Recommended wine for today’s entry: At first I was going to recommend a Chianti to go with the yummy baked ziti that I’m actually going to cook tonight … but it is soooooo hot that I decided to look for a refreshing white instead. And I’ve found it! It is the Cline Marsanne Roussanne. I really like everything I’ve tried from the Cline vineyards and this one had recently been reviewed at cheapwineratings.com, who said: “The nose on this wine presents an earthy fusion of mineral, herbal and floral aromas. The palate is vibrant and tangy, with lemon, lime and melon flavors. It finishes with lingering melon, peach and mineral flavors. This is a fun wine, but be warned that it’s quite different from other Californian white wines that you may be used to, like chardonnay or sauvignon blanc. This wine is less about the fruit and more about mineral and crisp acidity.” It’s even under $20! You can read more at http://cheapwineratings.com/2011/07/07/cline-marsanne-roussanne/ Oh, and if you want my ziti recipe, let me know!
This is a sad story about a 50-year-old and her group of 50-ish friends who tried to party like rock stars but found themselves dragging around like bridge club members without Geritol the next day.
Oh, and I looked up mojo (just to make sure it wasn’t like a sick-o sex term) and one meaning is “power, charisma” … just to clarify, that is the mojo that I seem to have lost. I never had any drugs, thus I have not lost them.
My friends Beth and Tippi and I took a quick weekend jaunt to Nashville to listen to some of the up-and-coming country music talent. We met up with an old college friend of mine, Katie, who lives in Nashville now, and it was great fun to get caught up and chit chat and oops, before we knew it, we’d already had two glasses of wine before we even left the hotel room.
Eventually we sallied forth and fortunately got some food or things could have been much uglier than they were. We eventually found ourselves sitting at the bar at Rippy’s, listening to some good music, sipping longneck beers and … deluding ourselves that we still had it.
OK, well, not like the 20-year-old crowd in their cute sundresses and boots. And maybe not like the 30-year-olds with the cute jeans and cowboy hats. But we CERTAINLY didn’t look like the pathetically trashy chicks in tube tops across the bar from us. I mean, these were scary old women, way older than us, with long stringy hair that reminded Tippi of Michael Caine in Dressed to Kill. Also, they had back fat that flapped when they threw their icky old arms over their head and danced with their empty barstools.
Anyway, it was loud in there but I’d been sitting next to a nice, clean-cut guy who was about 25 and was obviously with a group of guys that looked to be enjoying, and I mean really enjoying, a few beverages at someone’s bachelor party. After awhile he asked me if I was from Nashville. This is how the rest of the conversation went:
Me: No, I’m from a couple hours up the road. You?
Him: Ohio. Here for the weekend.
Me: Oh, good. Y’all sure seem to be having fun. (I knew he was having fun because you could actually see his pupils dilating and retracting as he struggled to focus on my face, which was, I don’t know, maybe 18 inches away.)
Him: Yeah. Do you know where Ohio is? (Well, there goes my assumption that I appeared to be a learned and interesting conversationalist.)
Me: Well, I think I do. I have two daughters who go to college up there.
At this, he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, folded his arms on the bar and then … he just thunked his head down — loudly and with enough force to bounce it a bit — onto the wood, narrowly missing impaling himself of the neck of his Bud Light.
Now I have totally bored people out of their minds at many a bar. I have never, though, had a conversation that led someone to try to knock himself out.
As they say in Nashville, God is great, beer is good … and people are crazy.
Mind you, I had absolutely no intention of trying to woo this young man; rather, I was merely being a polite and gracious barfly. So I have to think his rude reaction was a result of the 12 pack he had apparently consumed.
Or I’ve lost my mojo.
You’ll be relieved to know that Ohio boy did eventually pull his head off the table, but I was already engrossed in a conversation with my girlfriends, which, I later found out, was completely pointless, because the next day they told me that they had heard absolutely ZERO of what I said at the bar the night before. And that is a bloody shame, because I often have astounding epiphanies that solve many if not most of the world’s problems after a couple Miller Lites.
Anyway, I finally turned back to the band and … you probably know where this is going. Yep. Ohio boy was dancing with Michael Caine. Blond wig and back fat flapping to the beat. They were either dancing pretty closely or they were holding each other up.
Y. I. K. E. S.
The next day, we slept until like 11, ate some greasy food, shopped a bit and took a nap. Well, except for Tippi, who awakened at 7, jogged about five miles, read a classic, ate some greasy food, shopped a bit and read more of her classic. (She is a freakshow.) Anyway, we finally felt up to doing it all again on Saturday night.
We were a little more — uh, reserved — with our beverage intake on Saturday, because unless I’m getting a new liver for Christmas, I’m gonna have to keep using this one for a number of years. Also, after college graduation, that kind of fun takes its toll, leaving a residual feeling of malaise and taste of stale beer. Oh, and my friend Beth was going to ride the mechanical bull because that was on her bucket list.
I have a bucket list but I put the list aside and filled the bucket with beer for the weekend.
Anyway, Beth was smart and only had one beer before bullriding. This was not necessarily the case with the guy who rode right before she did. There could be no way he was sober when he elected to don rolled-up shorts, a fringed Daniel Boone jacket and like go-go boots.
Beth was pretty impressive. She stayed on for 38 seconds and I snapped pictures of her like a proud mother at the Easter pageant.
We were less social on Saturday too. We only spoke to strangers to ask them to take a picture of us. And that was only after we decided to just try a little bitty splash of Jack Daniels Honey bourbon. I have to say, it tasted really, really good. But it didn’t do much for my photography. I really wish I knew what I was thinking as I looked through the viewfinder or whatever that’s called on these newfangled camera-type thingies.
Anyway, we actually had a great couple days and didn’t do anything too humiliating. Unless you count getting trumped by a decrepit redneck in a tube top as humiliating.
Aw, who cares? I wasn’t really using my mojo all that much anyway.