Recommended wine for today’s entry: The Kings Ridge 2007 Oregon Pinot Gris. This recommendation comes from my friend Kara, who tasted this at the L & N Wine Bar in Louisville … if you’re in the area, it’s a great place for wine lovers … offering a lot of wines by the glass. From the winery’s Web site: “From a mix of vineyards in the Chehalem Mountains, this is a pleasant but simple wine with a mix of green apple and tart pear fruit flavors. It will benefit from chilling, which will bring out more of the peppery highlights and crisp acids.” Wine Enthusiast gave it 86 points. In Kara’s words, “fantastic.”
OK, I’m going to start where I left off yesterday…but first, I have to acknowledge that this crappy little blog has passed the 4,000 hits mark. Zowie! Thanks for reading!
Anyway, Tuesday, after the nerve-wracking experiences with the faulty grocery cart and the store alarm and the long wait for the decrepit and slow-moving Bradley in Flooring, I took my $10.60 and hustled home, where I put the warm milk in the fridge and made a mental note not to drink it myself.
Then I had to retrace my steps toward civilization … and I got to the car dealer just ten minutes late for my “diagnostic appointment.” When I got there I had to sign a paper agreeing to pay $120 just for them to look at this car. I should point out here that this is a 1996 vehicle … so when you’re talking anything over $100, you are into a significant percentage of the car’s value. It probably wasn’t a brilliant move, economically speaking.
So of course I signed it.
While I waited, I read a long and depressing article about menopause in Oprah’s magazine. I learned that mood swings and unexpected temperature surges can be expected to last for roughly twenty percent my life. Well, that’s great news!
The discomfort might be alleviated, however, if I do something like drink the urine of a pregnant horse – sounds like something from Borat, doesn’t it? Or actually, I think maybe you apply it in a patch, so that you are walking around with horse pee on your upper arm. Now I was edgy, tired, bloated, listening to someone I hate droning on CNN and depressed. Luckily, a subsequent page told me that Cymbalta can help. But I think the small print said something like, “if you take medication for high blood pressure, diabetes, high cholesterol, if you’re nursing or pregnant or wallowing in mare waste, this product may not be right for you.” Hm. I may have to ask my doctor. He already hates me.
Anyway, it was a bad sign when the woman came to tell me about the car and she had a nervous tick going in her right eye.
Bottom line: Unless we wanted to pay more than we’d planned, the trusty old guy was going to have to find another garage to call home.
So I waited ‘til they got the car dressed and out of the examining room, another 20 minutes, then waited 10 more minutes to pay the woman her $120, and got to school to pick up my daughter JUST in the nick of time. A senior whose mom picks her up is a loser, but a senior who has to WAIT for her mom to pick her up is worse off than Carrie on prom night.
Luckily, before I told my daughter about the demise of her sweet ride, my husband agreed to meet us at a used car lot to look for a new (to her) car. Otherwise, I’d still be talking her off the ledge. It must be devastating for a 17-year-old to give up a sensible, 13-year-old, forest green family sedan. It’s like asking them to give up their orthopedic shoes. But we were able to cushion the blow.
We visited three lots, shook a lot of sweaty hands, smelled a lot of over-applied Old Spice and Axe and sat in a lot of cars. She test drove one, but only in the parking lot (this was after she announced to the salesman that she’s a terrible driver.)
Then, thankfully, it was 6:45 and time to go visit our friends Jennifer and Mark and their BEAUTIFUL new baby daughter Annaliese.
After thoroughly washing my hands, I got to hold her. For me, holding a baby is more nerve-wracking than setting off the alarm at a mega-store.
When I say children (and babies) hate me, I am not exaggerating ONE LITTLE BIT. There can be the most outgoing 3-year-old imaginable, the kind who skips up to men in overcoats and asks what’s underneath, but if the kid makes eye contact with me, it’ll get all evil-eyed and contemplative, then screech, turn on its heel and bury its face in mama’s petticoats. No kidding.
But Annaliese was either too young to hate me yet or she really liked me! Woo hoo!
Of course, she was sound asleep. But she didn’t need anyone to mail her a new straightener and she didn’t hate riding in the car with her mother and she didn’t need thousands of dollars for tuition and printer ink and a microwave and a new (to her) car and she wasn’t in need of immediate help to sign a lease on a house for next year … she just needed a bottle every three hours and someone to turn on her little swing.
I took a deep breath, relaxed for the first time all day, and said to Jennifer and Mark, “If you think you’re not sleeping now …”