Recommended wine for today’s entry: Medio y Medio wine from Uruguay. Two former active-duty Marines, who were stationed for a time in Uruguay, noticed that their fellow servicemen, rather than drinking beer when not on duty, were drinking Medio y Medio, a blend of sparkling wine and sweet white wine. So when they returned to the South Florida area, they began to import it — and it’s been a huge hit. Their tasting notes: ” A refreshing social sparkling blend of moscato grapes and pinot blanc sparkling. The tropical and honey flavors meld together with a slight effervescence resulting in a crisp, fresh, lingering finish.” In South America, it is served with steak, sausage and chicken, but it can also be used as dessert wine.I have to confess that I haven’t tried it yet, but am anxious to find it. If you’ve tried it, let me know the verdict!
I think I have SAD. You know, Seasonal Affective Disorder. Well, it’s that or Sans Alcohol Depression. Maybe it’s a combination of the two.
There have been a lot of reasons that I haven’t written a blog post lately. The primary reason is that I have given up drinking during the week as part of another idiotic attempt to lose weight. I can’t write because I have been sleeping as much as possible so that when I wake up it will be the weekend. JK, I’m not that bad. I haven’t really been sleeping a lot.
But I haven’t been all that much fun when I’m awake. My ever-supportive husband said I’m a hag when I don’t drink. He told me he didn’t mean that in a bad way and I believe him because he rocks.
Add to that, it seems like every day we get 1-3″ of snow. Snow is stupid. Snow doesn’t fall out of a sunny sky and snow doesn’t fall when it’s warm enough out for me to wear my signature tube tops. So of course everyone hates it.
Just to illustrate how all this winter weather/dearth of wine has affected my mood:
I have been busily writing a short story that began as a light, quirky romp through the life of a pudgy, earnest man named Chester Billingsworth. It was quite a lark, bordering at times on humorous. But then winter hit and suddenly Chester’s life turned around and — well, basically ended. He’s not dead, but he’s not shopping for next season’s clothes. I just offer that as an illustration of what can happen when I’m sober and dieting and stuck inside.
And as if dreary weather and self-imposed sobriety isn’t enough to weigh down even the most buoyant mood, we discovered a little, itty bitty leak in the water tubey thing on the back of our not-very-old (read: don’t buy an LG) refrigerator.
This was awhile ago, like more than a month ago, so I shouldn’t still be ranting about it.
EXCEPT IT STILL ISN’T FIXED.
On the bright side, I’ve met the nicest man in the whole world. He is a super-nice gentleman from South Carolina, speaks just like my old Southern Baptist minister (ie: he doesn’t even cuss! ) and is dead-set that he won’t give up on the refrigerator from heck. But he is bound to lose his good humor soon because the Sybil-in-a-French-Door keeps acting like a certain part will fit, but then at the last minute she rejects it, at times flinging it to the floor and spraying whomever is in range (always me) like a triple-pressure fire hydrant blowing its top.
This whole thing has been no picnic for him either. He professed to loving animals upon first arrival, but I can’t help but notice his facial expressions as the following wild animal encounters took place:
First the golden retriever mix planted his nose firmly between the poor guy’s legs as he bent over to examine the fridge.
Then he went to wash his hands and was met by the cat who has taken to spending her day sitting in the kitchen sink. She’s not doing anything, she just sits, facing forward. In the sink. All day.
(I told him to move the faucet to the other side of the sink and he’d be fine to wash his hands. But, I warned him, don’t make eye contact with her. She’s gone a bit daft in her old age.)
He also experienced a blood-and-guts cat fight on the counter right above his head.
Then I opened said fridge and a giant wad of black cat hair wafted out. We like our furballs cold.
Today, when he came I was opening an e-mail so if he glanced over at my computer screen, this is what he saw:
FW: NEVER WAX YOUR HOO-HA!
I looked at him as guiltily as if he WAS my Southern Baptist minister and I had penned the porn myself. If his visual acuity was anything at all, he might also have noticed that it was from my mother.
I’m guessing he won’t take our calls next time.
There’s a prayer that says, paraphrased, give me the power to change the things I can and the serenity to accept those that I can’t.
I can’t change the weather.
I can’t help poor fictional Chester, although I do feel a certain measure of guilt about it.
I can’t fix a water line.
I can’t stop my mother from forwarding me lewd e-mails.
I can’t even get the cat out of the kitchen sink.
But I can drink.
And because I have been very good all week and even doubled up on my treadmill time (and still not lost a pound yet)…I am meeting friends for a glass of wine tonight. Ahh.
I just really hope that stupid groundhog tells me that this too shall pass … SOON.