Hands of my f*cking tequila, OLD MAN

Thought I could get through a week in Santa Fe without the temptation of the nectar, but after only 24 hours in the adobe ring with Aunt Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs, I blazed a trail straight to Trader Joes in order to pick up a bottle of their Distinqt Reposado, which is actually very good tequila considering the cost ($19.99/bottle).

I shot from the parking lot straight to the shelf I knew my little friend will be waiting for my eager arms only to find some 7-foot tall octogenarian blocking my way to THE LAST BOTTLE IN THE STORE.  No sir.  This will not do.   My patience, after dealing with Santa Fe traffic that is the likes of the 405 freeway in Los Angeles on a Friday afternoon, was down to nothing.  He reaches up, grabs the bottle, reads the label, places the bottle back only to do it all again.  Something catches his attention (could it have been the dog/old man biscuit I mercifully threw at his feet?), and I jump at the opening - grabbing the bottle and running up to the check stand as fast as my guilt-free conscious will take me.

You learned your lesson, pops.  Next time, maybe your inner-decision maker won’t take you back 70 years to the agave plants of yore.  I wasn’t about to let this indecisive fool steal my thunder, let alone the store’s last bottle of my lime infused sanity elixir. Nay.

I’m telling ya - there’s no way Ali, Frazier OR Tyson could last 15 rounds - let alone 3 -  in the ring with my Aunt J.  She’s a flurry of subliminal uppercuts.  Once you think you’ve blocked these with your fancy footwork, she comes at you with a battalion of body blows. Each one slowly peeling the facade from your mental faculty until it begs for the bell.  This so you can return to your corner for the cranial sponge bath recovery.

Any rate, it’s gonna be a long week.  Hopefully shortened some by the friendly agave plant, but no guarantees.