Life as a Cactus

I feel restless and ill at ease. Do you ever have that, a feeling of not seeming altogether connected to yourself or the world? It makes me brittle and, I regret to say, a little spiky. I am comfortable only with A. and B., or with complete strangers--because I have no need to protect myself from either. I experience relief from the disconnectedness only when I am utterly absorbed in the mysteries I have taken to reading (Walter Mosley, Gar Anthony Haywood) or in some kind of work, whether it be vacuuming or actually working. As a result, the house is spotless, and last night, I worked until after midnight.

Neither is altogether bad, especially the latter, as yesterday I took the girls to the orthodontist for the evaluation. (I am still reeling from the sticker shock.) As with our dentist's office, everyone--from the receptionist to the office manager to the doctor himself--was so nice that I was tempted to pitch a tent and make a home for myself in the waiting room (where there is an aquarium with a big wide-eyed puffer fish that has such a charming expression, if it can be said that a face is capable of having an expression) for the rest of my life. A more cynical person might remark that if you want someone to be courteous and kind to you, paying that someone more than I paid for my car is a big incentive.

Like my grandfather who lived through the Depression and who always paid cash for everything (including every car he ever bought and every house he ever owned), I have a horror of debt. Which means to put braces on the girls' teeth, I will just work more. A lot more. At least one friend has suggested that I let the girls grow up and get their own damn braces, paying out of their own grown-up pockets when they have such pockets. My spirit rebels. According to my way of thinking, I am their mother, and so it is my job to provide for their needs.

In other news, after all my gloating, I am disheartened and a little disappointed by my performance on my final exam way back when. Though I took the test in May, I just got my transcript:

100 multiple choice questions: 79%
4 essays: 91.7 %
4 blind tastings: 77.5 %

I truly believed I had done better, so my lack of awareness shocks me. I guess you really don't know what you don't know when you don't know it. If I had not already registered for the certification program, I would probably reconsider. The instructor gave us to understand that the certification program is much more rigorous than the prerequisite classes, and the tests more difficult. I guess I could have studied more, but I would have been very tired and cranky. Cranky like I am now, but with better reason.

Reserve All Judgment

As dangerous as it may be to reserve judgment ("In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person"), I am committed to the attempt, and today, the reason is an interview Tavis Smiley did with Prince aka The Artist Formerly Known As.

When asked about all the crazy things people say about him, Prince said he didn't believe in retaliating: "It's a hurtful place, the world, in and of itself--we don't need to add to it."

It's a remarkable interview. You have to love someone who talks like that. As Cornel West says, "Break it down, Brother Prince."

(That being said, I don't subscribe to all his views. For one thing, he doesn't vote. At all. Ever. Also, I believe our beliefs about religion differ considerably.)

Subject to Change Without Warning

Last night, I felt a little unhappy. I stubbed my feelings on a friend--not that she intended it, but I felt it. And I'd spent maybe 12 hours trying to figure out the computer mess. And I was alone. And. And. And. Yet I told Myself that who knows how quickly my feelings might change, I could not even guess at what might happen to change them, life bes like that sometimes.

Today, a big manly friend came to my aid with the computer problem. Though I had solved the virus, I had not managed to rid my life of its effects, and my friend did so. I am grateful, and grateful for his good nature in so doing.

Then I received an unexpected email from a kindly stranger who requested some of my writing in order to consider reprinting said writing, which means--if it happens--unexpected money. Which would be wonderful, as one of my worries was that I had spent all day yesterday not earning money.

And then I took Myself out to dinner tonight. We went to Lucille's and ate in the bar, and our server, Kim, was so attentive and welcoming that we considered spending the rest of the evening there. While we waited for our dinner, we read a terrific book, Black Noir, which Chicago C. had sent to us. Not what we usually read, but the writing is so good.

(Unfortunately, we did happen to overhear the conversation of three middle-aged men who were also dining in the bar. One regaled the other two with a charming story about how he'd met a woman in a bar, and she'd asked if he could sing, so he launched into a rendition of a song he insists was called "Let's Get Drunk and Screw." It got worse than that. I was seated very near to them, so they must have known I could hear everything they said. I think it gave them an extra little thrill to be extra disgusting, as they spoke loudly and self-consciously, and kept looking around to see if anyone was looking at them. I did not look at them, nor did I allow my face to betray my feelings. I am a rock. I am an i-i-i-i-i-i-island.)

Then we walked around with a cup of tea and looked in shop windows and bought a corkscrew and thought about how nice it was to walk around at night in the warm summer air.

Also, we met a big handsome man, but when he asked for our business card, we thought he literally wanted our business card, and we truthfully said that we didn't have one, only to realize later that he had been asking for our telephone number. Oh, well. Missed again, eh. We are sometimes a little slow on the uptake.

(Why am I referring to ourselves in the second-person plural, you may ask. I think because tonight I was very much enjoying my own company. Especially with the contrast seated in triplicate at the table next to me.)

Infected

Computer virus. Been trying to figure it out all day. Missed a whole day of work. Pants.

I'm getting into the pool now. I'll be partially submerged the remainder of the summer.

Bright Spots

Since I moved here, I've been thinking that I would like to go out more--not to clubs, you know that is not my cup of tea, but to restaurants. At first, I just thought it would be fun, and A. and B. love to go out, too. (They LOVE it. They are ladies of luxury. Their idea of Heaven is a hotel with room service and air conditioning.) Then once I started my wineau training, I thought it would be helpful if I went out and paid particular attention to the beverage service.

Toward that end, whenever my fellow students in the wine classes talked of different restaurants, I often asked for details. One restaurant recommended to me was Firefly, and now I can add my recommendation to theirs. Everything was just what I like in a restaurant. The service was friendly but unobtrusive, and mostly efficient (though it took a lot of effort on our part to get our water glasses re-filled); I love the decor (the walls are red, and there's a lot to look at, lanterns and paintings and an aquarium over the doorway, and the moldings are real wood complete with dents and scratches, as opposed to shiny new pre-fab pieces of junk that you see in a lot of chain restaurants); and the food was fantastic. And not expensive.

As for the wine service, there was nothing for me to learn, unfortunately. Not that kind of restaurant. I tried two glasses, one was the 2007 Twin Vines Vinho Verde, a light, refreshing, high acid, low alcohol dry white wine from Portugal with the characteristic spritziness that is perfect for this weather. It was a good pairing with our first dish, a mushroom tart with boursin cheese. This wine is a solid value--you can pick it up for $10 or less.

My second glass was the 2006 Finca Roja Malbec from Argentina, a wine I am having trouble finding online, which makes me wonder if A) the wine list has an error, and the vintage was actually 2005 or 2007, both of which I could find, or B) the 2006 was not such a great year. This wine, a deeply colored dry red wine, promised a lot on the nose that it did not deliver on the palate. It smelled like all the dark fruits and a bit of cocoa, and seemed rich and a little smoky, but as soon as I sipped it, the taste fell away in a little trail of ashy bitterness. Though there was no finish to speak of. Drinking this wine is like being with someone who is a great kisser but bad in bed. So it's not such a shame that I couldn't find any links, because I can't recommend it. I'm glad I tried it, though. I had been tempted to go with the Zinfandel (which I looked up and people seem to like), to return to the comfort and familiarity of My One True Love, but--again, as part of my education--I'm trying to drink as many different wines as possible in order to expand the inner library of tastes.

After dinner, I convinced one of my companions, a former colleague from Great Big Huge Company who is here visiting S., to come over and float in the pool. I left the colored lights on (and kept my bathing suit on), and we floated and looked at the full moon and chatted for nigh on two hours with no awareness of the passing of time. See, if you came to visit, you could also float in the pool at midnight when it is still in the 90s outside.

Sounds Like Heaven to Me

Last night, I turned off the lights in my backyard and took off my clothes and got into the pool. It was only the third time I had been in the pool past my calves since we moved here. I swam for a while. Then I floated in a big blue plastic ring for more than an hour, doing nothing, not even really thinking, just floating and looking up at the clouds and the moon.

I had been trying to figure something out. I had forgotten that the muddy water clears on its own. Every time I feel the way I had been feeling, I always think I have to do something. I don't have to do anything.

I'll tell you something else I've figured out: I am not suited to this weather. I talked to A. and B. today. They said they thought it was in the 60s where they are.

Let's Hear It for the Little Guys

I used to like to read People magazine. A lot. I lost my taste for it, though, I can't even remember when, but I stopped reading when it started boring me unto death. So right now I'm reading The House of Mondavi: The Rise and Fall of an American Wine Dynasty. Oh my goodness.

I would say that in some ways, it is like reading People, in that you do learn quite a bit about the most personal details of the Mondavis' lives, including emotional insecurities (kind of nice to know that everyone's got'em), spending habits, drinking habits, food preferences, temperamental quirks, extramarital affairs, family spats, and longtime grudges.

What makes it different? Maybe partly because there is so much information about all the significant people in the drama that you do get more of a sense of who they are and what motivates them and what makes them happy and what makes them suffer, which inevitably makes you feel more sympathetic toward them. No one's a saint, no one's a devil. In a way, you see this Greek tragedy unfolding, and everyone powerless to stop it, each fulfilling his destiny. The irony cup runneth over, is what I'm saying.

The other big difference is the book is not just about the Mondavis; it's about wine-making history in Napa (and, though to a lesser extent, the history of wine-making in California and the United States) and about the wine industry, and what's been called the globalization of wine, and about the conflicting goals of making great wine vs. making more money than the GNP of [pick a small country]. Being so rich that your wife gives you llamas for your birthday (one assumes because you already have everything else in the world you might want).

What shocked me is how many millions of cases the big-name producers--like Mondavi--sell. Millions of cases. When you consider that a lot of small wineries get their start with making just a few hundred or a few thousand cases in a year.

One of the wines for which Mondavi is famous is Opus One, a collaboration between the Rothschild wine dynasty and the Mondavis. Recently, I tried Opus One. No, I did not buy a bottle, as it is out of my budget. I was able to pay for a one-ounce pour at one of those wine bars where you pay by the ounce. That one ounce cost a lot. I wish I'd taken notes, because all I remember now was that I thought it was good, but also that I've had a $30 bottle here and there that I've enjoyed just as much. Because I am a philistine.

Not just a philistine, I am a bit of a socialist. I look at the Mondavis with their multi-million dollar houses and their llamas and emus and chauffered limousines and all the memorials they have built to honor themselves, and then I look at all the little wineries, wineries where you find the owner pouring at the tasting bar on a Sunday, for example, or wineries that are experimenting with biodynamic farming, and I think to myself, I would rather buy my wines from those hundred-case and thousand-case lots. Not that I begrudge the Mondavis their big money. They did all seem to work very hard for it, and it came with sacrifices that I would be unwilling to make.

There are so many terrific wines that are sold only at the wineries or through wine clubs, and I know enough to understand there must be a slew of reasons. (I am starting to understand that there are lots of complicated regulations governing the selling and shipping and distributing of the vin. There are probably other reasons, too. Small wineries may not be able to afford giving a cut of their profits to distributors. More research is clearly in order.) But, still, I am thinking that even if it be a little less convenient to buy those wines, I'm willing to go through those inconveniences or pay a little more for shipping.

P.S. You understand I think the philanthropy is as it should be, but wouldn't it be refreshing if some millionaire donated a pile of cash without a building getting named after him?

UPDATE: I finished the book. You may already know there was a takeover and the Mondavis were toppled. They got a lot of money, but they all regretted having gone public in the first place. Then Robert Mondavi died last year.