Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Grocery Shop

It’s a blustery Sunday morning and I just got back from walking two miles to the grocery store. I love walking because I get to calm my brain without the pressure of parking or hitting people on bikes. I meander the aisles in the grocery store slowly and then I call my hubby and he comes and picks me up. After this morning, though, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t be allowed to shop. Or if I do, maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.

First, I looked at Benadryl. I wanted kids’ size, and in a pill form. I read that if you go on a flight and give your kids Benadryl they’ll sleep the whole way. Then after I couldn’t find it, I rationalized that drugging the kids to get them to sleep on the flight may not be the best parenting. A BETTER parenting strategy is for me to call my doctor, get a prescription for a couple of Valium, and then Mommy can be relaxed and gentle and well-adjusted all the way to Disney.

I found an end-cap display of single serving bottles of wine. I got twelve. I rationalized this because they’re great for cooking and then I can use the crap wine in the food instead of my good wine. Plus, when I open my GOOD wine, I end up drinking it all. Not all at once, I’m not like guzzling it. I drink one glass a day. If it were the fifties, I’d have two martinis, a Valium, a glass of sherry, a pack of smokes, and then one glass of wine. This is progress then.

Since I got all the wine, I texted hubby to come inside and get me. I forgot my license and while I wasn’t wearing makeup and probably looked like I was pushing menopause, I didn’t want to get carded and then have to go “Come on. Really? Do you see how far my boobs hang? These are not twenty-year-old boobs” to the cashier. I didn’t want to put either one of us through that.

Kealoha (hubby) came to get me. I handed him his mocha and sipped on my cappuccino from Starbucks, which I paid for with my credit card but then couldn’t leave a tip because I’d forgotten my wallet along with my license.

In the checkout lane, a giant helium dinosaur ass bobbed in my face. “What the…?” I exclaimed. And then I saw a stack of round papers that were for sale for $1. They were signs to Save Our Herpes. “What? They’ve got a ribbon for everything! Who wants to save herpes?” I cried. I couldn’t believe it.

Kealoha looked at the sign I was pointing at. “Heroes. It says Save Our Heroes.”

Oh. Guess I should’ve worn my glasses.

Then the cashier asked if we were doing anything else exciting for the weekend. “This is it,” I said, nodding to the cupcake mix and twelve mini bottles of wine.

“No football games or anything?”

“God, no. We don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

The cashier’s face flushed red, either because of the herpes or my being a football-atheist.

Kealoha grabbed the bags and while he put them in the back of the car, I crawled into the passenger seat and smiled, content with the world. Still, I probably shouldn’t be allowed to shop unsupervised.

Review: Bar Divani and the Elk Cove Wine Tasting Dinner

Last night Kealoha and I went to the Elk Cove Wine Tasting Dinner at Bar Divani. Bar Divani is a sophisticated (but not stuffy) restaurant nestled next to Hop Cat and a series of other bars. (This is in Grand Rapids, Michigan in case you're wondering.) Walking in, it feels sort of like you’re walking into a place that’s pro-corduroy. Some people hate corduroy. For me that’s a compliment. I mean, that when you walk in it’s all soft and moody and warm feeling, the way corduroy makes me feel without that vvvvvvp vvvvvvvvp sound when you walk.

We were seated in the front of the restaurant at a cozy little table and I breathed a sigh of relief. The last wine tasting I went to there was held in a big back room. Everyone sat at round tables. I was on a date at that time (an awkward first date) and with the added awkwardness of eating with strangers, it was an evening that gave me hives. No hives last night though. It was just me and Kealoha, so we could talk about whatever we wanted to without the pressure of sounding smart or sophisticated.

The first wine was the Pinot Noir Rosé, Willamette Valley, 2010. Generally, I’m not a fan of Rosés. It makes me feel like I’m only pretending to drink wine. Kealoha thought it was okay. I thought it was a good Mom Wine.

Of course, I’m a mom…but I mean…it’s a good wine for people who don’t usually drink wine and would like to give it the old college try. Although, that makes it sound like they’d put the wine in one of those beer hats and chug it. I guess you could. It’s crisp, and light and tastes a little bit of honey. I said that to Kealoha. He said, “It tastes like wine to me.” We’re both right. I mentioned it had good legs and he looked under the table for them. That’s when I stopped trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

1^ST COURSE

The 1^st course brought wine AND food. I was giggling happily. 1^st course was: swordfish ceviche with red onion, jalapeño, lime juice and cilantro served with Elk Cove’s Pinot Gris, Willamette Valley, 2009.

I was a little leery of the ceviche. Ceviche is basically raw ‘whatever you want’ served with some sort of acidity. That sounds technical. What I mean is a good cerviche has pieces that are small enough so that the vinegar or citrus actually cooks the seafood a little bit. I’ve had raw ceviche before…but this was lovely. Tiny, succulent pieces of swordfish mixed with diced red onions and lots of lime, served with tortilla chips. A great appetizer. Simple and seductive. If this ceviche was people (you wouldn’t eat it then of course), it would be that quiet person at the bar you don’t notice at first, and then, holy wah! When you put them in your mouth….

Oh. Wait. Sorry. I started writing a romance novel for a moment. Forgive me. Back to the review.

The wine was lovely. My favorite of the evening. What’s nice about a Pinot Gris is it’s similar to a chardonnay but they take out all the wonky attitude. I mean, there’s none of that oaky flavor that makes you feel like the wine was stored in some lady’s closet. MY MOM’S closet maybe. (You know what I’m referencing here.) This pinot gris was as it should be: citrusy, crisp, and oh so easy to drink. (I bought two bottles.)

2^ND COURSE

Then we were on to the second course. I was joking with Kealoha about how (again) he doesn’t annoy me. This is shocking to me. Why doesn’t he annoy me? I mean, I’m sure he will at some point, but we’re committed enough now that if he annoys me, I can tell him so and take some space. In the past, I’d get annoyed pretty easy with men. I just thought that’s the way it was. I thought men were just annoying. Now I see that was my inner gut saying “Dude. Tanya, this guy is not a good fit for you.” Kealoha is a good fit for me. He said that I don’t annoy him either, but then, he tried not to date people who annoyed him in the first place.

He said, “Remember in When Harry Met Sally that Harry wouldn’t date this one woman because she smelled like soup? You don’t smell like soup.”

“Sometimes I smell like soup,” I said.

“Yeah, but only when you cook soup.”

That’s true.

Anyway…2^nd course was a pork roulade with chevre and walnuts, roasted fingerlings, rapini and pomegranate jus. Wine was a Pinot Noir. This course was incredible. Great presentation. There was a hint of what I thought was red wine vinegar mixed with a sweet cherry smell. That was the pomegranate jus I guess. I could also smell the slightly caramelized potatoes with rosemary. The roulade was tender and a terrific combination of flavors: creamy, sweet, bitter, acidic, touch of salt. In other words, this dish achieved the umami flavor when everything is balanced. I wasn’t sure what the rapini was. Some sort of cross between spinach and broccoli. Anyway. I ate all of it. I would’ve licked the plate and thought about it, but decided not to. I didn’t want to get a stain on my shirt.

The pinot noir was good. This one had a little more attitude to it. It might have overpowered the roulade a little bit, but I think it’d be terrific with a burger fresh from the grill.

3^RD COURSE

At this point, I was a little bit buzzed. I admit it. I know this because my notes are a little blurry and misspelled. Third course was roasted veal chops with sweet potato gnocchi and a morel glaze, served with the Big Daddy wine of the evening, another Pinot Noir but from a different vintage…or grape harvest….or whatever. I don’t know this stuff.

This was good, but not the best. I would’ve thought it was a fatty pork chop if I didn’t know it was veal. I thought veal was supposed to be thin and very tender. That might just be my mis-education. The glaze was nice, but a little salty. I liked the gnocchi and the asparagus. But for me, this dish didn’t live up to the other two. I think if you’re a big meat eater aficionado, this one might’ve worked for you, but Kealoha and I we were a little underwhelmed.

FINALLY

To end the evening, they gave us a spoon with a dollop of goat cheese, a single blueberry and pistachio and drizzled with honey. I love the idea of a one-bite dessert. And this was good. Again, I think they were going for a blend of flavors and textures. I like the textures particularly: creamy, crunchy, burst of sweetness. Yum.

It was a great night. Would I recommend Elk Cove Vineyard? Absolutely. And it’s cool that they’re a family company and only have 9 different wines.

And Bar Divani? For sure. I’m not going to give it stars or wine glasses or whatever because I think a place is either good and worth re-visiting, or not. This one is worth re-visiting, and great to take friends or loved ones or even awkward first dates to. Even though the veal wasn’t my favorite, it was still way better than what most restaurants serve. The atmosphere is relaxed, we had a friendly server, good attention from the Wine Dude and the owner (but they weren’t overly obtrusive), and Kealoha and I could talk about smelling like soup and not worry if anyone was listening.

I’ll be looking for another tasting. They’re fun. And next time, I’m hoping to convince some friends to go along with us. (Hint hint. You know who you are.)

“Write for Yourself” is Bunk. We Write So Others Will Read.

I’m currently sitting outside on my deck and there’s a nice warm breeze. I’m drinking wine and listening to the birds, and it’s utterly peaceful. All it’s missing is me in a sundress and a man with his hand on my thigh slowly working his way up and under the fabric of my dress.

Uhhhhhhhh

This is supposed to be about writing. And it is. It’s also about relaxing and enjoying life. Which I’m doing.

Okay. So there’s something I want to address here. It’s the whole question of publishing. Now, when you’re trying to get published and it’s just not happening, you may encounter the loving person who says “Don’t worry about it. And anyway, you should just write for yourself.” I’ve heard this so many times, and while I know it comes from a place of love, what I want to say is “No. Actually. I don’t write for myself. I write because I have something to say and I want someone to read it.”

Something you’ve written and haven’t shared is a secret. And it’s a rare thing for a secret to be good. No. We write because something compels us to share our story. Something written without readers is like a song without music. It doesn’t work. We want our work read, and we want it read now, and we want people to be touched and to think we’re geniuses.

I don’t think that’s just me. Really.  I think that’s all writers.

Now comes the trouble. How do you get people to read it? You can try to get an agent and get it published. Many try this; many fail. A few make it. Bully for them. I can’t get an agent to look twice at me. Even when I run around in a bikini like I’m a girl on that old Benny Hill show. Blast. I can’t even get a phone number.

So then you submit directly to a publisher. Luckily, Champagne Books took me on. I like them so far. Hope they like me. And while it isn’t my fantasy world of being a Big Published Author, it is a Published Author, and I’ll find more readers through them than I could on my own.

I didn’t start with Champagne though. First, it was hard liquour. (Now that’s just plain silly.) No. What I mean to say is…first…I made my family read my stuff. Then my friends. Then I joined a writing group. Then a second writing group. Then I started reading my stuff out loud on the street corner (or at Dog Story Theater). Then I started a blog. Then I self-published “Easy Does It”. And then, and only then, did I get a gig with Champagne Books.

In my opinion, writing is about telling your story and then sharing that story, in any way you can. So what if you’re not making loads of money? you might. In time. Start small. Start by asking someone those terrifying questions. Even more terrifying than “Will you make out with me?” or “Do these jeans make me look fat?”

No.

You start with this: “I’ve written something. Could you read it and tell me what you think?”

Regardless of your reader or what they think, once your piece is read, it becomes real. You’ve told your story. Now tell another one. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere, somehow, an agent will listen and take you on. And if they don’t…well…fuck ‘em. Get your stuff out there another way. Any way possible. And keep doing it.

Here’s where I raise my wineglass to you and say “Cheers”.

Adventures with my Sister: Online Dating

I have to say I’m really glad it’s a new year. When you think about it, there are several opportunities for new starts throughout the year, which is good, because most of us need them.

One of my new starts is The Return to the World of Dating. (Please reread that sentence with a booming-announcer-scary voice.) I’ve dabbled here and there since splitting with my ex: the man I wanted to love who wanted to love someone else, the zen Beautiful Man (really) who broke a date because “I’m going on a week long cleansing with my guru, but I’ll let you know when I get back”.  Hmmm. Nice.

And now, well, now I’ve decided that I’m ready to date for real. No more practice. I’m ready to date. And am just waiting for my phone to ring.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Feckers.

No ringing. Looks like I’ll have to do this on my own.

Actually, (excuse tense changes here) my sister decided to help me out. “The next guy you meet needs my approval,” she said. I laughed. “No. Seriously. I want to meet him, and if he’s not attractive and smart and funny, he’s out of there. I’m kicking him to the curb for you.” She was serious. She could do it.

On Tuesday, she came over to help me out. “We’re going to go on those dating sites, I’ll look at the pictures and tell you who you should date.”

“Okay,” I said.

She came over bearing wine and sausage and cheese. (You’ve got to love a sister who brings sausage. There’s just something cool about that.) I booted up my computer, logged into the site and showed her the pictures of men I’ve been emailing. First one popped up, Heidi took one look at it and said, “Hehhhhhlllll nooooooo.”

“Why? He’s nice.”

“No.”

“He’s really smart.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because his eyes are so small he could use dental floss for a blindfold.”

I looked at the guy again. My sister was right. Now, how could I go on a date with a man who I would envision wrapping in dental floss?

“Okay,” I said. “Good call. What about this one?” I showed her a picture of an attractive guy and began to read his profile out loud.

Heidi stopped me. “Whoah! Whoah!! No. Would it hurt for him to smile or something? And look, he says he’s in nursing. You know what that means?”

“What?”

“It means he’s can dismember someone no problem. He’s been trained. Next!”

I didn’t mention to Heidi that she’s in nursing and she could dismember people. We clicked on the next one. And the next.

“Why don’t you just date a woman?” she asked.

“I would. I’m open to that actually, but I can’t seem to meet anyone.”

“There’s a chick right there!!” she pointed. Actually, there was. Did the woman mean to be listed with the men? Or was she transgendered? Hmmm. I clicked on the next one.

“Stop!! Stop!! I think I have an erection,” Heidi said.

We looked. Cute, nice smile, big blue eyes. Profile was spelled correctly. “I don’t understand,” I said. “He says he’s an engineer and he manages work sites. What does that mean?”

“Oh, honey, that means he’s blue collar mixed with white collar. Blue collar men, let me tell you, HOT. It doesn’t bother me at all that he’s 42 and lives with his parents.”

“No? It bothers me a little.”

“No. He’s saving for a house. Contact him.”

“He’s already contacted me.”

“Well, let’s read it!!”

That’s how the night went. Us, laughing, drinking, picking out men. It wasn’t like ordering a pizza as I think I said in “Easy Does It”. It was more like trying on jeans. Which one is a good fit? You’ve got to see a pair that looks cute enough to try on, but every pair fits differently, until you find the one that just hugs your ass like a….Hmmm. Better stop that extended metaphor. And stop thoughts like Ass Hugging. Thoughts like that could cause me to spontaneously combust.

If you have any advice for me, let me know. If my history with blundering is any indication on how dating is going to work for me…well…let’s just say this is going to be interesting.