A Tale of Two Wines

TTHFCIF

At last month's book club, when I was still estranged from wine, Tani served this†:




Unfortunately, I have no idea how good it was, but the bottle is certainly worth the price of admission.‡

[SUMMARY: Proving one can take enjoyment without partaking of the wine.§]

A couple of weeks ago, I was heading to the pay station of the parking lot I frequent downtown and I saw two guys on the sidewalk. All over the sidewalk, actually. They were gesticulating broadly and cursing at the top of their lungs and taking up the *whole* sidewalk.

I secretly hoped they'd be gone by the time I got there.

One was carrying a briefcase. Surely they had to go to work.¶

[SUMMARY: Silly rabbit.]

The Businessman awkwardly opened his briefcase just wide enough to extract a bottle of wine. He and his compatriot proceeded to drink straight from the bottle.

Just as I passed them, Compatriot sucked down the last of the wine, theatrically wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "Chardonnay!" in a gleeful voice.

At the time, I wished I had the guts to take a picture, because I was definitely blogging it in my head.

Lucky for me, people who carry wine in briefcases are not as environmentally conscious as you might want, and the next day when I struck out from the pay station, I saw the bottle sitting there on the sidewalk.




I got my picture. And there is a frog on it. So good things come to those who wait.#

[SUMMARY: Little life lessons here at the Rickety Blog.]

Also worth the price of admission.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And her homemade Tiramisu. From which I was also estranged. It was all very strange, being estranged as I was.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Hint: Admission was free, but don't let that distract from the whole Bitch experience.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): The grapes are *still* sour.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): No, and don't call me Shirley.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): ...and are willing to be pushed into the gutter by sweeping arm gestures.

Damning the Saint

Brother called Friday morning to say he and The Gov and Fuzzy G and maybe Magnet† were meeting for happy hour at the Coral Room.

I thought, "Why not?"‡

I debated over whether I would have a drink or try to stay true to my own idea of Lent.

Guess how long that debate lasted.§

I believe Ben was two tables away when I shouted, "Tempranillo! Please!"

[SUMMARY: Sainthood hasn't changed me a bit.]

Actually, I had given myself an out for emergency situations: if I'd hurt someone's feelings by not having a bite of birthday cake, if someone got engaged and anything but a champagne toast would be inappropriate, if someone got pregnant and a jug of Wild Turkey seemed wholly appropriate...

For someone who gave herself that many loopholes, I think I did remarkably well.

[SUMMARY: Auto-aspiratic horn blowing.]

Anyway, wine.

Wine.

Wine.

After the old Corral, grabbed a bite at Chipotle,¶ peed twice# and headed for the Hai Bar.

Shot.

Vodka.

Vodka.

Talk turned to getting brother a little action, seeing as he's wounded and divorced and needs to get back on some horse, maybe any horse. We were right in the middle of extolling the virtues of rebound sex when what to our wondering eyes should appear but a young woman who, in the dim light of the bar, could best be described as the love child of Robert Smith and Amy Winehouse.

Black chaos of hair, eyeliner as wide as a Wyoming sky. Lanky. Gawky.

So Bruce grabbed her and said, "Have you met my friend Bill?"

She told us her name was Erica†† and she was going to see Z-Trip and we should come. This excited the young folk to no end.

The old folk sucked her vodka ice cubes and tried not to feel her grey hairs glowing in the dark.

Brother and Bruce thought Z-Trip at Beta sounded like a *fantastic* idea.‡‡ Greg was interested in going home early, but allowed as how maybe he could be talked into it. And your dear ol' AntiM shrugged and said, "Sure. I can hang."

[SUMMARY: Enthusiasm is my middle name. Some of you may think it's Elizabeth, but that E is actually for Enthusiasm.]

So we cabbed to LoDo§§ and stood in line at the club.

Once inside, Crown and ginger ensued.¶¶

I tipped the bathroom attendent $20 because it was all the cash I had and nobody is going to work my soap pump for me and not be rewarded for it.##

We ran into Erica and she and I did a brief, happy girl dance together.†††

Later that evening, a very young, very drunk young man chose me for his own. I danced with him for a moment, then tried to get him to go on his way.

"You were really mean to him," said Brother later.

"I wasn't mean. I danced with him for a minute."

"Then you said, 'Make him go away.'"

"I believe what I said was, 'Step on him.'"

"Dude, you got hit on by a 22-year-old. You should be happy."

"Yeah, that was pretty cool."

[SUMMARY: That really was pretty cool.‡‡‡]

Z-Trip was interesting. He uses songs I know§§§ much of the time, which is an important component for my DJ well-being.

Y'know, the whole DJ-as-concert thing is a little weird. I can see a good DJ at a dance club being worth a following, but *watching* someone put other people's music together is like paying a premium price for a signed, numbered photograph of Starry Night.

Weird.

[SUMMARY: Old and feeble and you kids get off my lawn!]

Ish.

*************

Incense Rosé - Tauer Perfumes

Marin says: I totally fell in love with this. I think it is the hallmark of my undistinguished scent palate that I love big, spicy things.¶¶¶

With the spices, this is a tangy rose -- like a Tropicana -- rather than the prickly velvet of an American Beauty. The woods give it a darkish depth that makes me think of an opium den. There's something camphorous in the mid-hours of the perfume that speaks patchouli, but not too high and medicinal -- tempered by woods, for sure.

The incense isn't too churchy. In fact, I'm really impressed by the way the incense, wood and rose balance each other out. Nothing every shrieks or submits, they just fit together like a snake eating its own tail.###

The scent lasts for a long time and stays true to the core of itself through most of the journey. Oh, there are moments of higher camphor and moments of deeper woods and when it all boils off, it's more resiny that it was through the rest of the trip, but that tangy, spicy rose stays the course.

Andy Tauer says: Incense rosé is a mysterious fragrance built around smoking frankincense,$ with rose$ and citrus notes, and dark balsamic resins.

First, you might find a few rose petals, from a dark and spicy rose. The natural bergamot and Clementine essential oil, together with just a hint of cardamom play there with the natural rose absolute from Bulgaria.

The fragrance is lifted by orris notes, rendering it vibrant and clear. At the same time it is dark and rich, with castor and woody notes playing on the skin.

It is the Texan cedar wood, vetiver and the balsamic, dark and mysterious notes of myrrh and patchouli$ that are all dancing with the incense. This natural frankincense, CO2 extracted Boswellia serrata, is softened by balsamic labdanum and ambrein.

Brother says@: Woody.

[It's "Incense Rosé."]

Yes, it is.


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): People actually call them by these names, though their parents probably still call them Adrian, Greg and Bruce.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): If the heathens are going to party in my house of worship, shall I not join them?

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Just about as long as it takes to say "Maundy Thursday."

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Except me. One side effect of drinking is it kills my appetite. Then I'm starving the next morning -- that's my version of a hangover.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Maybe that was just me.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Erica was actually lovely, just sporting unfortunate choices in hair and makeup.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Brother and Bruce may have had more to drink than I had by that point.

§§FOOTNOTE (just turn around and go home): LoDo on a Friday night is almost always a bad idea.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (that's me, sticking my tongue out): Not a fan, it turns out. Thought you should know.

##FOOTNOTE (pound that soap!): Heheheheheh...

†††FOOTNOTE (my cross to bear): You know.... squeal, air-kiss, boobboobboobboob and away.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (what are those things anyway?): Even if he was really drunk.

§§§FOOTNOTE (earworms): I haven't been able to get "Take On Me" out of my head since.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (that's me, bob-bob-bobbing my head): Heheheheheh...

###FOOTNOTE (tic tac toe in 3D): I've wanted to use that image for weeks. Thanks for giving me this opportunity.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): This was Friday night. I thought it an appropriate review for the occasion. The occasion being, of course, Friday night.

$FOOTNOTE (on the money!): I would never have gotten Boswellia serrata, but by golly, I managed incense and rose.

Lent: Day 4#^@*5

Christian theory with the Savage Chickens.

Lent: Day 42

Father has cancelled our weekly dinner so we can watch basketball tonight. I have thoughts on this:

1. We have dinner at 5:00. We're done by 6:30 at the latest. Tip-off is at 7:20. Why couldn't we have dinner and watch the game afterward, separately or together?
2. Dad Dinners represent the one day a week I get to ignore my Lenten embargo on dessert. I feel betrayed and hopeless and the gelato level in my blood is getting low.
3. I will not find out if the chicken-footed garden implement resides in the Trowels, etc. drawer. I will also not find the answer to my auxiliary question as to which kind of trowels are in that drawer: masonry trowels or gardening trowels? Or both? And if it's masonry trowels, would their be a chicken-footed gardening implement anyway? And we won't find the answer to brother's question about whether Dad has a name for the chicken-footed garden implement.
4. I didn't realise until just now that Lent goes for 40+ days because the bloody Catholics don't count Sundays.

I have covered Lent, trowels and communism today. I have no further thoughts and don't anticipate any throughout the afternoon. Consternation and ennui abide.

White House, Black Bunny

There we were, Dad and I, sitting in his office† chatting.

The conversation got to, "Peach‡ asked me what I do when I'm in here by myself."

A thousand dirty quips bubbled up in my filthy little mind. I finally settled on, "Tell her you pick your nose, surf for porn, trim your ear hair..."

He chuckled, then said, "Do you know she actually asked me that?"

"The nose-picking thing?"§

"No. She asked if I searched for porn on the Internet. I told her, 'of course not,' and she said, 'Really? I thought all men did that,' but I said, 'I don't.'"¶

I chuckled, then said, "Sometimes you get porn even when you're not searching for it. I went to white house dot com once. Porn site."

Horrified look. "Really!?"

"Yep. The actual White House is white house dot gov, as it's a governmental site. White house dot com is porn. Also?"

"Yeah?"

"Black bunny dot com is a porn site. I am a consumer of Black Bunny Fibres and I typed in black bunny dot com one day and it's a porn site. I was at work. I had to clean out my history so they wouldn't think I was surfing for porn at lunch."#

Then he told me how boring porn is, I agreed and added strip clubs to that list.

He told me about going to a topless Mexican restaurant in Oklahoma City for a business lunch when he first started in the oil business.

I told him about the time I accidentally tipped a stripper a twenty instead of a one.

We both stared at the ceiling a moment.

"Strange topic of conversation," Dad said.

I said,†† "'What'd you do last night, Marin?' 'Oh, I had soup and salad with Dad, then we went for ice cream and talked about porn.'"

Just a little window on my life.‡‡

*************

Seraphim - Ormonde Jayne (parfum? extrait?)

Marin says: The bit from Perfume Shrine (below) went on to make it about the luxury industry -- among other things -- and didn't touch so much on the fragrance itself. Which actually makes sense. I don't know if there's a better one-word description for Seraphim than "elusive."

The bergamot is a bright, lemony thing, but not overpowering and, unlike many citrus notes, doesn't flash and disappear. The rose adds a sort of aldehyde to the mix, but a restrained aldehyde that dances with the whole rather than clobbering it into sharp, powdery submission.

And the ylang ylang.

I always thought I hated ylang ylang because I've purchased a couple of bath products with ylang ylang% and it has an oily, dirty smell -- it reminds me of the Rabbit Path§§ we used to walk to school in the late summer when some sort of grass was drying and acrid. This I recognise for it's sort of petroleum tang, but that's barely there. As in any good fragrance composition, the notes support each other and sing together like a symphony. The ylang ylang complements the bergamot and makes the rose behave.

Then a dry-sweet woody thing creeps in... then musk -- not soapy and overwhelming -- and vanilla, very light, a touch of round and warm... and slightly dusty sweet coumarin... but I make it seem too linear. It is the most incredible tangle and flow of notes, all sweet and warm and bright like the perfume's namesake.

There are moments it's lemony kerosene¶¶ and others where it's rosey hay. Still others bring sweet, sun-warmed wood. As long as this review is already, I've barely begun to capture the ins and outs of Seraphim. Some perfumes I love for their education and for the fact that they unfold. Some I love just because they smell good to me. This I love for both.

Unfortunately, this was an extremely limited collectible edition## created for 20ltd by Linda Pilkington, the general genius behind Ormonde Jayne.

Fortunately, I have friends in high places, one high enough to have gained a bottle of this gorgeous stuff and bestow a wee vial on me.

Perfume Shrine says: ...surely such an elusive fragrance should have something important to say instead of putting question-marks all over the place.†††

Head notes‡‡‡: (Fresh flowery notes) Bergamot, Rosewood, Ylang Ylang
Heart notes:(Powdery) Rose, Violets, Iris
Soul notes: (Sensual) Musk, Amber, Madagascan Vanilla, Coumarin

Hans says: It smells a lot like something I've already smelled. But I'm having a bad nose day.@ Lemon. I get lemon scent. Lemon tone. A lemon finish. And that thing that's in a lot of perfumes... formaldehyde?§§§ Oh, yeah... aldehyde. Lemon finish. I get lemon lime vodka slurpee.¶¶¶

†FOOTNOTE (crossed): His office is the only room used on the third floor of his fiancée's enormous house.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Said fiancée. Her actual name is Patricia, same as Mom's, so we don't call her that. You understand.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Because I think I'm funny.

¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): He really doesn't. Dad is genuinely puzzled by the whole fad.

#FOOTNOTE (pounded): We both agreed if such a thing ever happened, it would be easy to blame it on my boss because he's good friends with the Senior VP here at my client's office and said VP would completely believe me if I told him I was only clicking through a link my boss sent me.

††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I did different voices for me and Hypothetical Co-Worker.

‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): You're welcome.

%FOOTNOTE (percented): Because they're always labeled as "sensual" or "passionate" or some other version of "you're going to get laid tonight." I may be gullible, but even in the tub I'm doing my part in bringing sexy back.

§§FOOTNOTE (the waft): Doesn't that sound all Little House on the Prairie? The path is still there, but the field is mostly office buildings now.

¶¶FOOTNOTE (the notes): Not that I'm suggesting angels smell like kerosene. Any good saint-in-training knows angels smell like chocolate chip cookies.

##FOOTNOTE (the pounding of my heart): This is my way of saying, "You can't have none. Nyah-nyah-nyah."

†††FOOTNOTE (oh, hey -- that's Lent appropriate): Rabbit hole! I got it! It's like the olfactory equivalent of Alice following the rabbit down the hole! I almost didn't catch that elusive allusion.

‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (and that's train tracks): I was looking right at the notes as I wrote this, so I can't take credit for knowing what I'm talking about.

@FOOTNOTE (atted): Hans has a cold. Also, the most remarkable hat hair I've ever seen.

§§§FOOTNOTE (this is Hans's brain on NyQuil): I'm giving him credit for getting that close.

¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (march of the Seraphim): He's kind of joking. I was telling him about my one drinking adventure in high school. Not that I only drank once in high school, but this was actually IN high school. In the building. A friend got me a lime Slurpee with a slug of vodka which I drank during lunch. I didn't finish it -- it was a big Slurpee -- so I took it to Latin with me. I was incredibly fluent in Latin that day.

Lent: Day 13

I'm getting better at remembering that a shake is not an acceptable substitute for soda when one is off both sweets and sodas. However, I keep melding last year's Lent with this year's Lent and am determined that I should forego red meat on top of alcohol, soda and sweets.

An ongoing inner debate rages as to the categorisation of food bars that have chocolate in them or are labeled as "oatmeal raisin cookie" flavoured. Until I have worked that out, I'm staying away from those too.

I already decided Pop-Tarts are verboten.

Yes, I think about it that much.

I am that dork.

Lent: Day 1

Forewent† Diet Pepsi at lunch.

When nice little Japanese lady at Tokyo Express said, "So good see you 'gain. Have special treat for special customer,"‡ and handed me a ramekin of candied walnuts,§ I smiled, thanked her and schlepped it back to the office, where I handed it off to Hans. Hans made inordinately appreciative yummy noises.

Joanne pointed out that I had chicken and, as it was Ash Wednesday, I wasn't supposed to be eating meat. I pointed out I'm not actually Catholic.

[SUMMARY: In which I publish my dorkitude.]

Passed up wine at Annie's.

Passed up amaretto/almond cheesecake at Annie's -- the kind that Hector says she didn't make for him until after they were married, but if she had made it while they were dating, he would have proposed to her on the spot. All book club attendees made inordinately appreciative yummy noises.

[SUMMARY: Sainthood is no primrose path.]


†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I started every sentence with "I had to..." then thought the better of it. But "...had to forego" is an easier construct than trying to figure out the past of "forego." It's residual, small-scale martyrdom.

‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): For the record, the three people in line who ordered while I was waiting for my lunch did NOT get candied walnuts. I really am special.

§FOOTNOTE (swerved): When Tallest, Hairiest Nephew was pretty young and just starting to parrot what we said, I made him a treat from my childhood: pie crust cookies. I used a tiny duck cookie cutter to cut tiny duck shapes out of extra pie crust, then sprinkled them with cinnamon and sugar and baked them. When they were done (and tiny ducks hardly take any time at all to bake), I put them in a ramekin and presented it to him as a ramekin full of ducks. We taught him to say, "ramekin full of ducks." That was one of the best days ever. And it beats all hell out of having to give up a ramekin full of candied walnuts.