At Target, no less.
One of my new friends - a woman of great taste and wit - recently said to me that she drank Target Wine-in-a-Box on occasion. She said that it wasn't bad. So today, I decided to pick a box up at Target, though for wine buying purposes, I should call it Tarzhay. Either way, I purchased a "mini cube" of California Pinot Grigio. You can see it pictured at left, along side a tissue box for a size comparison. This little box contains the equivalent of TWO bottles of wine and costs a mere $9.99. I could have purchased a regular cube but that seemed quite excessive. The regular cube contains the equivalent of FOUR bottles of wine for about $16.
So, how is it? It is not bad. Not bad at all. It drinks WAY better than a $5.00 bottle would drink, not that I would ever admit to drinking one, of course. The drawback to the wine in a box concept, though, is that you cannot see how much is gone, and I think that is an important visual guide when drinking wine, don't you?
In other news, Chris cut Jack's hair tonight with scissors rather than with the clippers, with which he has at least some experience. Let's just say that the results confirm my belief that paying for someone to cut Jack's hair four times a year is more cost effective than what we are going to have to spend in therapy dollars helping him get over the emotional wounds he will suffer from having these homespun haircuts. I think that this time around, my husband saw the light. I just hope Jack doesn't take a good look in the mirror tonight before going to bed. I sort of rushed him into the shower after the damage was done, hoping to buy some time before he realizes how badly his hair has been butchered. Last time his father cut his hair, he wept - wept - about how short is was. He might long for his last haircut when he gets a look at this one...
It brings back memories of a similar torture suffered by your BloomingtonGirl at the hands of her well meaning mother. When I was about six, my mother decided that I had to have a pixie cut. Why my older gum chewing sister got to grow her hair and I did not, I have never understood. But, having covered the issue in painful detail in therapy, I don't feel the need to delve into it here. Anyway, I had to go to this hairdresser down our little street (formally called Bellinger Ave but widely known in town as Pig Tail Alley). The hairdresser's name was Olga Hair. Yes, you read that correctly. Olga had a little salon in her house, on the second floor. My mother took me there (many times, I might add) for my pixie cut. The worst part of it was that Olga would put powder down my back afterward for some reason and I just remember it smelled bad and made me itch. When my mother did allow my hair to grow beyond the pixie from time to time, she often made a little pony-tail on the top of my head. I don't know why she did this. Perhaps it was to satisfy some crazy notion she had. I just remember it gave me a headache.
But, enough about the childhood of your BloomingtonGirl. It is time for the adult BloomingtonGirl to wash her face, study the size of her pores, apply moisturizer, kiss Jack goodnight and settle down with Middlemarch.