So, yesterday I got cracking on a new Rancho Asshole tradition: homemade limoncello. It is bananas-easy to make. You should try it. I am using this recipe.

My first step was to go to the likka sto and get some rotgut. I was making inquires of a clerk and out of nowhere an extremely helpful manager-type materialized and commanded me to buy 100 proof vodka, so “it still has some kick to it when you’re done.” People at the Wallingford Liquor Store are always so flippin cheerful. I love it.

I brought it home and ran it through my hapless Brita five times, for maximum purity. Thus, I upgraded lowly “Prince Alexis” brand vodka to “Demi-God Alexis” brand.

Then you zest a schisse-load of lemons. I had Companion juice them after, because as it turns out, no lemon juice is used in this process. Then it all goes in the goofy jar that looks like a barrel. Because I said so and I will turn this blog around.

Apparently, I am supposed to agitate the jar for the next two weeks, add a bunch of simple syrup, and then, BAM, limoncello three weeks after that. Who wants to invite me to their party now? I thought so.

Yesterday I went to Bliss Soaps on Broadway with a blogfriend, who is now a IRL friend, Krumpy. Funny how that works. Anyway, the owner of Bliss Soap was in and I remembered him from when he was in a kiosk at Northgate. The owner made more off-color jokes in five minutes than I have heard in years. And he gave us sweet deals and was crazy-friendly to boot. I saw maximum deliciousness with minimum ingredients. There was an enigma of a bath bomb that was a tub tea bag wrapped in a bath bomb dipped in cocoa butter. Whoa.

Today I got asked permission to have one old story reprinted on an online literary journal. Four people this week told me I was too boring to be on television. And the number of poos my diaper-rebellious child deposited on the floor before naptime was two. Which is also the number of shots I just put into my Red Bull, which is preventing me from stabbing myself in the head. This rocktail is against all advice from those fuckers at Real Simple. Why would I listen to something that ungrammatically calls itself REAL Simple, anyway? Poopbubblers.

PS: My landlady called today and said she changed her mind about selling the place! She said she felt bad about pressuring us and will wait to sell for another year-plus. Oh, FNIF, down payment here we come! With God as my witness, I will never go without crenelation again. Thanks for concerned comments and emails. I think I love you all…but that might just be the Red Boo talking.

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