Misery Loves Company, but Would Settle For Wine

You know that saying, misery loves company? After working a 14 hour day on not nearly enough sleep during the past election, getting home and changing into my jammies before watching the fate of the province unfold on TV, I poured myself a glass of wine and hunkered down, snugly wrapped in a dressing gown. In the midst of an animated, if bleary, tirade about one of the old white guys, could have been McGuinty, Hudak, or any one of their cronies, I don’t remember specifically, my elbow shot out to the side and directly into my wine glass.

As punishment for breaking the wine glass (and more importantly, dumping a perfectly good glass of Sauvignon Blanc on the floor) I decided not to get another glass of wine. Just as well, I would’ve had to dig out one of the plastic sippy cups my parents have put in storage in anticipation of hosting grandchildren at some (very, very distant) future date.

I may not have won any brownie points with my Dad for the broken wine glass, the spilled wine, or the language that might have made a sailor blush, but it was hard to tell, sitting in that living room, who was more pissed off about the election results, me or him. As they say, misery does love company, but I think in my case misery would have settled for a glass of wine.

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