Blog

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.

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.

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.

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.