WINE OF THE WEEK

I know, I know: my "wine" of the week is turning into multiple wines.  I'm sorry!  I can't help it if I am lucky enough to taste lots and lots of fabulous wines.  I mean, it's a horrid life, I concur, but someone has to live it so I volunteered to save the rest of you.

This week I attend two tastings.  One tasting features reds that can be chilled for summer enjoyment; the other tasting features roses (insert accent -- I can't, no matter how many tutorials I attempt).  I'll start with the first recommendation, which is for the reds.

When it comes to Spanish wine, I gravitate toward Granache, so it's no surprise to me that the Grenache/Syrah red blend captures my attention.  Torito Bravo's 2015 blend, imported here by a local company in Beverly, boasts that it "evokes a journey across Spanish landscapes ... the coastal breeze ... Picasso ... Flamenco ..."  I'm not sure about that, but this red blend kicks ass.  We sip it at room temperature and we sip it chilled, two completely different tastes, both amazing. 

This is the part of the tasting that scares me.  I love this red, completely and totally, and I figure it must be somewhere in the $25 range, possibly more.  My jaw drops (as do the jaws of the others at the tasting) when the sommelier announces the price per bottle: $7.99.  Sold.  My first recommendation for this week is the 2015 Torito Bravo red blend.

Out of the roses, there are three that strike me.  Coming in at third place is Domaine Tariquet Rose, a 2015 French wine that's dry and fruity.  It is made up of Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Syrah, and Tannat and has a robust, deep color.  This wine is a steal at $9.99 per bottle.

Rose #2 is also a French wine.  The combination of Grenache (big surprise it's on my list), Cinsault, Syrah, and Cabernet.makes this $13.99 wine absolutely worth the price.  Also a 2015, Cammanderie de Bargemone Rose hints of strawberries and currants.

Rose #1, a 2015 (might as well make it a 2015 quad) German rose, is light in color but delivers big on flavor.  It is smooth, pleasant, and quite interesting.  It boasts red cherry and berry flavors but also throws in touches of coffee bean, vanilla, and herbs.  This 2015 Villa Wolf Rose is 100% Pinot Noir grapes and has a lasting finish.  This one is another steal at $9.99.

There you have it -- Four recommendations to keep your summer wine list growing.  Don't thank me; try them.  Once you do, you'll thank yourself for choosing such great wines that don't suck the life out of your wallet.

BEACH TRAFFIC OF A DIFFERENT KIND

I left off yesterday's tale with Ass-Crack Man at the beach.  I don't stay long at the beach, about two and a half hours, because I'm actually on my way to Maine.  I could backtrack to the highway, but I decide to avoid the NH toll and continue up the coast.  The views from 1A in Rye are absolutely stunning.

Well, I know they're stunning from seeing the coastline all of my life, but I cannot look too much because bicyclists are swerving into traffic, and people are parking their cars everywhere along the road to trek their beach stuff down the hot street and up and over a giant and slippery rock wall that is so tall it would make Donald Trump happy.

Worse than the bike targets and the human targets, I have a red Corvette in front of me that is being driven by a total dickweed. He obviously thinks he knows how to drive a manual transmission, but I can tell from his driving habits that he does not.  He drives like my damn grandfather: fast on the gas then forget the gas and let the car slow down, slower ... slower ... then rev the engine with the clutch in so the car doesn't actually move, just makes this varoooooooom VAROOOOOOOOOOM sound.  Yeah, wicked impressive, jackass, as your burn out your clutch.  

I am behind Corvette Man for a long, long time, so long, in fact, that a Rye town ambulance pulls out in front of us.  This vehicle isn't in any more of a rush than is Corvette Man, and I start wishing I'd gone over to the highway.  I need to be at my sister's house in just over an hour.  Move your asses, people!

Corvette Man decides he is going to swerve over the solid yellow line and try to pass Ambu-Lance, who spots him, crosses the line himself as a blocking maneuver, then rapidly returns to his lane as traffic comes whizzing by going the opposite way.  Although I am not liking this whole "Drive 25 in a 35 mph speed zone" shit, I am enjoying the scenery along the way.  I get extremely joyous when I drive past Rye Harbor, home of the Pinwheel, one of the fishing boats featured along with the Gloucester Boys in the television show Wicked Tuna.

While we are driving along in a tight line, a bug tries to fly in my open driver's side window.  Instead, it dive-bombs the car, smacking into the side panel then bouncing back multiple times.  The humongous thwack it makes hitting the car is dull but sickening.  I suspect it may be an errant June bug by its density, but it's probably a killer greenhead fly, plotting a way to drain me of every last ounce of blood.

Finally, mercifully, the red Corvette turns, and I am blissfully driving along until I see the shortcut to route 1 and the highway.  I have taken this back road before, so I am perturbed when I am sitting in traffic at a dead stop.  We are behind the trash truck, and no one can pass because of oncoming traffic and blind curves.

I have the realization that I might never make it to Maine. Maybe I should've listened all those times just now that my GPS told me to turn left, and I refused.

After about three-quarters of a mile being stuck behind Trash Man, the truck turns.  I make it to route 1 and onto 95 at the giant Traffic Circle (say this, and everyone in New Hampshire knows exactly where you are just by those two words).  I am fine until I get to the Maine toll.

Apparently, my EZ Pass is no longer making automatic deposits in to my account. Great.  Terrific.  Fucking brilliant.  I have enough money in the account to get to Maine but not to get home.  Even after calling a representative (once I do get to Maine), the glitch still is not fixed.

Who knows?  Maybe Ass-Crack Man really is behind (hahaha) the problems.  Maybe he sucked up the entire universe up his butt-end.  Maybe ... maybe ... maybe I'll tell more soon.  After all, there is a final chapter coming on Monday.

TALES OF TRAVELING TO THE BEACH

The things that happen with everyday regularity to most people seem to bypass my life.  Nothing is ever easy nor uneventful.  Take a simple trip to the beach, for example.

I start out heading toward the highway.  I know there is construction all over town, so I head north into the next town, planning to slip onto the highway from a busier entrance ramp, but NOOOOOOO.  The entire road is shut down, which I discover after a hundred of my closest friends and I get stuck in the back up.  I do what any impatient driver does and pull a u-ey in the middle of the crowded street.

Luckily, 495 interweaves the Merrimack Valley multiple times, and I gain access by driving into Lawrence near the mill buildings along the river.  Unluckily, I have wasted ten minutes of my time going around random roadwork construction sites.

No sooner do I make it onto the highway when traffic starts backing up.  The culprit this time is not construction.  No, it is a groundhog that is meandering across three lanes of traffic.  Yup, Punxsutawney Phil is on his way to the beach, too.

Traffic isn't too horrible, considering most of us are probably trying to reach the coast and the relief of the heatwave that has been gripping us for days.  Suddenly, a Toyota Yaris screams by me on the left.  A Yaris.  A motherfucking YARIS.  I try to ease into the passing lane, but there's no egress.

My car and I get stuck behind a flatbed with an old, extremely beaten, rusted-out car frame on it.  Plastic semi-covers the missing top half, and it balloons out with the force of the air current at 65 mph.  Pieces of plastic start tearing off and flying all over the high way, and, for a brief and terrifying moment,I picture the entire tarp peeling away, careening through the air, and landing across my windshield.

I manage to maneuver my car around the flatbed as I near the 495/95 merge.  Signs warn drivers "RIGHT LANE CLOSED AHEAD!"  I plan accordingly and merge left.  This turns out to be futile as it is really the LEFT LANE that suddenly disappears.

A couple more traffic glitches, and I make it to the parking lot of my favorite beach.  My plan is to park near the bath house, but that changes quickly when I see a yellow school bus.  Yellow school buses mean one thing: children.  In case you do not know, teachers are highly allergic to children during the summer.  As a matter of fact, seeing a yellow bus in the summer often causes severe wheezing and ugly hives.  So, I continue down the street.  Instead of parking in spot #1913, I end up in spot #1956, away from the children-peppered beach area.

Low tide is on its way, so the entire beach is open for a long walk.  I lock everything into my car except my keys, my phone with the Map My Walk app, and a pair of glasses to read my  phone.  I walk all the way to the end of the beach, where the rock outcropping meets the sand.  It smells funky here, a little fishy, because the gulls drop shellfish here and peck away at the meat, leaving the crustaceous carcasses behind in pieces.

My plan is to hit the bathroom before I set up my sand chair, so I walk past my original starting point.  As I near the steps leading to the bath house, there is a girl building a sand castle with the help of her father.  She pours water into a moat while her dad sits in the sand working the pail.  I notice he has a tattoo across his back that is lines and lines of text.  It looks like he has a chapter of Harry Potter from shoulder to shoulder to flank.

The sun catches him just right and I realize that the way he is sitting exposes most of his ass crack.  Yup, his ass cheeks are in the sand, and his crack smiles sideways at anyone and everyone who walks by.  This is a little unsettling since his butt is parked in the sand where the busload of children has set up camp for the day.  By the time I make my return trip a few minutes later, the man, the girl, and the sand building have all disappeared, possibly via his enormous ass crack.

I'm only at the beach temporarily; I'm on my way to Maine for lunch, but I have enough time leftover after my walk for a quick dip in the ocean (water is surprisingly warm this summer).  Recalling my trouble getting this far, I add on an extra fifteen minutes to my commute.  Turns out I should add more time, but that's a tale for another day, like tomorrow.  Stay tuned.

HEATWAVE ON, BABY

Am I the only one who doesn't want the heatwave to end?

I love this weather.  LOVE IT.

Running an errand?  Throw on my flip-flops and hope I remembered to put on a bra.  Outer wear?  A shirt with sleeves, maybe a light sweater in case the temperature dips below 75.  Getting dressed up?  A sundress counts, as long as I wear kickass sandals and some excellent jewelry.  Hair frizzing?  It's probably from the beach, and NO, I won't be getting an electric shock every time I touch something.

Driving in the car?  Windows down and radio on.  Too humid?  Windows up, radio on, and air conditioner blasting.  Need to regulate your body temperature?  No need to spend an hour or more glued to a heater or blazing fireplace -- Jump into a pond, lake, ocean, pool, or sprinkler, and it's INSTANT COOL. Cold drinks =  add ice; Hot drinks = boil water, brew tea, add sugar (etc.), wait for it to cool...

Every day it's sunny with clear blue skies.  Pretty much, anyway.  So far, as they say, so good.

Why?  Why would you want this to end?  Heatwave on, baby!  See you at the beach.

JURY STAR WARS DUTY

Jury duty - the necessary but truly annoying civic responsibility

My jury duty is outside of my jurisdiction.  I have been called to appear in Salem court, 18 miles away with no decent roadway to get in there or out of there, a place where summer traffic means Salem Willows beach and boardwalk fun.  Strategic planning, therefore, is needed to locate parking, Dunkins, lunch, and a quick escape.

I go to the parking garage by the museum because I know it's safe, cheap, and I won't have to worry about feeding meters.  I usually walk down and out the front where the cars come in because I'm usually here to visit the museum.  I see people filing up the ramp from their cars as if they know a secret way out of the lot and decide to follow a woman who is professionally dressed ... perhaps for court.  I follow her into a stairwell and discover no one is there.  No one.  Not the lady, not any of the people I just saw walking this way.

The empty stairwell leads to an indoor mall, and., at 7:30 a.m, it is deserted.  I freak just a little bit, wondering if this is some kind of weird, creepy Salem joke.  Salem is, after all, Witch City.  I turn around, praying the door has not locked behind me (it has not), hightail it back up one floor, and walk right out the front.  I am not going to lie - the situation does nothing to protect my sense of safety.

Passing the old superior court building, I notice it is a construction zone.  This is actually good news.  Maybe we won't have any cases today because the building might fall down. 

No such luck.  Everything has been moved into the beautiful new justice complex. 

Entering the door, the guard says, "This is just like the airport..."  This directive does not help me.  I have been TSA Pre-Check since I started flying a few short months ago, so I don't really know what this means.  Does he want my shoes?  Is he going to x-ray my fat ass? 

Apparently, I pass the scan because I'm gathering my stuff and proceeding upstairs in no time at all.  As soon as I get into the elevator and the doors close, the doors open again and a gentleman walks in.  "Jury duty?" he asks.  "Don't worry.  All district court today."

When it's time to enter the jury pool room, we discover it is a huge place with tons of chairs.  I pick my own row.  Everyone picks his or her own row.  There are exactly twenty-five of us, and there's room to spread out.  Except ... except that I am flypaper for freaks.  While the video plays about blah blah civic duty blah blah stars and stripes, a guy sits in my row two chairs away.  Then a woman climbs over the chairs from behind and sits on the other side of me.

Let me just mention here that there are still PLENTY OF FUCKING EMPTY ROWS OF CHAIRS.

It gets worse.

Someone near me stinks.  He or she smells like raw fish and stale cigarette smoke.  It's disgusting, and once the smell is up my nose, no amount of mouth-breathing is going to help.  We get a break after an hour and are allowed to go get coffee and snacks, which we are also allowed to bring back into the courthouse.  Jurors, apparently, are a privileged bunch.  We also are allowed to use our cell phones as long as the judge doesn't enter in his or her robes.

Then, a judge walks in wearing his robe.  We all rise and hide our cell phones.

After the judge leaves, the court clerk from the elevator asks us which movie we want to watch: Miracle or the newest Star Wars.  The big guy manning the front row to himself yells for the sci-fi then sits and ignores the entire movie, playing on his phone with earbuds in.  I am sitting about three feet from a television, working on puzzles and sudokus.  Despite the fact that there are five other televisions around the room, a guy sits next to me, spins the chair, and starts watching me and the movie.

Even creepier, I'm reasonably sure this is Juror Zero, the source of the mysterious funky stench.

After the movie ends, the DVD continues to replay the same music and scene choices for thirty minutes, over and over and over and over.  Finally I break the silence and say, "Yeah, the movie was great up until about a half hour ago."  This is met by multiple sighs of, "I was thinking the same thing!"  I go next door to what could be the District Attorney's office, and beg them to call someone to come shut off the movie that has now become like a scratch in a record.

Finally, in walks a different judge, also in robes, so we rise and pretend we are interested, but it is difficult to hear him over the Star Wars shtick.  Finally, the bailiff who is with him unlocks the cabinet and saves us all from losing our fucking minds.

The judge talks on and on about our civic duty (is there no end to their insistence that we are noble?) and then assures us that our presence helped decide seven cases today, including a very serious domestic abuse case, because the parties were told, "We have a jury in the room all primed and ready to go."  Apparently, no one's case was particularly compelling enough to risk our Star Wars induced wrath.

Good decision.

Another good decision is when we are told that the jury pool today is small because  the last group got seated on a Grand Jury for a case that will last THREE MONTHS.  Three fucking MONTHS.  Who the hell has that kind of time?

Just past noon, I am free as a bird in old Salem.  I could take a walk, have some lunch, meander down to Pickering Wharf, go to the museum, have a flight at Salem Beer Works, drive to the nearby mall, go to the Salem Willows (along with thousands of my "friends"), or I could just go home.

I walk back to my car in the garage, going exactly the same way I came.  As I'm leaving, the man operating the garage ticket booth asks, "Jury duty?"  It seems to be the only line men will be using on me today.  I tell him that yes, I was at jury duty, and he responds with, "Good thing you weren't here last week!  Grand jury!  Three MONTHS!"

"I know, right?"  Now please let me pay and get out of here.  It's 91 damn degrees in the shade.

Seriously, though, if I ever need a jury, I certainly hope everyday people, people like me, will be available and willing to serve.  After all, watching Star Wars and eating donuts while drinking iced Dunkins coffee is a very, very, VERY tough job, but someone has to do it.  Might as well be me.

NERF WARS AND IMMATURITY

My family is incredibly immature.  Thank goodness for that.

When the new washer and dryer are installed, I need to do some rearranging in  the basement to make the area perfect.  This means that a lot of the toys and games that are housed on shelves in the stairwell have to move temporarily to the den.  This starts another purge of stuff.

Naturally, my grown kids do what all kids of any age do when they see stuff that has been out of sight and out of mind: they play with everything.  Before I have a chance to figure out what they are doing, my son loads up a Nerf gun and starts firing at my daughter and me as we sit in the kitchen, cleaning up from his early-birthday celebration.

What he doesn't know is that I have within arm's length the Nerf gun (fully loaded with extra missiles beside it) that my brother's family just gave me for my birthday (because fun-based immaturity is a family trait).  I grab the Nerf gun, prime it, and turn quickly, firing the whole way until the gun is empty and I have to reload.  Meanwhile, my son is hitting us with giant Nerf bullets, and I can tell you, they sting a little bit at this close range.

I hand my Nerf gun off to my daughter, who expertly makes her way into the den.  She is hiding in the stairwell leading upstairs, and her brother is about ten feet away in the basement stairwell.  Both are decent marksmen, my daughter being well-trained in the real deal, and they proceed to have an OK Corral style shootout (though it lasts a few minutes longer than the infamous original).

When it's over, the only busted guts are from laughing, and it's just like the old days when they were little.  Yup, we are ridiculously and forever immature.  Indeed, thank goodness for that.

ARMAGEDDON AND APPLIANCES

Post-storm picture

When we were little, every time there was a thunderstorm, my parents made us go around and unplug stuff, like televisions and stereos.  We thought they were nuts until our house got hit.  We took two more hits, as well, all within a three week time period, including one strike that missed a giant propane tank by less than twelve inches.

This is why to this day I am terrified to be in a house during a thunderstorm.  I'll get in my car and drive right through one for fun, and I'll sit in a restaurant or store and watch the storm through the windows, but no way will I be in a house, or, god forbid, outside during a storm.

Tuck that information into your brain for a moment and consider this, instead.

Saturday I finally get a new washer and dryer.  My dryer had been squawking for over a year, and my washer recently stopped randomly between cycles just because, so it is serendipitous that they both croak at the same time.

I am in the midst of doing catch-up laundry with the new machines and working on a giant basement purge (long overdue) when my son texts me from the road: "Storms coming.  We just drove through what looked like Jumanji."

Shit.  Damn. Piss. Fuck.

I go look at the radar and it looks like Armageddon.  The storm front is well over one hundred miles long.  The radar reads green (rain), yellow (disturbances), and orange (thunderstorms), with pockets of red (severe thunder and lightning) and purple (hail and hook clouds that precede tornadoes or indicate microbursts).  We've already had two microbursts pass over and through this old house in the last few years, taking out two trees mere feet from the room in which we were hiding.  (Yes, when a microburst happens, one shouldn't be near any windows or flying glass and/or tree limbs.)

Today is no different, so I do what I always do when I'm home alone during a serious storm: I put on a headset with music, shut myself into a windowless room, and alternate between playing on the laptop or my cell phone, and doing crossword puzzles or Sudokus.  I am having a grand old time.  The musical selections range from Handel's "Behold the Lamb of God" to Leon Redbone singing "Oh, the weather outside is frightful..." to John Williams' "Imperial March" from Star Wars (Darth Vader's theme song).

I am enjoying the irony of the sound track while watching the radar amp itself up when I suddenly remember my parents' obsession with unplugging large and important appliances.

Sonofabitch.  I have a load of laundry in the brand new washer and one in the brand new dryer.

I run downstairs to the basement and shut off the dryer but leave it plugged in.  No way am I breaking anything that just got installed hours ago.  The washer?  Forget about it.  It's a new-fangled one that prefers to run through its cycle without so much as an interruption to add fabric softener.  That load of laundry is on its own.  Besides, I have renter's insurance and warranties on the machines.

I head back to the safety of the windowless room (aka the bathroom) and continue with my routine, solving some puzzles and playing a few games of electronic Solitaire while watching the radar as the storms near my area quickly veer off into other directions. 

When it's safe enough to go outside and start snapping pictures, I figure it's safe enough to put the dryer back on.  I mean, it was probably okay to leave it on.  I left on the brand new air conditioners, too.  I'm crazy, but I'm not a glutton for punishment.  If Armageddon is here and now, I at least want to die in clean clothes and a comfortable climate.

WINE(S) OF THE WEEK

WINNER, WINNER, CAVA DINNER!

Not fair!  NOT FAIR! 

I attend three wine tastings in as many days.  Usually I can find one wine that I like a lot, maybe two or three.  This week, though, I cannot chose. 

I'm serious! 

It could be the fabulous wines that the sommeliers choose.  It could be the fact that it's summer, so it is naturally wine time.  I don't know.  I just don't know!

So, this week, I am nominating eight wines.  Yes, eight wines for the eight weeks of summer break for teachers everywhere.  And, since it's an unpaid break, I'll try to keep the wines reasonably priced.

8.  In eighth place, I recommend Cigar Box Pinot Noir.  Aged for six months in French oak, this wine is black cherry and spices.  It's smooth for a Pinot without the sharp bite at the end.  A great red all around and reasonably priced at $12.

7.  Another great red is a blend, but it's also a limited production.  Washington state's winery 14 Hands Kentucky Derby Red Blend is a mix of dark berry and cocoa on its nose.  Wonderfully drinkable and a little sharper on the finish than the Cigar Box Pinot, this is a bold yet approachable red and completely affordable at $15.

6.  Mionetto Il Spriz is an Italian aperitif that combines the flavor of blood orange and frizzante, which is referred to as a semi-sparkling wine, but it's either sparkling or it's not.  I say, "Sparkling!"  I also say, "Bravo," especially since it's only $14 a bottle.

5.  Number five actually comes home with me.  I like to taste wine with my reading glasses on top of my head, then I put my glasses on properly and read the price after I've tasted the wine.  This one almost k'o'ed me.  Borsao Blanco, a Spanish white, has notes of pineapple, pear, and ginger.  It's a medium bodied white that presents well and is even better at $7 per bottle.  Yes, $7 per bottle!

4.  Also coming home with me this week is Mont Gravet Colombard Cotes de Gascogne, a pale yellow that has hints of apple and honey.  It actually tastes like a light and modern version of mead.  Previously named white wine of the year, this French white is a steal at $10 a bottle.

3.  I like Italian wines, but I am also very partial to Spanish reds.  Sue me.  The only reason this wine doesn't come home with me is because my red wines are backlogged, and the weather this week doesn't support a hot house full of reds.  Make no mistake, this wine, also known as Torres Sangre de Toro Garnacha, is bold, deep, and aromatic with a hint of chocolate.  Yes, chocolate.  I'm going back for this as soon as a space opens up in the wine rack, and, at $11 a bottle, it's thievery on my account.

2.  It's getting down to the wire here.  The top two are both sparkling wines.  Second place cheats a little because I love this wine and I cannot possibly leave it off the list: Italy's 7th Cielo Prosecco.  Fruity and bubbly, this NEVER disappoints and the price ... get ready ... not kidding here .... $9.

1.  Coming in at the top spot in a fabulous field of 8 is another bubbly.  This wine is from the Catalunya region of Spain, and its second fermentation mimics the process used on Champagne.  It is ... drum roll ... Bohigas Cava at only $14 a bottle.  (And it goes perfectly, and I do mean PERFECTLY, with a pool party!)

PHEW!!!!  Eight to choose from.  Go forth and drink!

DUST BUNNIES AND YOGA PANTS

The new washer and dryer are supposed to arrive tomorrow.  This means I have to clear a path.  Easy, you say?  Clearly you have never met me, my stuff, and my closet-less space.

First, I move den furniture so the delivery people have full access to get to the cellar door.  Then, I move shelves of games and sports equipment that have taken over the cellar stairs landing.  After that, I clear off random shit that is halfway up/halfway down the stairs, like windshield washer fluid and folded tarps.  Last, I move the old washer and the old dryer out of their spaces and clean behind them.

End result = organized chaos

A friend calls me and asks me over for drinks, and I answer, "Your timing is perfect!  I just finished getting the space ready for the delivery guys!"  She gives me a target time of fifteen minutes.  No problem, right?

Add caption

This is when I look down.

I am wearing black yoga pants and a gray tank top, or, at least, I WAS wearing these things.  My clothing is coated in dust, fuzzies, and cobwebs.  I look like The Creature from the Dust Lagoon.  My entire midsection from boobs to knees looks like an uncleaned lint trap.

A quick change, a little spritz, and I'm off for drinks.  Darn good thing the washer and dryer are coming today.  Of course, if they weren't, I wouldn't look like this.

KAYAKS VS. GROCERIES

Two kayaks are in the back of my car.

I keep them there because I never know when a friend and I might stop to kayak somewhere, and also because the pieces (two halves per kayak) fit perfectly in my car for storage.  As a matter of fact, they fit so well that I have plenty of room to see out the back window.

Still, though: It's a tight fit because I can fit the kayaks, the gear, and little else.  So I often forget about what happens when I live my daily non-kayaking life.  For instance, I forget about the kayaks when I go about my regular business.

Take, for example, the simple act of grocery shopping.

I am going to a party, so I need to buy some stuff to make and bring along.  Plus, I have several things on my regular list, like light bulbs and paper towels and (we can't live without) Cheez-Its.  I make a list of about fifty items that I need, walk out to my car, and ...

...I stop dead in my tracks, staring into the car's interior.

I can't fit grocery bags in there!  The damn thing is packed full.

I start perusing the outside of the car.  Hmmm.  There's one section in the back where I can probably fit two bags, maybe three.  The front passenger seat is moved back about halfway.  I can easily fit three or four bags on the floor and about as many on the seat.  That should be plenty of room, but I pare down my list to about thirty items, just in case.

When I get to the check-out, I ask for paper in plastic, figuring that like-sized bags will fit better geometrically than amorphous plastic ones.  Rolling the cart to the car, I strategically plan my attack, and it pays off well.  I have seven bags and a package of six paper towel rolls.  The paper towels tuck in precisely where the little alcove of space sits between the kayaks.  Three paper bags line up on the floor of the front, and four bags with lighter groceries ride shotgun on the passenger seat.

The only glitch happens when unpacking the paper towels.  Somehow they have become wedged in, and the package refuses to budge for about fifteen seconds.  Finally, the paper towels give way, no worse for the wear, and I am officially unpacked as much as I'm going to be.  Groceries are put away, and the kayaks remain behind, waiting patiently for their turn being hauled out and unpacked into a waterway.

TASTELESS TASTING

Listen up, wanna-be stores and wanna-be sommeliers:

IF YOU ADVERTISE A WINE TASTING AND EVEN HAVE A SIGN OUT IN FRONT OF YOUR STORE, YOU DAMN WELL BETTER BE HAVING A WINE TASTING.

There's a store in my town that took no less than five years (maybe even eight) to finally build and open.  Its paved parking lot and concrete foundation sat vacant for eons.  When it finally opened, it became obvious that it wasn't an average store.  Everything is higher end -- special soda, special bakery items, special frozen pizzas, special meals, special wines, and everything with special price tags.

I attended one of their wine tastings, and it seemed like an employee, or perhaps someone who happened to be walking by on the highway, was pouring and attempting to sound versed.  I'm not exceptionally versed in wine-speak, and I could've done a better job. Because the store was newly opened, I cut them some slack.

That was months ago.  Yesterday I get an email and a Facebook notification that there is a wine tasting the following day, meaning today.  Damn!  I'm so excited that I cancel plans with people and work my day around the tasting time, which is 5:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. 

I have to mail an E-Z Pass transponder back to the E-Z Pass people, so I time my errand perfectly: I am at the post office at 4:45 (waiting in a short but surprisingly slow line) and at the market for the wine tasting at 5:00.  I salivate at the sign out front, advertising the tasting, and I force myself to wait until almost 5:10 to make sure I'm not glomming all over the person who's pouring (hopefully better than the last one).

I walk in, look to the left where the wine glasses are and ... NO TASTING.  I circle the wine area... NO TASTING.  I walk amongst the organic produce... NO TASTING.  I check out the indoor seating area ... NO TASTING.  I walk past the bakery area and the food area and the ice cream area ... NO TASTING. 

I briefly think about buying something so I don't look like I just showed up for the nonexistent wine tasting, but the truth is that I just showed up for the nonexistent wine tasting.  I don't care what the workers think when I turn around and walk out.  Fuck it.  False advertising pisses me off.  It's like dealing with used car salesmen and the old bait and switch.

I whip around and walk outside, searching the outdoor patio for a wine tasting station.  I even scan the near-empty parking lot.  What the ... What the ... Frig!  I TAKE WINE TASTING VERY SERIOUSLY.  As a matter of fact, the people I've met on the local wine tasting circuit also take it very seriously.  For us, it is a full-contact sport.  We exchange addresses and store names of places with good wine tastings.  This store, unfortunately, has earned what will probably end up being its blacklisting.

If your presenter is late, LET PEOPLE KNOW.  Start by taking in your sign advertising a tasting happening right at that moment when it's not happening anytime soon.  Or, acknowledge customers.  Ask them what they want.  Direct them.  And ... hire professionals whenever possible.  Maybe they did and someone got stuck in traffic.  It happens.  But, it doesn't look professional.

There's a beer tasting on the patio tomorrow, but I think I'll erase it from my calendar and delete it from my phone.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, I don't have to worry about merging back into traffic on the busy street where your store is located.

LAUNDRY AT THE OLD HAUNT

I have a wicked flashback today.

No, it's not induced by LSD (I'm not Timothy Leary, for chrissakes), nor weed, nor alcohol, nor stress, nor terror.  It's all because of a laundromat.

As teenagers, sometimes we would hang out in the local laundromat while our lucky emancipated pals did their laundry, or we'd pop in for protection if it were raining/snowing outside.  Later, when we got our own places, we became the entertainment to the younger generation of teens trying to avoid the weather and sheer boredom. 

Today my schedule is interrupted by three loads of laundry that must be done.  I finish one load, start the dryer, and pop in load #2.  My washing machine is acting hinky; it stops whenever it feels like it, and I have to Mickey Mouse the water cycles in two spots now.  I am running up and down the stairs, back and forth to the machine, when I notice the dryer is acting hinky, too.

I suspect a belt snapped because the drum is no longer moving.

I push through the washing machine two medium-sized loads of laundry and toss the rest (sheets) back into the hamper.  Dress shirts that my son wears to work, along with one pair of pants, get hung up to air dry.  So does my bathing suit.  The rest of the washed and wet and wrung-out clothing gets folded semi-neatly so I can haul it off down the street, fingers crossed that the old haunt still stands. 

My son, stopping home for lunch, does reconnaissance for me and claims the sign is still over the corner of the small group of shops near his office.  That doesn't necessarily mean that the place is still there, but it's a good sign.  I ask if he has any quarters to spare.  This is a fortuitous request as he is trading in his car tomorrow, so he has gone through his vehicle and collected all of the random change that has been collecting in his Lancer since junior year of high school.  The gallon-sized baggie probably contains $50 of change.  I steal three dollars worth of quarters, just in case... in case I am lucky and the place not only still exists but actually accepts quarters as tender.

The limited lot out front is packed with the lunch crowd for the attached pizza shop, so I park up the street and peer toward the building.  Beat up and a little grimy looking, the laundromat is still there.  I haul out the basket of damp laundry and walk it down the hill to the laundromat.

The first thing I notice is that there is still a piece of wood covering the glass pane closest to the locking door handle.  I don't know if this is more recent or a remainder from 1978.  I open the door and...

Good jesuschrist, the place still looks exactly the same.  Well, not "exactly" exactly.  An entire section of machines is missing, and the floor is all torn up.  Considering the tiny place was a hole-in-the-wall to start, it's more like a giant rat hole in the wall.

The washing machines that remain still have that familiar if unsettling lingering mildew stench.  The dryers seem the same but different.  There seem to be more of them.  I could swear there were only three or four before, and now there are twice that many.  I throw my clothes in, add a quarter, and see I get a whopping seven minutes.  I opt for twenty-one minutes on medium heat and settle in for a fun afternoon.

A half hour later, all of my laundry is dry, or mostly dry.  One thick towel and some waistbands are still slightly damp, but the laundry isn't burned like it used to be.  Back in the day, the dryers had one setting, regardless of what the signs said: Nuclear Core Meltdown Mode.  All laundry dried with lava-like heat, making it impossible to fold anything without being scalded, and everything had a charred scent to it.

No matter.  I am thankful for dryers close enough to my house that I can survive a few days.  Truly there is little point in fixing the dryer.  It has been wheezing and squeaking for over a year now, and the washer isn't far behind.  I've gotten a couple of decades out of those old machines, and it's probably time to replace them anyway.

In the meantime, though, I'll suffer through the flashbacks and take my laundry to the old haunt.  Besides, it's kind of fun doing laundry with the ghosts.

PLOT TWIST REDUX

I don't have a lot of free time to spare.  I have been trying to read some books that I enjoy and some young adult novels for school, and I'm trying to do a bunch of other stuff, as well, so time is a fairly limited commodity.

Every summer, though, for some reason, I start reading a book only to discover that I've read it already ... but cannot seem to recall the outcome; so, I re-read the entire thing.  One long novel in particular has been re-read no less than four times, and you know what?  I still cannot tell you what it's about.  (I just looked up the book online, read the plot summary, and it still doesn't ring too much of a bell.)

Going to the beach, I grab one of the YA novels to take with me.  I end up with a twisted book about the Civil War.  Sort of.  It's also about 1916.  Sort of.  By the third chapter, I'm reasonably certain I've read this book before, but, since I cannot remember it clearly, I keep reading.

And reading.  And reading some more.

I remember the twist in the plot about thirty seconds before I stumble on to it in black and white on the book page, and the let-down makes Deflategate seem like a party.  Why, why, why did I spend time reading the book ... again?

I still have a pile of books to get through, but I'm changing gears to something new, something I know just came out from the publisher.  After all, I don't have a lot of time to spare, and I'd rather not read the same plot twist multiple times ... again.

POKEMON FAIL

Enough with the Pokemon Go!

I think it's great that everyone is finally get off their fat video asses and getting outside, even if their faces are still glued to their electronics.  I think it's hilarious yet somewhat creepy that people are playing a live-action, virtual-reality interactive game (which, in and of itself, creates an oxymoron).

However, these sites should be public AND appropriate.  I mean, seriously, U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum?  Arlington National Cemetery? Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp?  The Sean Collier Memorial?  Really, people?

It's one thing to get outside and interact with other humans (albeit virtually), but it's another thing to be making a total asshole out of yourself.

Parks and open public spaces where interactive, fun activities might be taking place -- those are appropriate places.  My friend catches a whole bunch of these Pokemon suckers when we are in Columbus Park in Boston, a perfectly fine place for such an activity.  She even gets my picture with two different ones, and she also snaps a picture of a Pokemon ball hovering by my feet.

When we get home from Boston, though, my son snaps a picture of a Pokemon character in my kitchen. MY KITCHEN.  I mean, what the fuck ... in my damn KITCHEN!!!!  This means I will probably have prowlers lurking outside the window, maybe even some whackadoodle trying to get in through the screen window to get the Pokemon.

So, I've taken to walking around my house naked.

This is not a pretty sight.  I have had three children and am menopausal.  The vision of my paunch alone is enough to replace smelling salts.  I figure, though, that if Pokemon Go is going to virtually invade my real space, it is within my right to really invade its virtual space.

And if any of you Pokemon Go players decide to try and get the Pokemon character, don't blame me if you peek into my kitchen, spot the Middle-Aged Medusa Go character instead, and turn to stone. 

WINE OF THE WEEK

Lots of good wines this week at two separate tastings, and it's a tough call.  I am juggling three whites and one red for this week's top honor, and this is when it dawns on me:

How lucky am I?

No, seriously.  I buzz around on Saturdays and go to free (yes, FREE) wine tastings where I learn about wine, sip much wine, and meet great new pals who also like to go to wine tastings.  Who wouldn't want to be Saturday me?

In the end, though, I can only choose one.  It's 94+ degrees outside, and nothing tastes better right now than an exotic, citrus-infused white with a long finish.  This wine is so good that I go back for a second taste even though the reds have decimated my palate.

The flyer describes this wine as having "aromas of green apple, hawthorn, (and) white blossoms"  and it's only $10 a bottle.  This week's Wine of the Week winner, and not just because this is a terrific wine for hot weather but because this is simply a terrific wine all on its own:

2014 M. Chapoutier Cotes Du Rhone Blanc, a white wine from the Rhone region of France

FLAWLESS DAY

Screw you, 94 degree heat!  Today is the perfect example of why I'm never moving. 

Today is oppressively hot, so my friend and I get up early (alarms and all) and drive northeast to the beach.  The tide is just starting to recede, which means that our favorite beach is still pretty much underwater.  It's okay.  We pay our $6 to park, walk for twenty seconds, and set up on a huge flat rock about five feet from the waterline.  We can wait it out.  We'll have our own private sandy beach in about thirty minutes, and, if we want to go in the water immediately, we only need to trek over some small flat rocks, chuck our flipflops, and wade in.

The northeastern New England beaches are in Greenhead Season right now.  For the uninitiated, greenheads are like houseflies on steroids: they have fluorescent green heads (duh) and they feed on human blood like miniature vampires.  They do not sting nor pierce; they chomp.  Like their wretched deer fly cousins, these sons of bitches will munch into human flesh with sharp tiny teeth that spring together like a vise-driven trap then pull victims' flesh clear off in little chunks.  Let's be honest, it's not the worst pain you'll ever be in, but when swarms of them attack, you might consider labor more comfortable.

Luckily (perhaps because we are away from the salt marsh) we only see two greenheads in the three hours that we are at the beach, and we do not get chomped even one single time.  The thing that really bothers us is the humidity and relentless heat.  There is no sea breeze today, and the temperature, at least where we are, is hovering somewhere closer to 100 degrees, making it cooler to be inland by about six degrees.  We are armed with snacks, water, and sunscreen, all of which are the essential tools of battle here at the coast.

After forty minutes in the direct sun, we decide to venture down to the water, which has retracted about two feet, starting to expose the wet sand where we will be swimming.  We stick our toes into the water, and, between the excessive heat and the high tide, we expect the salty water to be cold.  Very cold.  Icy cold.

Our expectations are rapidly dashed as we step further away from our flipflops and deeper into the waves.  The water is gorgeous.  Perfect.  Very close to pool water temperature.  We spend forty minutes, probably more, of our time in the water.  The waves are endless and are coming in right on top of each other, but they are gentle - not small, by any means: the surfing today is excellent.  But the breakers are not violent, they are not forceful, and they are not full of pebbles that sometimes get swept back out with the ebbing tide.

We stay three hours.  In this heat and covered with salt, that's plenty long enough.  It's only a thirty-five minute ride from home to this beach.  It's about the same amount of time to get to twenty (probably more) different beaches up and down the coast of New Hampshire and the North Shore of Massachusetts. We live in the perfect spot: 35 minutes to the beach; 120 minutes to the mountains; 20 minutes to Boston, and easy access to all the major highways.

On a flawless day like today, I remember why I live here, and I remember why I'll never leave.

BECKHAM BRUHAHA

WARNING WARNING WARNING -- FOUL LANGUAGE AHEAD -- DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER!

Okay, here it is: What. The. Fuck.  No, seriously.  What. The. Fuck.

I am not a fan of celebrity watching; to me, it's not a sport worth pursuing, but I don't dis those who engage in it.  I like wine tasting; that's my sport of choice, and I don't really care what anyone thinks of how I spend my Saturdays.  It's nobody's business unless I blog about it, but, even then, it's really not your business.

Do celebrities post photos of themselves and their activities on social media?  Sure they do.  Do I post photos of myself and my activities on social media?  Sure I do.

The difference is that my postings go to a small selection of people and my photos (and friends' reactions) are usually fleeting and harmless.  Usually.

Here's the rub: Social media is having a feeding frenzy over a photo of Victoria Beckham kissing her own daughter.  Oh. My. God.  To make it worse, she is kissing her own small daughter ... gasp ... ON THE MOUTH.  I mean, a peck between mom lips and daughter lips!  Holy shit!  Holy frigging shit, y'all!

You want to know what I think?  I think ... I think ... I think that #1 it's none of my damn business, and #2 social media is full of perverts.  PERVERTS.  If you think the Beckham family showing innocent affection to each other is sexual, YOU ARE A SICK, PERVERTED, DISGUSTING, HATEFUL, DEVIANT, HIDEOUS, MONSTROUS PERVERT.

I raised three kids who turned out relatively well.  We don't always get along, we don't always like each other, but, deep down, we all love each other.  When we part, there is always a brushing cheek kiss and an "I love you," even if we are royally pissed off at each other because, God forbid, if it's the last time we ever see or speak to each other, there cannot be any regret about parting on bad terms.  This is how we act as adults.

When my kids were little, we did what all normal, loving parents do: We made duck-lip puckers to our kids, who responded with duck-lip puckers, and we gave each other quick duck-lip pucker kisses.  That's what parents do -- not perverted parents, not deviant parents, but parents who love their kids.

Christalmighty.  First I cannot raise my kids to play with whatever toys they want to play with nor to play whatever sports they want.  Then, I cannot spank my kids (not BEAT ... SPANK) when they do something horribly wrong, like stick a fork into an electric socket or bite Grandma until her finger is gangrenous. Now, I cannot show my kids any affection at all because I'm a pervert?

What. The. Fuck. The world has officially gone full-scale, nut-fucking CRAZY.

Is Victoria Beckham opening herself up for commentary posting this picture on social media?  Probably.  Okay, absolutely.  But, jesusmaryandjoseph, there is NOTHING perverse about kissing (not making out with, not Frenching, not tonguing) YOUR OWN CHILD.

Honestly.  With everything else in this world to worry about, SHUT THE FUCK UP about a parent who loves her child.  This is the answer to our problems not the root of them. Seriously.

MAKING A POOL HAPPY

On hot, hazy, humid days, it is very important to make sure any pools in your area are kept busy. 

Pools tend to show signs of depression and withdrawal when they are ignored during perfect summer days. 

Pools are all dressed up with nowhere to go -- They're always ready for a party.

Most pools are blue, and our job is to cheer them up.

Lonely pools cry enough tears to fill themselves up.

A pool without a man-made whirlpool is a pool without joy.

It is especially important to love thy neighbor's ... pool.

So, do your civic duty!

Get permission ahead of time, make sure you have an emergency buddy, and go make a pool happy!

LIGHTING UP THE LAMP

Everyone knows a decent lamp can make or break your sanity.  I've been to lamp shops before.  I don't mean those few aisles in the chain hardware stores; I mean the small stores that are dedicated to lighting of all sizes, shapes, and capacities.

My friend and I need to take her lamps in for some TLC, so we find a specialty lamp shop in a nearby town.  Okay, so it's set up more like a village, but it's really a tourist trap with signs for this attraction and that attraction and other attractions.  We get a spot right in front of the little shop, a true miracle, and I promptly load up the meter behind us with change.

Inside the shop are all kinds of lights and lamps and shades.  Thank goodness for that as this is a lamp shop.

My friend has called ahead, so she is armed with the two lamps (one medium-tall and one rather-tall) and the two shades she needs replaced.  Ready to do battle with the lamp shop clerk, she stands in a short line and gets ready for her turn.

Meanwhile, I am left to wander the store with my cell phone, endlessly snapping pictures of lamps: fillable jars, ones made from such items as liquor bottles, trees, sticks, twigs, baseballs, ceramic tea kettles, beach coral, and local maps.  There's even a lamp with a shade on it from Make Way for Ducklings.

I keep distracting my friend with, "Oh, look at THIS lamp!"  The clerk is trying to sell my friend extra lampshades. I am pulling special orders out of open boxes, including the lacy fringed topper for what can only be a leg lamp.  Truly, this place rocks.

We are almost done, and my friend is standing at the register with her credit card out.  So close, so close.  But, instead, in walks another customer, interrupts the sale with a simple question, and ... off goes the clerk.  Up until this point, everything is sailing along smoothly.  Now, though, we are waiting ... waiting ... waiting ... waiting ...

This is the story of our lives.  If something bizarre can happen, it will always happen to us. 

After about five minutes of our sales clerk being distracted, she comes back over and says, "So, you're all set?"  Um, sure, and we were all set five minutes ago when you walked away in the midst of finalizing the transaction, you goofball.

We go outside and load up the SUV only to discover that the meter I loaded up is for the car now parked behind us.  Ooops.  Luckily, we do not get a parking ticket.  We load up the correct meter and head over the the cheese shop, which turns out to be closed.  Also closed is the antique store, the clothing store, the cafe, etc.  Apparently, most of the stores are not open on any given weekday, but they're open every weekend because it's a tourist town.  We are not quite sure why weekdays are off limits as a nearby famous pond is packed full every single day. 

Back at the vehicle, we high five the shade-wearing statue out front, check the car once more for any parking tickets, and recheck the security of the lamps in the back.  If a decent lamp can make or break our sanity, it's extremely important that we get the lamps back to the house in one piece. 

NO-VINO-PHOBIA AND OTHER PAPER-RELATED DISASTERS

I wander into a stationery store today.  I'm a little shocked because I didn't think people actually wrote to each other nowadays, but this store is chock full of note paper and more.  I feel a little bit like I've dropped into Heaven and a time warp all at the same time.

I have to stop myself from buying packages of fancy card stock.  The last thing I need is more paper, especially note cards that are $15 for a small box.  It's bad enough I forced myself to put back a journal in the last store we were in, even though the journal had me written all over it -- The cover said in fancy letters, "Pardon my French."  But this place ... everything I touch has me written all over it.

Seashore paper for writing notes to my few friends even though we stay in touch on social media; clever invitations to parties that I'll never throw; hilarious napkins too funny and fancy to actually use; note pads for phone messages that I'll never take because everyone texts!

I'm quite certain that I am pissing off the sales clerks when I whip out my phone and start snapping pictures of their store.  Since I want everything and can't afford anything, I'll take pictures of something and purchase nothing.

My favorite three items, though, turn out to be: a small pad of sticky-notes that say "The trouble with trouble is it starts out as fun" (truth - always, for me, anyway, this is true), note cards that say "No-vino-phobia: the fear of running out of wine" (another truism, at least on Saturdays), and the extremely timely pad of paper with the sound advice for many, many people who surround me, "I hope karma slaps you before I do" (there are at least three people standing in the front of this line).

Sorry, folks.  Like I said, in the end I do not buy any items from the store.  Next time, perhaps.  For now, though, the blog can spread these thoughts to you.  Pretend I wrote them.  Well, I do and I did write THESE words, but pretend I wrote those other words to you on these papers that I did not actually buy. 

After all, I'll probably find a way to get myself into trouble, and the trouble with trouble is that it starts out as fun, and with a bad case of novinophobia, I might end up slapping someone before karma does.  To be honest, I'm not sure I have enough bail money to cover the charges.

ATTACK OF THE DEER FLIES

It has been a long time since I lived in the woods; decades ago, a lifetime ago.  I live in an urban part of suburbia, where the most ferocious insect pest is the ant.  I forget that between the urban ant and the coastal greenhead, there is an entire bevy of insects waiting to torture me.

When we decide to walk the trails to the salt marsh, the only bugs on my mind are ticks that might fall out of the trees or cling to us as we pass vegetation.  I have completely forgotten about the aggressive woodsy bugs that might attack, so I am unprepared and without bug spray for our trek. 

Within forty minutes, I have been bitten/stung/attacked by no less than a dozen deer flies.  Let me say this about deer flies: they suck.  I mean, seriously, the females make a two-way incision into the skin with their jaws (or whatever the technical term is) and suck blood out like a mosquito on steroids.

The resulting welt is slightly painful, markedly swollen, and unconscionably itchy.  Calamine lotion just turns the humongous red marks into some bizarro collection of pink mountains on my skin.  My upper arms and shoulders look like a life-sized game of Human Connect-the-Dots.

The weird part about all of this is not that I'm complaining.  After all, I fully expected to get bug bites in the woods.  That's what happens.  It has happened all my life, especially for the half-dozen years that I actually lived IN the woods. When I was a kid, my summer was one giant and perpetual bug bite, and it never really bothered me.

The screwed up part is how long it takes me to recover from bug bites now.  Simple mosquito bite?  About two weeks to stop itching.  I had to beg the seventh grade to stop the yearly field trip to a farm in Newbury because the sand fleas in the floor of the barn would attack my legs, and the resulting reaction caused six weeks of misery.

I'm ready, though.  I have a supply of calamine lotion and a tube of anti-itch gel on hand at all times.  The gel travels with me in the side pocket of my purse.  Nature and I have to find a way to continue to co-exist because I like hiking, and I'm a country transplant living in the semi-city.  Maybe I've lost any immunity I built up as a kid, or maybe I truly don't remember the endless scratching that must've gone on all day and all night and all summer long during the idyllic days of my youth.

By the way, I killed as many of those little bastards as bit me, so I guess we're even.  Well, I probably came out ahead: I might itch for a few days, but those suckers are dead on the ground.  I'd say this round goes to me.

WINE OF THE WEEK

This week's Wine of the Week is one I'd never thought I'd be nominating -- Moscato.

Normally, Moscato is way too sweet for me.  As a matter of fact, I often skip it at tastings, but Cal, the sommelier, holds up the bottle and says the magic word fizzy.  "Try it before you try the Prosecco," he says so casually that I immediately discount its importance, almost as if it's the prologue to The Scarlet Letter, recommended as something to endure in order to understand what comes next but not necessarily significant nor memorable in and of itself.

I admit here and now that I am mistaken.  I should know by now not to prejudge any wine, especially a Moscato.

Fiori, which is Italian for flower/bloom/blossom, makes a frizzante Moscato that comes from the Veneto region of Northern Italy, an area that includes Venice, Padua, Riviera del Brenta, and Verona, amongst others.  This area is rich and flourishing with lakes and mountains, and the word Fiori also means flourishing.  The frizzante in the Moscato gives the impression that the fruity semi-dry flavor is going to bubble right out of the glass, giving it a wonderful effervescence that mimics Prosecco and sparkling wines while still holding its place as a Moscato.

Lately I have been sipping Prosecco as my go-to white wine, but this week the Moscato outshines the Prosecco and every other wine on the table at the tasting.  This week's top seed goes to Fiori Moscato Veneto and its frizzante personality!

VELCRO IS THE NEW DUCT TAPE

I don't know why I have to be the one for whom nothing works correctly.  I follow the directions, but still, nothing ever comes out quite right.  I mis-assemble furniture, screw up recipes, and cannot follow more than four steps in anything that involves physical movement.  In an otherwise perfect world, I am as imperfect as they come.

A year or two ago, I had to take the base piece off the GPS and attach it to the dashboard with giants slabs of sticky-back Velcro because I could not figure out how to make the dang thing stick any longer.  Voila! It worked ... except that now the top rubbery suction part that attaches the GPS unit to its base no longer grips.  No amount of cleaning, pressing, nor spittle can make the gasket adhere to the extremely secure, super-Velcro-attached base.

I have no better luck with the cell phone holder for my car.  For a year, the sticky-bottomed base keeps the phone secure, but it's dangerously close to the driver's side window because, unfortunately, it's the only place with a smooth, flat surface for adherence.  Every time I hit a bump with the windows open, I expect the cell phone and the holder to go flying out the window.  I try cleaning the rubbery gasket exactly as recommended in the instructions, but, even though the bottom part feels sticky, the holder lets loose and flops over.

I remember how well the GPS base has stayed secure to the dashboard (even though the GPS unit itself refuses to stick to its base), and I get myself several small disks of sticky-back Velcro.  I use my best geometric placings, attaching the cell phone holder to a mostly-flat area next to the gear shift.  It's not ideal, and I still have to look away from the road to see the screen, but I can now use Google Maps or WAZE again, which is key to someone with zero sense of direction.  I must say, this Velcro fix actually works ... for about thirty minutes.  Halfway to my sister's house in Maine, the phone falls into a cup holder and the cell phone holder falls to the floor.

Great.  Now I have to operate both my GPS and my cell phone from the dual cup holders between the front seats. This means there is no way I am navigating safely while trying to follow visual directions because I am taking my eyes not just off the road but waaaaaaaaaaay off the road.

When I arrive home from Maine, I head over to Staples and purchase a vent-based cell phone holder.  I probably should've gotten this kind in the first place, but I worry that the vent will damage the cell phone with either heat or air conditioning.  Not only does the holder work perfectly, but I can move it from vent to vent as desired.  (The kicking sound you hear at this point is me kicking myself in the ass for not buying this holder sooner.)

At home sitting in the driveway, I peel all the leftover Velcro off the old cell phone holder, some of the Velcro still clinging to the base but most of it hanging on to the area next to the gear shift.  I decide to try one more last ditch salvage.  Piece by piece I attach the Velcro to the suction part of the GPS then press it down onto the base.  It wobbles ever so slightly, but it seems to be secure.  I turn on the GPS, test it out, attach the cord. 

Apparently, at least for me, Velcro is the new duct tape.  I'm taking another trip to Maine.  Even though I know where I'm going, I'll set the GPS, and I'll use WAZE  to watch traffic patterns via my cell phone that, if the vent clip holds, is now in an area where I can glance at the map without ever having to take my eyes completely off the road.  It may not be the perfect solution, but it's okay -- I'm an imperfect kind of gal.

EPIC WATER GAMES

Immaturity is something I'll never outgrow, apparently.

I am visiting my sister and her family, who are also hosting one of my brothers and his family.  While my brother's family is on vacation, my sister's family is not, so I head north to Maine to be part of the festivities.  Over the course of the three days I will see everyone, we go hiking, shopping, wave-hopping, barbecuing, and swimming.

Swimming, in my family, anyway, is EPIC.

We had an inground pool as kids, and we were in it constantly, continuously, and often too late into the evening (much to the chagrin of our neighborhood).  Our family specialty has always been jumping through things, specifically TUBES.

Oh, come on.  What kid with a pool has not tried diving through a tube but hooking his/her feet onto the tube upon entry?  Or tried the cannonball into a short stack of tubes, as if we couldn't predetermine our parents rage over the resulting tidal wave caused by entry?

So, it comes as no surprise that my brother (one of two who can be completely coordinated nut cases) decides to do an ass-plant into a stack of inflatable tubes that happens to be floating by in the pool-whirlpool.  (Okay, WE stack them; we stack the tubes into a near-deadly height not because we wish our brother harm, but because we cannot tolerate backing down from an epic pool challenge.)

First we create that near-intolerable whirlpool.  The ladder lets loose and follows us halfway around the pool, and the random pool accessories start their slow but steady march in giant circles like participants in some kind of chlorinated carousel.  We do some mock practice runs from the edge of the water that usually include smacking our feet on the coping and major near-misses.

Finally, the moment of truth arrives.  Cameras are ready, children have been cleared to the sidelines, and my brother is poised with one foot and one hand forward, ready (and willing) to make a huge splash in the pool, ready (and willing) to make a huge fool of himself in the process.

We give him the countdown and ...

The sound of his body smacking the stack of plastic tubes is almost ungodly.  A tsunami spreads across the pool, causing a tidal wave to spill out and over into the grass. Spray flies everywhere, tangled in a flurry of arms and a flailing of long legs.  My nephews and niece are cheering.  The stack of tubes flies by, bouncing off the opposite side of the pool.

It takes about five seconds for the commotion to clear enough to really see.  My brother has completed a flawless ass-plant into multiple tubes and is splayed out and sailing across the water like a humongous human water bug.

Success!  (Except for the fact that we must ban the children from attempting this epic move.)  After all, the youngsters are still young, impressionable, and way too light weight-wise to pull this off. These suave moves are for the perpetually immature, which is probably the only thing my siblings and I do with complete and utter perfection.