[A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS: Frequent Readers of this blog will recall that Demelza’s spouse has, from time to time, made brief appearances in our posts. It can also be reported here that he makes brief appearances in person as well, wandering through the room as Itzal and Demelza play or Itzal and Demelza drink or Itzal and Demelza snack. On one such morning, not so long ago, said spouse wandered through and – rudely, in the opinion of this editor – inquired what “all the racket” was about. It’s true, shouting is not rare when Nintendo’s afoot. But, although the spouse is normally supportive, and pretends to care what Itzal and Demelza are up to, he perhaps made too much fun of Demelza, unfairly, by taking Itzal’s side as to the shouting in question. This resulted in the issuance of a challenge: “Why don’t you write a guest blog and see how easy it is?” Although this challenge may be the 21st Century equivalent of “I know you are, but what am I?” the editors feel justified in this I’m-rubber-and-you’re-glue stratagem and have turned over the WordPress controls. Enjoy.]
This is all because I like to golf.
I’ve been able to ignore Itzal’s occasional presence in our house over the years, paired with this Nintendo playing he does with Demelza, because it’s their hobby, you see. I play golf. They play Nintendo. As the pandemic dragged on, I found escape on the links, and they found escape with some elf-like creature named Link. Fair is fair.
Then the playing turned into hours of research to be prepared for quality time with this Link fellow. Fine. I watch sports, Demelza researches Nintendo.
Then the playing and the research turned into eight-hour days, sometimes two a week. Fine. I hide in the spare room to watch sports, and then we all have a nice dinner.
Demelza still takes daily showers, and for that I’m grateful. But she and her friend Itzal wear the same old sweats and tee-shirts (they call it the Nintendo costume) day in, day out. At least in golf, I wear dress shorts or nice slacks and a shirt with a collar. Golf has standards.
Then came the drinking. It wasn’t enough that “snackage” happened all day long – and listen, I like a good salami and cheese tray as much as the next spouse – now Itzal and Demelza were researching and crafting cocktails. A different one – or two – for every day of play.
I’m a wine guy. I don’t much like cocktails. Excuse me… “craft” cocktails.
But now we own 57 different kinds of glasses and there are syrups with names that sound like medicines cluttering up my refrigerator. Various boozes of the world keep showing up, but no one is drinking the perfectly fine 35-year-old Russian vodka that I inherited from my parents, who may or may not have made a questionable trip to the Soviet Union sometime before the Berlin Wall came down and returned with an even more questionable vintage of white lightning they assured me was expensive vodka. That’s still here,[2] but we’ve gone through I don’t know how many bottles of something called Pisco, and somewhere a Lillet Blanc manufacturer is chuckling all the way to the bank because of hooch that was shipped to my house. And don’t get me going on the maraschino cherry liqueur(s).
Meanwhile, I sit quietly by in the spare room, consuming the craft beverage of MY choice, pictured here for the uninitiated. You don’t need a recipe, by the way.
And then there is the shouting.
No one shouts in golf. No one. The fans mumble and murmur, resorting to something so quiet and peaceful it’s called a “golf clap.” Newscasters whisper their reporting. Caddies sigh the sigh of angels. Players might grumble under their breath (not me, of course) but – let me underscore this – NO ONE SHOUTS IN GOLF.
But all the researching, and preparing, and snacking, and cocktail crafting inevitably concludes with those two on the couch, I guess with their friend Link, but I’ve never actually seen him, and it sounds like this:
You’re doing it wrong!
Do you want to do it?!
That’s unfair – I haven’t had any practice!
You practice when I’m not here!
I do research! I cook meals and potions! I hunt crickets!
I look up cocktail recipes!
I do that, too!
Well, fine, but I still can’t roll the bombs!
You should have practiced!
I did practice!
When, while you were leaving that heart in the Goron Mines?!
Oh, here we go again with the Goron Mines story!
Honestly, it’s enough to make a spouse want to drink something other than Mountain Dew.
[1] Hence, what you say bounces off me and sticks to you. Sticks and stones. Neener, dare we say, neener.
[2] Erm, actually, no it’s not. We drank it, and we didn’t, you know, go blind or anything. Signed, The Editors.