My wonderful, perfect 13-month-old granddaughter spent the day with me yesterday. We read books, emptied drawers, danced, crawled under tables, tumbled on the carpet, poked toys into little boxes, and played peek-a-boo with a silk blanket. I even introduced her to steamed cauliflower – so much better than the crap I used to feed my kids when they were small.I’d forgotten how busy a toddler can be. In desperate need of a toilet, I took her into the bathroom with me and it only took 10 seconds for her to open drawers and find the razor blades. These were not on her mom’s recommended toy list. Then she scampered away with a tube of lotion which she quickly squirted onto my hardwood floor before I could get my pants zipped. Just when I was ready to offer her a pony if she took a nap, she got tired and we cuddled in the rocking chair. Then she fell asleep in her little crib, and I watched in amazement and relief as she sighed and moaned her way to some mysterious dreamland. After my wonderful, perfect daughter took my wonderful, perfect granddaughter back home, I poured a glass of Moon Mountain Cabernet Sauvignon and sat quietly to contemplate my blessings. Hey Diddle, Diddle, it’s a good life.
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Midlife Cabernet: When’s Your Expiration Date?
I have salad dressing in my refrigerator that dates back to the Carter administration. And there’s a plastic container in the back that’s growing a chemistry experiment but I’m afraid to look, so I just leave it there. I know when the milk turns sour that it’s time to throw it out, but I’m not sure about the eggs. How can I trust a cardboard container that tells me something fresh will last another month?
I recently rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and pantry searching for cans, boxes, and packages of food that have exceeded their “use by” date. It’s easy to toss out the old tin of unwanted sardines, but I have a difficult time parting with the gourmet pancake mix. The expiration date is 2010, but it’s a gourmet mix from a famous gourmet company that sends awesome catalogs. I’ll probably keep that mix for another five years, just in case some fancy guests drop by for breakfast.
I usually ignore expiration dates because I’m worried someone will slap one on my head. “Elaine is best before 2015.” That would be too much pressure to cram all my quality goodness and usefulness into the next 12 months. I would plead for an extension and then tap dance my way back into being relevant and valuable.
Would you want to know your expiration date? I don’t. Instead, I think we should choose to live every day to the fullest just to prove we’ve still got life and mischief. Each morning, slowly peek out of one eye to make sure you’re still alive. If you haven’t expired, you have another chance to go forth with fresh and worthy confidence that says your story isn’t over. Start another chapter.
Today’s Cabernet is not a Cab
Tonight’s blog was fueled by a glass of 2004 Trinitas Zinfandel from Bigalow Vineyard in Sonoma, California. It’s a gamble to dabble outside of my Cabernet Comfort Zone, but this wine is darn tasty and it’s only $28 a bottle. The wine offers hints of raspberry and chocolate (a great combination) but it’s not too sweet.
Midlife Cabernet – Toenails on the Tablecloth
I often experience profound humiliation with a daunting magnitude that would send most people screaming into the forest, never to return. After all these years, I accept the fact that I probably will trip and fall in a busy crosswalk, fart during a massage, drop my passport into a foreign toilet, or sprout broccoli in my teeth while giving a motivational speech. However, I still cringe at the memory of a recent embarrassment.
Due to stress, deadlines, and too much caffeine, I had attacked my fingernails like a crazed wolverine, leaving bloody stumps that were too painful to use even to shampoo my hair. Of course, this was on a day when I had a Very Important Meeting with some Very Important People at a Very Private Club in Boise. Not even my best St. Johns knit suit could hide my tortured hands. It was time to leave, so I frantically pawed through my drawers looking for some fake nails to glue onto my fingers but only found some press-on toenails. The instructions on the box guaranteed that I didn’t need glue because the adhesive would last for a week! I slapped those gleaming toenails onto the ends of my ravaged fingers, picked up my briefcase and dashed to the meeting, feeling smug that I had successfully survived yet another personal crisis.
At the Very Private Club, I was escorted to the premium table and introduced to a sophisticated woman who looked like a model in a Ralph Lauren ad and a man who appeared to possess all the knowledge of the universe. As she shook my right hand, the toenail on my right thumb suddenly popped off and landed on the white linen tablecloth. I mumbled something about “that darned broken nail” and plucked it from the table. After exchanging professional pleasantries, we ordered Herb-infused Tomato Bisque. As I took a sip, the toenail on the left hand snapped off and plopped into the soup. I tried to push it down with my spoon, but it kept bobbing up as if pleading to be rescued. Apparently, toes are wider and flatter than fingernails, and these things wouldn’t last the hour let alone a week. I resisted the temptation to say, “Waiter, there is a toenail in my soup.”
My table companions cleared their throats and started their conversation about how I should diversify my investment portfolio to take advantage of opportunities in emerging markets. As they talked, I held my hands in my lap, working quickly to pry off the remaining nails so they wouldn’t sporadically shoot from my hand and put out someone’s eye. Two of the stubborn nails validated the claim on the box and wouldn’t release until I ripped them off and the wounded fingers started to bleed again. I discretely wrapped the linen napkin around my hand until it looked like one of those bandaged fists from a war movie. By the time the elegant woman was displaying a chart of recommended international equity funds, I was sitting in a pile of discarded toenails, applying white-linen pressure to my hemorrhaging fingertips, and pretending everything was OK.
I want the dignified waiter at The Arid Club to know that I really regret leaving that mess. But, maybe he overheard some good hints about investing and will remove my name from the list of “Guests to Never Allow Back Inside.”
To ease my discomfort, I later settled my nerves with an extremely large glass of Coppola Cabernet. It’s about $35 a bottle and goes down nicely, with or without fingernails.
Midlife Cabernet: Your an Idiot
I often need a good smack across the head to remind me to restrict all public commentary on social media to my favorite topics: writing, wine, and wit. The slightest endeavor into random remarks about politics or religion can cause an exchange of retorts from strangers and casual acquaintances that ends with their inevitable written proclamation: “Your an idiot!” This illiterate insult is wrong in so many ways.
In this brave new world of political correctness, don’t be naïve in assuming you are entitled to your own feisty opinions. Not when there are Social Media Nazis, bored loners, and potential clients around every laptop. Here are five ways to avoid the temptation to type, text, or tweet spontaneous comments you could regret:
1. During political election season, wrap duct tape and electric barbed wire around your fingers so you won’t comment on the obscene orgy of political crap swirling around social media. Be prepared to take the ultimate extreme measure of unplugging your computer. Some hyperventilating and drooling may occur.
2. During religious holidays, be true to your own spiritual beliefs but don’t call others demented spawns of the devil if they prefer to worship the moon or the ocean or Krispy Kreme.
3. If an anonymous person criticizes you on the Internet, don’t spend a week tracing his or her entire online history to create a retaliatory manifesto. That only means the terrorists have won.
4. Go ahead and write a clever and caustic quip, save it to savor the next day, and then delete it.
5. Remember that everything you publish on the Internet will remain there for your great-grandchildren to find and then publish in a tell-all book that will be turned into a horror movie. Then people will pay money to visit and spit upon your grave. Don’t be that person.
This week I was sucked into two exchanges on Facebook that I should have avoided. I knew before I hit send that I shouldn’t respond but I couldn’t help myself. All I wanted in return was a simple, “Interesting point of view.” But, no. My comments made me a corrupt capitalist responsible for the damnation of society. And this was from people I’d never met.
To be fair (and balanced), I enjoy a good debate and am guilty of provoking a compelling argument. I regularly banter about politics on Facebook with a guy named Eric. I’ve never met him, but we’re not vicious. Sometimes I add a happy face emoticon just to say “It’s okay. Let’s not kill each other today.” And, he appears to have a commanding knowledge of basic grammar.
Anonymity on the Internet makes it easier to snarl in seclusion and condemn others with wild abandon. I’m waiting for global inspiration that will instill a passion for unity, issue a clarion call for respect and cooperation among all peoples, and demand an end to illiterate insults. Yes, I’m yearning for that glorious day when people come together to sing in the village square and know the difference between your and you’re. These expectations are perhaps too grandiose to accomplish, but, after all, we are entering the blessed season of miracles.
Today’s blog was fueled by a 2010 “O” Fidélitas red wine from Yakima Valley. This smooth, tasty wine is a delightful blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc. It’s about $35 a bottle and is guaranteed to promote feelings of cheer and good will toward all God’s creatures.
Midlife Cabernet – The Bittersweet Splendor of Spring
Late for a meeting, I quickly drove down the driveway and then saw a vision so breathtaking that I stopped the car and stared. A spotlight of sunshine had emerged from a cluster of pastel clouds resting over the eastern mountains to shine directly onto a flowering plum tree in the front yard. As if on stage following a grand performance, the tree displayed its branches, radiant in the morning mist and completely covered with a crown of pure white flowers. I applauded with gratitude. And, for the first time this Spring I noticed the vibrant azaleas were waving tender new fuchsia blossoms in a tribute to a quote by Robin Williams: Spring is nature’s way of saying, “Let’s Party!”
Spring is my favorite season, and I’m grateful to experience another one. At my age, I’ve seen more than I’ll see again, unless I live to be 120 and that’s not likely no matter how often I floss. Springtime at midlife is bittersweet because the world is abundant with rebirth and new growth but it also brings new aches and pains with each rain shower. And, the only new growth I have is the sporadic eruption of more black hairs on my chin.
Recent rains have washed away the new blossoms on the trees, a reminder that the beauty of youth fades quickly. The gorgeous tree in the front yard also is nature’s way of telling me that while I’m dashing around with my overloaded calendar, I’m missing the splendor that I have right here at home. That morning after I saw the sunlit tree, I cancelled my meeting, got another cup of coffee, and sat on the patio to be serenaded by happy songbirds. Knowing that the world still turns without my involvement is good therapy. Thanks, Spring.
Today’s blog was inspired by a 2008 Dunham Trutina from Columbia Valley. Yes, this wine sponsored last week’s blog, too, but it’s that good. Available at A New Vintage Wine Shop for about $28.
