There was the Summer of Margaritas and the Summer I Swore Not to Complain about the Heat. Summers spent in other cities. Summers spent in the pool with Sun In, baby oil and tinfoil. (Those summers were in high school. OK, maybe a couple in college, too.)
There was the Summer I Stood Pregnant in the Pool, Waiting for Annabelle. And the Summer of Sophie’s Feeding Tube.
Tonight I decided that this will be the Summer of Champagne. I decided this after a particularly delicious champagne cocktail a new(ish) bar downtown. The “Retro Cooler” has champagne (or sparkling wine, at least), lemon juice, soda and something called St. Germaine.
The economy’s collapsing, a pandemic is in the offing, Sophie’s birthday party is less than three weeks away, and I’ve finally given in — as soon as I find the time this week, I’m (shudder) joining Twitter.
The other day, in a discussion about our mutual reluctance to tweet (or whatever the hell you’re supposed to call it) in particular and social media in general, my dear and wise friend Deborah commented, “I am afraid that we’re going to disappear up our own assholes.”
She’s so totally right, but that is not what someone who already blogs and spends entirely too much on Facebook (not to mention talking about Facebook when she’s not actually on it) wants to hear. Not sober, anyway.
It seems like a good time to break out the champagne. And that includes kid birthday parties. Just for the parents, don’t worry. And I know just what to serve: Francis Ford Coppola’s pink sparkling wine, named for his movie maker daughter — Sofia.