Playing For The Other Team

There is only so much urging one can take. Only so much begging, stroking and pleading before you start thinking about it. Wondering what you’re missing. Letting your mind race with the thrilling possibilities of rolling around, dipping your toes, plunging and probing into what the other side has to offer. Just tossing the idea about at first, maybe flirting a little, not committing to anything but toying with the notion of.

I’ve always been kind of a “fewer boundaries” kind of chick. I don’t much care for rules, labels, anyone thinking they can, or worse, should, try and control my behavior. Just not how I roll nor the kind of limitations I believe make for a life well spent. More of a fly by the seat of my pants type, cautious but unwilling to let ideals keep me from having a new adventure, adding a notch to my belt, (in theory, don’t wear a belt in fact) or keeping me from exposing myself, opening myself to that heart-thumping feeling of passion, the prospect of new love. Spent the first thirty years of my life wrestling with that garbage; wanting to please others, be loyal and steadfast in the pursuit of everyone else’s happiness and not give in to those bites of curiosity that nibble at the nape of my neck, spent the past ten living, like really living in, feeling in, every second of this life of mine. Not pinched up with concern for what anyone else thinks. Life is too goddamn short for that shit and I’m not about to go out with a laundry list of, “Fuck, I wish I would have tried….”

Yesterday I caved just a little. Gave into whispered urgings. Let those, “won’t you just try?” fingers remove one of my comfortable layers and I stood, nearly naked, ready to take in a relative stranger….explore them in return.

Giant fucking fail….

I guess there are times when “Go big or go home” should not apply, and I’m pretty sure when thinking about trying to get your passion on or fall madly in love, well those ought to be at the very top of that, “don’t try” list. For the past couple of years I’ve been flirting with another. Letting my tongue flip about, my mind wander and my curiosity push me to take tiny sips from a new pond. Kind of thrilling for me in a way and because of that, my slipping into other rooms to take a taste of this one and that, I’ve been asked to slip into something….a little less comfortable. My boss whispering and urging me to take a stab at assisting in the domestic wine department. 

Seeing as I have a tremendous passion for wine in general, and am madly in love with some folks that make, review and drink those wines for a living, people I respect and admire, well I was all for it…a little nervous and still not sure what my role will be, but absolutely willing to get my exploration and palate swerve on. So yeah, first date in the playing for the other team arena, Family Winemakers tasting. Fuck me. What a passionless nightmare of an adventure that was. For those of you not in the wine business this is a trade (and even that is kind of bullshit, every Tom, Dick and heavily perfumed hostess can get in. Trade only my ass) event that hosts something like 300 wineries, all with multiple wines to pour. Just on that number alone you can see what a cluster-fuck this is. How the hell can anyone taste that many wines and get any kind of true, not to mention practical knowledge of what those wineries have to offer? Well, I can think of one guy, he gave them all an 8.5. Toss on top of the sheer volume of wines, the sweaty masses of people, many of which don’t do this for a living….so aren’t really there to taste but to drink, and the fact that each booth has to try and make their samples last for four hours while trying to be cognizant of the fact that the people they are pouring for are going to be sampling hundreds upon hundreds of wines, (read tiny, tiny pours) worst tasting, like ever.

I’m sure this event is perfect for schmoozing and what not. Getting your mug out there, coated in red wine stained kisses and, “It’s so nice to see you again” cheers complete with eyeballs straining to read your name tag. But a place to taste wine, utter horseshit. Especially for me. First off, I hate that kind of scene, don’t get me wrong I love seeing old friends and I can even get a charge from sloppy kisses and all but in the scope of wine evaluation I find that loud, cramped, shuffle, sniff, slurp and spit, (Oh, and while I’m on that. The spit buckets at this particular event were shallow, wide cardboard buckets that once a quarter full were too full if you get what I’m saying. Not always opposed to having my face covered in slobber, but a girl has to draw the line somewhere. Gross. So stinking gross and I had to remove my glasses four times to wipe the expectorated, and chunky (gag) red wine splash back) an impossible venue to get any kind of read on what I’m tasting or smelling. About halfway through I just gave up and stuck my glass out whenever Bennett, (our domestic buyer) or Randy told me to. Nodded when appropriate, smiled with my purple stained grill and just held out until we could get the fuck out of there. Like I said, giant fail.

I shall not however let that one event put me off and I am actually pretty goddamn excited to play around, explore and spread my lips for all that California, Oregon, Washington and New York have to offer. I’ve being tempted by the fruit of another and this girl aint saying no. That being said, to the Family Winemakers tasting, “It’s not you, it’s me. I just don’t swing that way.”