to spin tales of laughter and the libido. Collected from the pages of Best American Erotica, Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica, Best of Literary Mama, Clean Sheets, Zyzzyva, and others.

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