WINE(RY) OF THE WEEK IS A FORCE OF NATURE

Wine of the Week is really Winery of the Week because one of the local shops hosts a wine maker from California.  Andrew Nelson, from Force of Nature Winery in Paso Robles, California, is out here in New England, freezing himself with our weather.  Yup - he left 102 degree sun to bring us wine way out here in the 50 degree rain.

That's dedication.

My wine rack is full, so I purposely only bring $20 cash with me and no credit or debit card.  I am extremely regretful of that as soon as I see the wine labels.  They're based on a text from the 1400s, which, of course, makes my inner literatus happy.  The labels are not only remarkably eye-catching, but they're full of chaos and destruction, which makes me sickly warm and fuzzy inside.

The problem is not which wine to buy because my financial faux pas means I can only bring one bottle home with me regardless.  The problem is which one to recommend for wine of the week.

The winery has several different lines of wines, but the store is only pouring samples from Force of Nature.  I'm not a chardonnay aficionado, but my sister is. This chardonnay is citrusy with slight oak.  Andrew admits that he isn't a huge chard fan, either, but he likes this one.  I have to agree.  I am terribly tempted to get the chardonnay to bring to my sister's house, but I already have a marvelous bottle put aside for her.  It's delicious, but I decide against it.

The 2014 Zinfandel is fruity, spicy, and complex.  It's a great red and a super zin, but still.  I've no one to drink the zin with, except maybe a good hunk of cheddar cheese, so I pass on that.  However, I'd still speak very highly of it and recommend it without a second thought.

The real taste-off is between the Cabernet Sauvignon and the red blend.  My daughter is a cab sauv drinker, and her thirtieth birthday is just around the corner.  Andrew is signing bottles for us, and this would certainly be a nice gift.  However, I already bought her a couple of gifts and a ticket to tonight's Brew on the Charles.  The cabernet sauvignon is wonderful, though -- deep color, rich aroma, hints of licorice and cherry.

This is a tough call.  However, Saturday wine tasting is all about me.  I am missing two grand tastings tonight in order to go taste the coveted Boston beer made with filtered Charles River water (Love That Dirty Water -- the Charles IS "that dirty water").  That being said, I think the decision is made.

That means I am leaning toward the red blend, just for me, all for me.  I've already won a prize just for saying the magic phrase "I am a Force of Nature" when entering the shop, but this decision means that Andrew signs the bottle for me, just for me, all for me.  I walk out of there with some extra labels, a prize of a huge candle with a label on it, and a fantastic bottle of 2014 Red Blend, rich with merlot and syrah and full of berries and spices, for an amazing price of $13.

Winery for this Week -- Force of Nature Winery in Paso Dobles, California.
Wine for this Week -- 2014 Force of Nature Red Blend

HOT TIME IN THE NOT-CITY

As if my week doesn't suck enough, I have parent night at school.  That's not the bad part.  Nope, not at all.

The bad part is that I get hit with a mega hot flash during the first ten minutes.  Yup.  Purple face, full sweat, rolling drops of heat down the forehead.  The whole bit. A hot flash for the ages.

And why not, right?  Why not end the week as damn crappily as it started?  Why not make a complete and total ass in front of thirty people?  Every woman in that room knows what is happening, and there isn't a damn thing I can do to stop it.  Not one damn thing.

Oh well.  It's only ten minutes.  The dad who comes to talk to me afterward, though, witnesses the hot flash up close and personal.  Holy smokes, and by smokes I do mean I am smoking under the collar from the hot flash that seems to never, ever end.

Did I eat hot peppers before returning to school?  No, I ate chicken pot pie.  But, I'm older.  Leave me alone.  Let me melt in peace.  Damn school function.  Damn middle age.  Damn menopause.  Damn hot flash.  Where's the damn A. Duie Pyle truck when I need him?

Thank God for Friday.  Hopefully, I can leave this horrid week behind me.

DAY # 1,500

Today is a banner day.
Today is post number fifteen hundred.
That's right.
1,500.
I have written a post every single day
For one thousand five hundred days
In
A
Row.
Thank you for the great ride.
Here's to 1,500 more.
Write on.

ANOTHER DOO-DOO DAY BUT WITH CHOCOLATE

Apparently my doo-doo work days continue.  After spending hours and hours on one project, staying late two days this week to tackle it plus weekend time, I get the old monkey wrench tossed in ninety minutes after I am (was) scheduled to go home today.  An hour and a half of my life I will never, ever retrieve, not to mention the other massive hours over the last few days.

In short, my life sucks a little bit right about now.

There is a bright spot in the maelstrom, through.  Today a coworker asks me if I've lost weight.  I haven't really, but I did start the summer with a pretty decent exercise regime.  The routine lasted until I caught the grippe in mid-August.  Six weeks, some rest, and a course of antibiotics later, I'm finally getting my groove back.  My coworker's observation gives me hope that my sabbatical from exercise hasn't been a complete bust.

Okay, so maybe I've exercised a little during the dreaded plague -- walked some, moved a little furniture, and kayaked about six miles,  Lost weight?  Nah.  Reawakened a few muscles?  Probably.

I've run the gamut from healthy to sick to overworked.  I'm exhausted and I actually shed a tear or two in front of the same coworker who had hours earlier complimented me.  (I'm sure she's damn sorry now that she spoke to me at all.) 

What is the next logical step in this "feel better look good" saga?  What else would it be -- M&Ms.

There is logic to all of this.  You see, after my doo-ey pile day Monday and my doo-doo day today, M&Ms look a little bit like colorfully covered pooh-pellets.  And, isn't chocolate supposed to lift one's mood?  I eat the entire bag -- not a big bag, but not a small one, either.  I eat all the M&Ms.  Every.  Last.  One.

Yup.  I don't feel so poopy anymore, and I'm no longer distressed about losing ninety precious minutes of my life today.  I'm not feeling as thin as I did a few hours ago, but sometimes getting the weight off the brain and lowering the blood pressure is just as important.

Maybe I should've saved a few M&Ms for work tomorrow.  I just know it's going to be another doo-doo of a day, but I'll wear something slimming and hope for the best ... oh, and leave on time ... even though I have to go back to work for three hours at night. 

Send M&Ms, people.  This is an emergency.  Send small bags, though.  I'm trying to keep my slim and ritzy figure.

 

FACE SWAPPING AND POLITICAL POSTS

Social media sucks right now.  That's right, sucks big time.  You see, everyone is posting their political bullshit online.  All you're doing is making undecided people like me crazy. 

If you post facts and reasonable dialogue, I might even hit "like," even if I don't really like the candidate.  It means I like you and the way you present your beliefs, and I am considering the post based on you personally.  If you go off presenting erroneous cartoons and rants and misinformation, you might get a like for being clever, but more likely I'll hide the post because histrionics turn off my brain.  We're still pals, but you'll be more of my pal in mid-November when the gloating is over.

Here's what you don't realize:  Undecided voters do not respond positively to nasty, cult-like, robotic, mass-mainstream commentary.  As a matter of fact, we react just the opposite.  Every time something too slanted and vindictive is posted that reeks of mass political brainwashing, we figure you've drunk the Kool-Aid and you're a mere pawn cult member.  Therefore, the other candidate must be the one for whom we should vote.

Here's what you should realize:  If you really want to convince us to vote for your candidate, post facts.  Real facts, not fake ones like the media is putting out.  Facts that withstand real fact-checking, not that fake crap from Monday's debate moderator.

Here's my take on the current situation.  The only political crap worth posting on social media is if we all take a deep collective breath, shut up about our rabid political slants, and start skewing how we view the election as much as the media skews it for us.  This would be funny and it's entertaining and it's about as real as all of the media's automated, canned, brain-washed talk-points. 

I'll tell you what -- give us all paintball guns.  Whichever candidate is still standing and doesn't have a mouth that's full of glossy liquid latex at the end, that's my leader.  This method is about as sane as the process we're using now ... maybe even more so.  To November -- and beyond!

A DOO-EY OF A DAY

I am having a shitty day, absolutely shitty, shitty day at work.  I am (if I had them and sometimes believe that I do) balls-to-the-wall busy, and I don't get out of there until I've done exactly nine and a half straight hours with two breaks: eighteen minutes to eat lunch and go to the bathroom, and a one minute pee break before an afternoon meeting.

Basically, I am having a doo-doo pile of a day.  I mean, it's not horrible or anything like that; I'm not on the verge of being fired, or, at least, I hope not.  I'm just busy and tired and backlogged and now I'm hungry.  So hungry.

I am trying to get home, debating going to the store (I don't) or maybe ordering take-out (I don't).  The only good thing about today's late schedule is that I can take the direct route home past the elementary school because it is long-past bus pick-up time. 

Yes, I decide to head straight home, which is where I hope to be until a truck pulls in front of me.  He is turning at the light, same as am I, and he takes so long to get through the maneuver that I almost miss the light, and I'm the second vehicle in line behind him.

And then ... I look up and take notice.  "A. Duie Pyle."  Perfect.  No, truly.  I am having a doo-ey pile of a day myself.  Suddenly, I feel a lot better, and I smile, I grin, and I chuckle a little bit. 

I follow the truck all the way to my street, kind of sad when we part ways.  Here's to you, A. Duie Pyle.  I don't know who you are nor what you've got inside your container, but I can attest that just your name and presence is a mood changer. 

Not only does my day seem a lot better right now -- slightly ironic, but definitely better -- but I am home.  Foraging through the freezer, I find dinner (honey BBQ wings and french fries), so all is right with the world.

BASEMENT BOUNTY

Autumn in New England - that lovely time of year when we have to put the heat on in the morning and the air conditioners on in the afternoon; when we drive with the windows open but continuously adjust the vents (hot ... cold ... hot ... cold ...).  It's like Mother Nature has menopause, and we all have to suffer for it.

It's finally almost cool enough to finish cleaning out the basement.  I planned on doing it over the summer, but we didn't have one single crappy day the entire time.  The basement still feels warm - it retains the summer heat as easily as it absorbs the winter chill - but I decide to work down there, anyway.

I have to put the workout space back together.  It has been in a semi-disarray since I had the washer and dryer changed out in mid-July.  I also need to call the junk man.  I meant to do that a year ago, but I never finished getting the big stuff out.  This conundrum has left me with a small pile of junk on my patio for an entire year.

However, I'm also discovering other gems as I work my way across the vast wasteland of assorted junk in the basement.  For example, I am not a gardener.  I have cement outside of my house, yet I feel the need to own several pairs of gardening gloves, some trowels, etc.  Sure.  Okay, I guess.  I have a long garden hose, brand new, that I intended to use with the landlord's water spigot, but, after I invested in the hose, someone bent the spigot so the hose won't really attach at all.  Terrific.  That's okay because I don't have to water my nonexistent garden.

I do find a boombox, which is great because my MP3 player keeps changing to Christmas music while I work out, and that just stresses me out and defeats the purpose of trying to relax and get healthy.  The boombox still works, radio and all, even in the basement, and all it needs is a quick dusting to move from the junk side to the gym side.

The landlord recently put in a new cellar window, full-sized, so now I have to set up my indoor shooting gallery somewhere else.  Yup, BB guns and Air-Soft guns are welcome in the basement, or were, but now I'll have to rework that situation. Don't want to accidentally take out a pane of glass, especially with winter coming.

Speaking of winter, how many ice scrapers does it take to clear off a car?  Don't answer that!  I know this!  Apparently, a dozen.  Yes, I already have a scraper or two, one with a brush and at least one without, packed in my car at all times.  The scraper comes in handy to rid the windshield of bird droppings, and the brush helps during pollen season.  Both get employed during worm-poop season, as well.

Imagine, though, my amazement at finding more scrapers, and then more, and even more scrapers in the basement.  Anyone need a scraper?  I think I kept buying them when my kids would constantly complain that they didn't have ice scrapers.  In fact, they did.  What they did not have were clean cars.  The ice scrapers were somewhere underneath empty coffee cups and important mail, all of which created extra insulation on the floors of their vehicles.

Now all I need is the number of a reliable and reasonable junk dealer.  I've got to get this crap off my patio before winter comes.  I don't really want to shovel around the stuff again, and I'm sure my landlord is starting to suspect that I'm in the contraband business, selling used appliances out of my home.  If only the washer-dryer delivery service could've taken the stuff away, then I'd be happy.  At least the only two things I need to dump somewhere myself are three computer hard drives.

Once all of that's gone, I can go back to seeing how many basketballs, badminton racquets, and pairs of crutches I have stashed down there.  My basement is just a large-scale version of Mary Poppins' carpetbag; it's a never-ending stream of useless but fascinating treasure.