How to Have a Päntsdrunk Weekend (with Wine Pairings)

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UGH.

This week though, am I right? It’s felt like an entire year of bad news and gut-wrenching images rolled into one giant horrible week.

Which is why I think most of us are just really looking forward to sitting at home, drinking wine in our underpants this weekend. Like, REALLY looking forward to it.

Well, good news. 1) You can (at least, I think you still can in this current, messed up iteration of America) and 2) the Scandinavians have already beaten us to it and they even have a name for it. Because—of course, they do.

Yes, the genius people from the cluster of countries who have already brought us the awesome celebration of all things cozy and comfortable (#hygge4lyfe especially in winter), have now given us a new lifestyle/wellness trend. Or, if not new, at least have given us a name for it. Two, actually.

Päntsdrunk, aka: kalsarikannit

Kalsarikannit

And, it’s specifically the Finnish who are responsible for this one. I don’t know any Finnish people (other than that they are consistently ranked as some of the happiest people on Earth), but I feel like it isn’t really overblown to describe them as geniuses.

As Elite Daily describes it:

“Päntsdrunk is basically what happens when you refuse to let FOMO get the best of you.”

OK, I’m already in. But, please, tell me more.

Päntsdrunk is a ‘path to recovery and self-empowerment,’ defined by utter relaxation and temporary escapes from real-world stressors, such as work emails or annoying small talk.”

I am all about self-care. I love to relax and escape. But not the type of self-care I have to actually leave the house to enjoy or participate in or be around other people to partake in. I get annoyed by people at THE SPA. Do you know what kind of self-involved, anti-social hermit you have to be to get annoyed by people at the spa??

So, it goes without saying that I’m only interested in self-care that can be practiced in the privacy of my own home in its utmost, laziest forms. This one, according to Finish journalist Miska Rantanen, simply involves “drinking at home, alone, in your underwear.”

new going out

Oh yeah. I’m (mostly) down. I do have a couple of slight alterations to make, though. 1) Change “underwear” to pajamas or loungewear, and 2) swap out “alone” for “with my beloved significant other who is in the same room but likely doing his own thing, with his own drink and doing it silently.”

I love this bit in the Elite Daily article, because holy hotdog, this roundup of activities just speaks to my soul.

“To be clear, at no point does Rantanen suggest that Päntsdrunk should be equated with binge drinking. Rather, it’s all about allowing yourself to relax while being totally sequestered from the ‘real world.’ An ideal Päntsdrunk night for me would assuredly be homemade cucumber jalapeño margaritas, along with a few seasons of Girls, a face mask or two, followed by a bedtime of 9 p.m. sharp……It allows everyone to do exactly what they’ve always wanted to do (and have probably already been doing in secret), without feeling bad for it on a Friday or Saturday night.”

Since I am so here for this trend, I want to offer up some wine pairings with some of my favorite self-care activities.

  • Reading celebrity magazines at the kitchen bar while XFE cooks us an amazing meal – This is one of my favorite activities, and one that I am very good at. I usually offer up a weak, “Anything I can do to help?” while distracting him with various celebrity gossip tidbits. Pairs well with a nice, rich Cabernet Sauvignon.
  • Playing with/grooming/caring for Pinot and Port (our cats. Yes, they’re named after wine) – There’s a bit of an age discrepancy here, so I actually have two wine pairings. For Port, who is just over a year old and very active, I recommend a glass of crisp, dry Sauvignon Blanc. Because odds are pretty good that either myself or the cat are going to knock the glass over and spill wine all over the cream living room rug, so white wine = easier clean up. For Pinot, who is 7 years old, kind of lazy and literally plays while laying down, a bold Pinot Noir, naturally.
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The squad, ready to chill. 
  • Bubble bath and face mask – Light a scented candle, fill the tub with a healthy dollop of Laura Mercier bubble bath, slap on some Caudalie instant detox face mask, and pour yourself a glass of spicy Malbec. Just don’t fall asleep. I always do that and there’s nothing relaxing about being startled awake by a mouthful of heavily perfumed bubbles. Or spilled wine.
  • Organize and purge – There’s just something about color coordinating your closet/significant other’s tie rack/pet supplies and/or throwing out all your unused and unloved crap that is so, so satisfying and relaxing. You’ll need a mellow Chardonnay, some equally mellow music (Might I suggest some 90’s trip hop, ala Portishead or Sneaker Pimps?) and a couple of hours to just disappear into the trance that can only be brought on by Marie Kondo folding techniques.
  • Pinteresting – While I mostly think you’re supposed to keep distracting and upsetting technology at bay, I’m pretty sure Pinterest gets a pass. It is probably the most used app on my phone and my go-to when I want to kill time and dull brain cells. I can save and organize pretty pictures of pretty things all damn day. Plus, Pinteresting is just so hopeful for the future! Am I ever going to live in a mid-century modern bungalow in LA with a sauna room built in? Eh, probably not. But it doesn’t stop me from pinning every damn photo I see. Will I ever have a need to make frozen bowls with delicate herbs and greenery suspended in them to hold votives in? No! But their so pretty and Scandinavian! Do I really need to save all these fondue recipes when Trader Joe’s has a completely serviceable fondue kit? Nope. Not even a little bit. But I like to save and organize all these ideas. Which calls for a delicate and eminently drinkable Rose that can carry you through a wasted afternoon of picture sorting.

So go ahead. Get Päntsdrunk this weekend or sans-pants-drunk, if semi-nudity is your thing. We’ve all certainly earned it. Plus, we’ll probably need to store up our emotional wellness reserves to face the next 942 days.

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Goodbye, Petunia.

Last Toons

We have a saying in my family. Well, maybe it’s just in my family, or maybe it’s a Southernism, I’m not sure. But when someone is especially old and ornery and not doing well, we’d say “the devil won’t take her/him.” It means that the person in question is so mean-spirited and bossy, that the devil’s afraid to let them into hell because they’ll take over and start running the place. It’s meant to provide some reassurance that the person you love will be with you a bit longer, so don’t you worry. And, it provides a little chuckle, an inside joke about that ornery, old person.

I used to think that about Petunia. She’s going to be here a long time. She’s too mean to die. The devil won’t take her.

Two weeks ago, we made the brutally difficult decision to have our ornery, old cat put down.

And, I’m crying (again) even as I type this. Because my heart….my heart is broken.

Petunia was in my life for 15 years, 8 months and 6 days. She was, for all intents and purposes, my baby. My heart. The only living thing I’ve ever nurtured and loved pretty much from the beginning of her existence.

I found her when she was around 6 weeks old, hidden up in the undercarriage of a car in my apartment parking lot, mewing for her mom. I have no idea how she got there or where she came from. I wasn’t even sure it was a kitten crying. I had convinced myself that it was a baby bird in some tree. After a day or two of trying to pinpoint the sound and finally realizing that it was a lost kitten, I laid on my stomach on the hot parking lot asphalt for hours trying to lure her out, with tears running down my face, same as right this minute, only back then, on that warm May evening, it was out of frustration that I couldn’t convince her to let me save her.

I never intended to keep her. I was a broke ass college student who already had one cat. So I took her to the vet to get her ready for adoption. Even the vet knew I probably was going to keep her.

The bond I built with her was the best part of me. With Petunia, especially over the last two years as her health declined, I displayed a patience and nurturing that I didn’t know I had and that I don’t really display in other relationships or other parts of my life.

 

It killed me to see her struggling, health-wise. Two-and-a-half years ago, she was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. We tried medication, first a gel that was supposed to be rubbed into her ears. That didn’t go well. (Her history with meds is well documented). Then with a pill ground up and hidden in her food. She suspiciously ate it, and for a week or so, things appeared to be looking up. But late one night while my significant other, XFE was out of town, she had a horrible reaction. It scared me to death. So we sent her off for radio-iodine therapy—a tortuous 4 days of quarantine. But it worked and her thyroid levels improved.

However, some of the behaviors that had caused us to become concerned in the first place didn’t go away. Petunia never regained the weight she lost, even though she had a good appetite. She still paced in circles all hours of the night. She often seemed confused and unfocused, meowing at walls until I’d come and scoop her up. She still had tremors in her front paws. She had arthritis and difficulty finding a comfortable cat loafing position. Her balance and mobility were pretty poor. Her eyes dilated completely and stayed that way, no matter the lighting conditions.

The vet said it might be neurological, maybe dementia, maybe cognitive disorder. Just part of getting old. It was the first time we discussed quality of life.

We promised Petunia there would be no more vet visits (she absolutely hated going to the vet and had to be drugged just to get her in her carrier). We promised her we’d just make her comfortable and let her live out her days in peace.

She stopped coming downstairs as much, spending most of her time on our bed hiding under her favorite sweater, or in a makeshift bed we set up in the floor of my closet, or in her special scratching box/cat cubby that XFE had bought for her. But she was still eating well, drinking lots of water, using her litter box properly, grooming herself. She’d sleep with us occasionally, a tight kitten roll between my legs. I would stay still all night, not daring to move an inch, even if it meant I didn’t get much sleep.

If Petunia didn’t sleep with us, she’d pace – down the hall, up the hall, up on my side of the bed, over to the nightstand, jump down,  down the hall,  up the hall, up on my side of the bed….Sometimes she’d just stop in my bathroom and cry. I’d get up, no matter the hour, and go scoop her up and hold her until she calmed down. Sometimes we’d have to do this several times a night/early morning. It reminded me of those first tiny meows, and crouching on a hot asphalt parking lot, trying to convince a traumatized kitten that I was the best thing that would ever happen to her.

We had another ritual these last two years or so. While I was in the shower every morning, Petunia would come in the bathroom and jump up on the toilet seat lid. I’d come out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel and sit on the edge of the tub. She’d climb over into my lap and head butt my chin while I’d pet her (gingerly, to avoid her arthritic areas). She’d rub her face against me, re-marking me as “her person.” She’d lean into my chest while I held her as tight as I dared and whispered in her ear.

Sometimes, she’d eventually scoot down and try to find a comfortable position to take a short nap. The whole ritual could go on for 10-30 minutes, depending on her mood. But I didn’t mind. Even as my hair got dry and frizzy and my towel stayed damp and the bathroom got too warm or cold. I’d stay and hold her as long as she’d let me. XFE called it our “HR meetings.”

When Petunia stopped coming in for HR meetings, we knew it was a bad sign. She withdrew even further, showing no interest in anything other than her meals, and even then, just barely. She stopped sleeping on the bed, stopped sleeping with me at night, no matter how still I’d lie. She just stayed in her scratching box/kitty cubby, coming out only to eat.

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We knew it was time, but still, I wanted her to stay. I saw and heard about so many other cats who lived 17 years, 20 years, 22 years. Why wouldn’t our cat?

But she couldn’t and she didn’t. We had to be the ones to make the decision, for her sake. Before it got even worse and more difficult for her. We could have gone on worrying about and fretting over her forever, but we knew that she was done with living and I was just keeping her alive for my own selfish needs.

So, we let her go. And I’ve cried just about every day since because my heart still hurts, even though it’s half missing and has got this Petunia shaped-hole in it. Or, more likely, because it now has that hole. I don’t believe in an afterlife. I believe that when you die, you just die and you only live on as a collection of memories in the heart of those who loved you. But if there is something else, I hope Petunia is being her old, ornery self and giving the devil a hell of a time.

Toons at Payne
Healthier, chubbier times.

 

 

 

 

Friday Links: Sassy Cats See Buildings Shaped Like Food and/or Brains Edition

I’m frolicking in Naples, Italy right now, eating all of the thin crust pizza, and pasta, and creamy pastries, and just fried everything I can get my sticky little fingers on while my travel-buddy-for-life XFE actually works. Maybe the guys who make the expandable suitcase below could branch out into some expandable pants in time for my return.

This is the proper way to eat Italian cheese. I learned that from a Euro of Hollywood, so it’s a FAKT.

In the meantime:

Friday Links: Freaks in Oceans and Metros Edition

I’ve got back-to-back trips over the next two weeks and will blog when I can. In the meantime, I suppose I should brush up on my R. Kelly lyrics in case I get stuck on a tarmac, and be glad I don’t have to take public transportation in San Francisco. See you soon!

gosling cats

Heather1

  • I’m heading to my home state, aka God’s Country (Texas) for work this week, so this infographic seems timely. My favorite: “Texans are normal people.” Debatable, but I’ll take it. Also: why isn’t “food” listed as a reason? I intend to gorge myself on BBQ, Mexican food and anything battered, fried and drenched in ranch.