Munchkin? Who you calling munchkin? For good measure, I add a whatchu talkin’ bout Willis gif.
Spoiler alert – I’m totally a munchkin. In my defense, I’m surrounded by giants making my slightly short stature of five-feet-two seem shorter than it actually is.
You up for grabbing a beer?
Smart man. He knows better than to respond to my ire about my height.
Can’t. I’m brewing.
I cringe when I realize what I wrote. I love brewing, but it’s my secret hobby I don’t talk about with anyone. Not a secret hobby like learning to speak Wookie or extreme ironing. Now those are some weird hobbies. Before I have a chance to completely flip out, Grayson responds.
Cool. Any new flavors? The holiday brew was good. And I want to try your stout.
Who told you about the stout? Confession – it could have been me. New Year’s Eve got a bit hazy at the end there. There’s no guarantee I kept my mouth shut.
He ignores my question. What are you brewing now?
Oh, what the hell. I decide to tell him. It’s not like it’s some super secret like what Wally does for a living. Yes, Wally. Although all of the uncles are retired from the Army, I’m pretty sure Wally is into some black ops super secret shit. He disappears for weeks on end and no one has any idea where he is. All the uncles will say is he’s ‘off-grid’. And if those words don’t spell black ops, I don’t know what does.
Session IPA.
What’s Session IPA?
While I’m typing up my answer, Grayson calls. “Hey,” he says in a rich, buttery voice. Geez. All the guy has to do is say ‘hey’ and Little Susan wakes up and starts singing Marvin Gaye.
“Hey.” My voice comes out husky. Bad voice!
“I thought it might be easier if you explained on the phone instead of typing on the tiny keyboard.”
“Are you calling my fingers fat?”
“There’s nothing fat about you, Munchkin.”
I was joking but now Little Susan is doing the tango while singing Marvin Gaye. And, yes, I realize those two things do not go together. I never said Little Susan had taste.
I hold my hand over the phone to clear my throat. No reason for my friend to hear the effect he has on me. “It’s like this,” I say and then go on to explain what a Session IPA is. I may get a bit over-excited and drone on and on. What? I’m a beer geek. There are worse things in life.
“Oh shit,” I say when I open my eyes because I closed my eyes when I started to wax poetic about beer. No judging.
“What’s wrong?” Grayson asks. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s still paying attention. It’s not like I’ve let him speak for the last twenty minutes.
“Crappity crap.”
“You’re freaking me out. What’s wrong? Where are you? I’m on my way.”
“Unless you fancy cleaning up a sticky, goopy mess, there’s no need.” I switch off the heat and place my phone on the table. “I gotta go,” I say and hit the end button before he has a chance to respond.
I study the mess trying to figure out where to begin before realizing there is no good place to begin. Time to roll up my sleeves and dive in. It’s no big deal. I can start over. It’s Friday night. I’ve got all night. And, yes, I realize how lame that statement made me sound.