catheroominations

Whoa. We just got home from wine tasting. It started at 5 pm. It is now 10:30 pm. Granted, we had dinner afterwards, but we tasted and tasted and tasted some more for around three hours. I highly recommend tasting events at wine bars. They are quite lovely, especially when the Italian guy from Jersey who’s pouring goes on break and you can go back to the tasting table to tell his relief person “oh, I haven’t tried that one yet!” Even though you have. Twice. And then a third person comes to cover the second person, and well, I mean. The wine was GOOD and I wanted more, so I tasted the same wine four times. Is that so wrong?

And as a person who is classically trained in wine, I kept copious notes on my tasting sheet. I just looked at it now, and noticed that I wrote things like “YUM!” “OMG!” and “***” I’m serious about this stuff. For reals.

Afterwards the work winos, Matte and I went to eat some pasta (and possibly some semifreddo made with hazelnut cappuccino something or other) to absorb the alcohol while we blew into someone’s portable blood alcohol level checker thing from Kragen Auto Parts. According to the highly accurate scientific device, everyone was below the limit (except for that one time, instead of displaying a number, it just said HI, and was not meant to be a friendly greeting) so we took our stuffed happy selves and parted ways in the parking lot, hiccuping all the way.

And now I must slumber. Damn, I love sleep so much. And what’s funny is when I’m doing it, I’m not sure I even know I’m enjoying it. I mean, I guess I am, but I’m asleep, so, who knows if I am aware that I am having a good time? But really. It’s like my most favorite thing to do these days. Probably because I don’t get to do it often enough. I love everything about it. My jammies, my Tempurpedic pillow that is old and needs to be replaced. I love my jersey sheets, and the comforter that I fling off of me when I start swimming in sweat. I love that my socks get all twisted up, or fall off at the foot of the bed, and I love when I wake up, look at the clock, and realize I get to sleep for like five more hours. Those hours go by way too quickly though. Every single time.

Enough talk. I’m off to catch some zzzz’s and to see visions of long finishes, notes of blackberry and tobacco, and $110 bottles of 2004 Cabernet Sauvingnon dancing through my head.

Or, maybe my head is just spinning.

Matte and I got a Nintendo Wii last week, and ever since, he is kicking my ass all over the living room playing tennis. I always considered myself a coordinated person until we got this little white box with the wireless controllers. I canNOT for the life of me beat these computerized people on the other side of the court. And if I decide to clone myself and play both players on my doubles team, I flail about and miss nearly every ball. Because, hello! I am ONE person. I can’t be two places at once. But Matte can, and now he has reached PRO status while I remain in the ranks of spastic, haphazard players who appear to be swatting at a swarm of bees.

Oh goodie! Another thing he is better than me at. (Wow. Check out that grammar!)

I am better at refraining from the Wii playing than Matte is. Which might also be to blame for my poor performance. Or is it the other way around? Do I not partake of the Wii as often as Matte does because of the extreme suckage I display? Or mayhaps it is my tennis elbow keeping me away? I think I should at least win “Most likely to look like a person really playing tennis” or something because I hit that ball SO hard (although it lobs every time). And I use my backhand when necessary, which I guess is not really necessary with the smart remote, but makes me feel so much cooler when I do it. Especially when I use two hands. Sometimes an involuntary Monica Seles-esque grunt will emit from my throat. And I even yell at the judge’s calls like John McEnroe used to. Matte just nonchalantly flicks his wrist this way and that and wins match after match, as I lay on the couch, post-match, huffing and puffing, wiping my brow with a towel and drinking Gatorade.

Oh, and my Mii (the animated character I created as me in Wii land) is so much cuter than Matte’s. She has freckles and braids, and a vacant look in her eyes like she doesn’t know what her name is. But his has devil horns. They’re actually eyebrows that he nudged up his forehead until they reached the top of his head. And he has a goatee. He looks like a satanic Backstreet Boy.

But if Nintendo comes out with a game where you clean the house? I could obliterate Matte at that one. Not that he doesn’t clean. He does. But he’s the first to admit that I clean better, faster, and more thoroughly than he does. (I have been known to dust the swords belonging to the action figures.) I just hope he never opens that one closet where I’ve hidden everything.

10. I am lazy. Much too lazy to get out of bed at 2 am to feed someone.
9. I am selfish. Much too selfish to allow my sleep to be interrupted at 2 am to feed someone.
8. I believe eating a bowl of cereal for dinner is perfectly fine. Every night. Especially if the box has a toucan, rabbit, naval captain, or tiger on the box.
7. I think TV is awesome. And necessary. And there’s no such thing as too much of it. And my child would learn that.
6. Any child I brought into the world would not be pushed to participate in sports, and would therefore be chubby, ridiculed, and eventually fat and lazy when they grew up. And they would cry a lot about that. Even when they’re in their 30s.
5. That tantrum, screaming, and talking back stuff? Not for me.
4. Daphne would hate a baby. Also, she might try to eat it.
3. A product of my and Matte’s love would be much too stunning to look at and would make the other children feel inferior and ordinary.
2. We want to be the cool aunt and uncle who spoil the nephews because we have piles of cash and no one to spend it on.
1. Global warming.

Now, I need to put this on a t-shirt, because some people think that JUST BECAUSE YOU GOT MARRIED you want to have babies. And some of those people are annoyed when you sheepishly say “Oh, I don’t think we’ll have any,” as if it is written down somewhere that we were put on this earth to procreate or something! (Oh, it does say that somewhere? Ooops.)

When people say “just wait until you have kids,” it makes me want to say “OK!”, stop whatever it is I’m doing at the time, and stand perfectly still like a statue. Waiting forever. Because that is how long I would be waiting until I have kids. Sure, most of my friends who are married do have children and I am happy for them. Because that is what they want and my friends have adorable kids, of course, because <sarcasm> I am not friends with ugly people</sarcasm>. It’s about freedom and choice and what is best for the individual. People who want to have kids, do. People who don’t? Don’t. But sometimes they do, and their hearts melt once they see that sweet little face for the first time. I know this. I know I am missing out on the parenthood experience, but I don’t know what I am missing (because it is missing, see?). And I am OK with that.

*Double income, no kids.

Last weekend, Matte and I celebrated a milestone of sorts. Sunday marked one year since we got engaged in front of Cinderella’s castle at Disney World. We are sort of “anniversary geeks.” On every 11th, we recall our first date (August 11, 2005), and on the 25th of every month, we celebrate our wedding anniversary. And Matte is the only person I know, other than my friend Jenni, who celebrates a half-birthday.

So, last weekend, in honor of our engage-a-versary, we took a road trip up the coast to Mendocino. Matte found a quaint little Bed & Breakfast that had a cancellation for Friday and Saturday night. On our way to our destination, we drove past a few wineries, and took some time to stop and taste some champagne before we headed to the B&B.

Alegria was such a sweet, inviting place and had a cookie jar filled with oatmeal chocolate chip cranberry apricot cookies that we were encouraged to visit often. Our room had a private entrance, a view of the beach, and a fireplace. The innkeepers had a bottle of wine waiting for us in the room, and a bouquet of flowers — mostly irises my favorite — adorned the table, courtesy of my adorable husband.

We spent most of the weekend watching the flames in the fireplace, and listening to the wood crackle while we played cribbage. Each morning we went downstairs to breakfast, which began with the cutest bowl ever, filled with fresh organic fruit and adorned with an edible flower. Saturday morning’s breakfast was pumpkin ginger pancakes and chicken apple sausage. YUM. Sunday morning was a broccoli and sun-dried tomato fritatta and homemade blackberry and chocolate chip scones. I took an extra scone “for the road.”

The food was awesome, the place was quaint, but we wanted to venture out. On Saturday, after lunch at the Moosse Cafe and some more lazing around the room, we drove to Fort Bragg to do some shopping. Most of the stores were closed, but we had fun strolling up and down the streets. We weren’t really ready for dinner yet, so we headed back to Mendocino. But we kept going south, through Mendocino, to see what we could find on the other side.

We drove down Highway 1 for a bit, admiring the scenery. At some point Matte noticed his cellphone had no service. Around the same time, I noticed the gas light on my dash was flickering. Neither Matte nor I were too concerned about it, since we’d driven through civilization periodically and figured the next small town was just around the next turn. I had gone almost 400 miles on the tank, which is outstanding for my car, but at the same time, freaky because holy hell, we couldn’t have had much gas left.

The next small town of Elk, California was smaller than we’d expected. We spotted a B&B, but I didn’t want to stop and turn off the engine because I was afraid of wasting the gas required to start it again. Matte wanted to stop for help, so we did.

We knocked at the door of the B&B and a woman answered. She was holding a glass of red wine and was apparently entertaining a roomful of people. Before asking for her help, Matte apologized for interrupting “the séance or whatever.” She laughed, telling us they were friendly spirits. But, neither she, nor the friendly spirits were terribly helpful. We told her we were almost out of gas and could we mayhaps siphon some from someone? Just a little bit? We’ll give you five dollars! She told us she didn’t have a hose, but didn’t seem too willing to see if any of the other psychics had one. She did say that there was no gas station in Elk, but hey! there’s one in Mendocino, if we wanted to turn around. Oh, but it closed at 6 o’clock.

Great. Thanks.

We went to the B&B next door to hers, where someone at the front desk was helping a guest. We waited until she was finished, but then she left. She didn’t come back. For 20 minutes she didn’t come back. I figured the front desk was closed and her shift was over and that no one could help us there. By this point I was 1) afraid we’d get stuck in Nowheresville, with no gas 2) afraid that if we tried to drive back on the 2-lane road, we’d have to push my Accord up and down hills while maneuvering through hairpin turns 3) mad that I hadn’t thought to fill up before we left Mendocino and 4) on the verge of tears because what were we going to do? I suggested to Matte that we try to get back to Mendocino. It was plenty hilly and some of those hills went down, right? We could coast! He suggested we keep trying to find someone who would let us suck some gas from their tank.

But I wanted to try and go back.

I really wanted to try and go back to Mendocino.

We got in the car and I started it — gently. I decided I should continue driving since “I know my car.” We turned off any sort of air heating or cooling system, and even the radio. The windows and sunroof were closed to ensure optimal aerodynamics. Matte played co-pilot telling me when to take my foot off the gas, putting the car in neutral and recommending when to break and when to take the turns a little faster to gain some momentum.

I was very anxious. This weekend getaway and escape from stress was going to give me a coronary. The gas gauge dipped past the E and I pleaded with my car to “just keep going, we’ll get you a drink soon.”

We drove for miles on the winding road, not passing any gas stations. I must note that even where there are gas stations in that area, you don’t see the red and blue Chevron logo or a big red and yellow Shell or red 76 ball. The stations usually consist of a little shack with a single gas pump that has the black and white numbers that flip over, like an old digital clock. So, each time we approached a small house-looking place, or an inn, we’d madly scan the area for a gas pump.

Nuthin’.

We arrived in Albion and Matte spotted a sign for a deli and market that also sold…GAS! But by the time we realized they had gasoline and were still open (just barely!), I’d driven passed it. I made a U-turn on the highway and braced myself to run out of gas on the incline to the deli/market/nirvana.

We made it to the pump and a Dude came out to find out how much gas we wanted to buy. We were so excited to make it to a gas station, I wanted Matte to go into the Dude’s market and buy everything in there. I wanted to give him all of our money. And Matte, being the polite Midwestern boy that he is, apologized to the Dude for showing up so near closing time. The Dude said that even regular patrons of his establishment “@#$%in’ show up just before we close, all the time. No worries, dude.” I loved that he dropped an f-bomb. He may not have had all his teeth and might have been high at the time, but at that moment, he was my new best friend. We gave my new best friend fifty dollars for the fill-up, but I would have given him 100.

I rubbed the dashboard as we drove off, professing my love to my Honda Accord.

We were so elated to not have gotten stranded on a narrow bridge, all we wanted to do was drink. So we took our full tank of gas and drove north to Fort Bragg for pizza. We ordered the pizza to go and enjoyed a local brew while we waited. Back in the room, we built a fire, ate our pepperoni, mushroom and sun-dried tomato ‘za, and drank some Mendocino wine — relaxed once again.

I might have had too much wine at dinner. I might have had more wine than dinner. But I can still type, and spell words correctly. I think.

This may not have been the best idea, the drinking, because tomorrow Matte and I are going to Vintage Santa Clara. We have tickets that entitle us to drink more wine. And eat much food from local restaurants. This will all happen in the middle of the day, on a Sunday. In the heat.

I will be in excellent shape for work on Monday. Working from home might be a good idea. And I use the term working lightly.

First, to celebrate our first date two years ago today, Matte and I are going to see this:

Then, as a thank you from Shawn and Rachel for watching their house/dog/cats last weekend, they’re treating us to this:

How about you? What are you doing today?”

Last weekend Matte and I got out our set of 120 dominoes we got from his nephews as a wedding gift (the only item we registered for at Target).

I’m pretty new to the dominoes thing, although I did play it with Matte and his parents last Christmas (and lost miserably). When Matte and I started playing last Saturday, I won like five hands (do they call dominoes games “hands?” I dunno.) in a row. I was quite pleased with myself. When we started the next game, Matte put down his doubles tile and I looked in my tiles to find something to play on it. I had nothing, so I had to draw a tile. And another. And another. And still another. And one more. And then again. And again. and again. Until the thirty-second tile I drew was playable. I drew thirty-two tiles on one play, giving myself a total of 39 tiles in my hand before I had a play. Now, I’m not sure we’re playing right, because I think there should be a limit to the number of dominoes one can draw before the other opponent lets them cheat or something. But I eventually drew something useful, and having more than quintupled the number of tiles in my hand, I had plenty of dots to choose from throughout the game.

So, guess who won this hand?

No, not me.

Matte won. But he cleared his last tile, and only got 19 points from my hand. Nineteen measly points. That, my friends, is what they call strategy.