The 2011 Beer Diary, Part 1

Scott doesn't like to buy beer for himself. A guilty extravagance, this occasional six-pack of Shiner Bock.

I like to buy him beer. He rarely drinks more than a beer a week, Mr. Health-Conscious-and-Disciplined. So I like to try to freak him out by giving him a bunch of beers at once. This behavior is in my blood. When our beloved cat, Hankie, was alive, he had a collection of 6 tiny catnip mice. Black, red, white, yellow, made of felt, stuffed with the nectar of the tabbies, and about the size of black olives. Without fail, Hankie would swat all the mousies to a dark hiding place under the couch, so far back they were unfetchable. I'd eventually get a yardstick and FWACK them all out into the daylight again, all in their little gray fur coats, the finest dustbunny fur money could buy. After blowing their luxurious coats off, I'd make a big production out of cupping them all in my hands and say "Watch, Hankie!" and toss them all into the air at once. I took great delight in watching him hop and jerk and pounce and finally settle on one deserving mouse to sink his teeth into. Until I gathered up the other five and threw them in the air again.

I'm not suggesting that Scott is that easily fooled. Also, he would be able to retrieve the mice from under the couch.

But I do like to bombard him with lots of beer choices. This started a couple years ago in Phoenix. At Christmastime I went to a gourmet grocery store and bought him ten beers, all different, all uppity and microbrew-ish. I had no idea what I was buying, but I knew not to get anything "flavored" with caramel or cinnamon-y crap. The guys working at the grocery store were eager to point out their favorite choices. I took the beers home, wrapped them all separately, and put them in the refrigerator. It became a beer grab-bag. Each one was a surprise and Scott would describe the taste to me. If he managed to talk me into taking a sip, he got the same reaction: gagging sounds and a teeth-grinding grimace as though I'd just downed a Drano slurpee.

This year I decided on a treasure hunt. I wrote out obnoxious rhyming clues, forcing Scott to search for the next clue and the next one. A clue inside the crock pot. A clue taped to the butt of my elliptical. They were all leading to the hidden treasure: 54 bottles of beer. It was meant to be symbolic: one for each week of the year (plus two because I couldn't help it). There are about 35 brands. I did repeat some that looked extra good. (As though beer could ever be good.)

The final written clue: "This is the last clue that you must ponder. Just go to the place where the main verb is 'launder.'"

That's right. All 54 beers were inside the washer.

I know what you're thinking. Candy is so classy. She probably makes hors d'oeuvres with celery and Cheez Wiz. And wears halter tops. And has appeared on "Cops."

Nah, that's for Valentine's Day.