Recommended wine for today’s entry: Because we have a bumper crop of amazingly great tomatoes, I am making my favorite fresh tomato-based pasta dish tonight. It is a cheese tortellini-tomato-basil-balsalmic viniagrette treat that just gets better as the week progresses. Yum. If you want the recipe, just ask! So I checked online for a recommendation of a wine that goes well with fresh tomatoes and I found one on one of my favorite blogs (http://goodwineunder20.blogspot.com/2010/07/wine-for-tomato-season-grechetto.html) They recommend an Italian wine — Grecante Grechetto, which they describe as, “The aromas reminded me of preserved lemons–the Moroccan kind, with salt. This aroma is echoed in the flavors, which take on savory herbal notes as well which will draw out the flavor of any herbs you use with your fresh tomatoes. Deliciously complex, dry, and not your ordinary summer white.” And at under $20! I’m excited to try it!
Whew! My older daughter is living in her first off-campus apartment this year and it is not only an amazingly expensive proposition, but it’s also an unbelievably exhausting one. And I hate to shop.
I wrote a blog last year about the number of Target runs we had to make … oh my. Multiply that by 50 for this year.
We had to buy all the necessities for college apartment life: furniture, bedding, window treatments, a blender, plastic cups and ping pong balls. Then a separate trip to get wall art and throw pillows. Seriously? I had an old Derby poster that sufficed as my wall art for four years in college. I think it might have even graced the walls of my first apartment after marriage. I’d still have it, I believe, had it not lost its corners to too many years of thumbtack holes.
Anyway, my point is … I have been in and out of around a thousand stores in the past two weeks. I’m starting to get, by my own admission, just a little bitchy about it. So when I was checking out and saw the person behind me in line with a cart so full of toilet paper that she could barely see over the top, I wasn’t in the mood to cut her a break. She was at least six feet tall, too. And somewhere between 65 and 75 years old.
But the fact that she was buying 97 roles of toilet paper wasn’t the funny part. Because when she came around the edge of the cart, that six-foot tall seasoned citizen was wearing a good, old fashioned midriff top. And spandex pants pulled up over her belly button. And in between there wasn’t really fat, but oodles and oodles of lily white, puckered stomach skin, lying neatly in overlapping folds.
People are gross.
Then, a few minutes later, at the next store, my daughter gets a Facebook notification on her phone. Seems some guy named John had asked to be her friend the day previous, and she had accepted him by mistake, but immediately changed it to a NO. So she gets a message from him that says, “Right girl? John here, not sure if I have right Samantha. Are you textually active? Can I get your number?”
Textually active? Are you for real, buddy?
People are really gross.
Of course, my oblivious husband and I preferred to think he was just trying to ask her if she texts. But she assured me that this was some disgusting pervert who just sends out feelers to find girls who will talk nasty with him via text message. Super pathetic and icky.
The whole episode reminded me of the day I came home from the hospital after having my second child. After six days on a liquid diet and having about 20 percent the amount of blood a human is supposed to have, all I wanted in the whole world was pizza. So my husband propped me up on the sofa and went to fetch.
As soon as he left, the phone rang. (This was in the old days before caller ID.) This is how the conversation went:
Man’s voice: Hi, is this Mrs. Rosen?
Me (in my weak, warbly voice): Yes it is.
Man: Uh, I hope this is the right Mrs. Rosen. Are you married to Mr. Rosen?
Me: Uhh, yes?
Man: The ones who swing, right? We met the other night?
Me: Well, sir, I think you might have the wrong Rosens. Because not only are we NOT swingers, we most certainly did NOT meet you or any of your other CREEPY SWINGER FRIENDS the other night, because the other night, depending on exactly WHICH other night you are talking about, I was either eight months pregnant and on bedrest because I was about to have a stroke or, if the other night was a little more recent, I was lying in a hospital bed eating freaking orange popsicles and trying like hell to generate some red blood cells. Now if that isn’t turning you on, I’m very sorry, but maybe the story of the huge machete and my C-section will do the trick…
He hung up.
But I did, of course, pull out the phone book. The only other Rosens in our area lived like within a mile of us. So for about a month, I scrutinized every stranger at the grocery store, trying to discern the nasty swinger.
That was 17 years ago, so I’d almost gotten over it. Or so I thought.
And my daughter didn’t respond to the textually active sicko.
Maybe they could designate one city for all the gross people, to keep them all in one place.