Widow Treatment: Curtains For Your Marriage?

Dang. I can't believe I was speaking derisively of my blog titles in an earlier post. They are nonpareil.

But to the subject at hand: yesterday was the third Thursday of November, which is the day the year's Beaujolais Nouveau is released for consumption. Every oenophile¹ knows this, and we hardcore drinkers know it as well because once a year the fucking oenophiles get in the way of our regular daily alcohol consumption.

For you non-oenophiles, Beaujolais Nouveau is a young wine that is meant to be drunk before the May following the date it was released. In other words, it's not just young, it is an infant in swaddling clothes, whatever the hell swaddling clothes are.

BN should be served at about 55 degrees Fahrenheit. This way, “the wine is more refreshing and its forward fruit more apparent than if you serve it at room temperature.” I just now learned this on a web page called “10 Fascinating Facts About Beaujolais Nouveau.” Actually, I only found a couple of the facts fascinating, like that they have to harvest the grapes for Beaujolais Nouveau by hand, it's one of the rules. The rest of the facts are at best mildly amusing.

Regardless, it still tastes like wallpaper paste to me. Apparently this year's harvest was a particularly good one; all that means to me is that the BN tastes like a better grade of wallpaper paste than normal.

Many people seem to get into the Beaujolais Nouveau release date, however. There was quite the crowd of aesthetes at the local public house yesterday. This got me to thinking, are there Beaujolais Nouveau Release Day Widows, in the same way that there are Deer Opener Widows? Sure there are. And you women know it's true. Every third Thursday in November you get together somewhere where the only wine they serve comes in boxes and Wang Chung the night away.

However, I have some shocking news for you BNRD Widows: ladies, your husbands are gay. No self-respecting straight guy would explicitly attend the Beaujolais Nouveau release. Even supposed metrosexuals, and I may well be one as much as I detest the term, would not be caught dead going to an event like that. Images of flattened nuts and wooden mallets come to mind. So sorry about your luck, girls. That fur coat that your husband's friend bought him last Christmas wasn't just the thoughtful gift you imagined it to be. Poppa's playing for the other team.

So blogging wives everywhere, take note: if your spouse goes out next year on the third Thursday in November, take the kids to Mom's and get a good lawyer.

And to all you avid Beaujolais Nouveau fans that suddenly lose your meal tickets: it serves you right for leading the poor women on, you ween-o-philes you. Let 'em go so they can hook up with serious alcoholics like us. And admit it -- it does taste like wallpaper paste.

-- Hulles

1I have no idea whatsoever how to pronounce this word, nor do I ever care to learn. However, speaking of derision, I sometimes pronounce it “ween-o-phile.”.