Polished

Woke this morning sometime around 1:00 AM, both needing to use the potty and because my face felt all gunky and matted, stumbled past my bathroom mirror to see a mess of crazy bed-head, my thick frame in light pink jammies and my face still caked with yesterday’s makeup….damn you fourth glass of Fontainerie Vouvray Sec, damn you. Turns out in the wake of a whirlwind of party days, after Vegas, Boston and Connecticut, where my closest friends were visiting for a week, four glasses of wine were enough to knock my tired ass right the hell out before I could complete the proper “going to bed” procedures. Handled that potty business, spun the faucets in the sink and pumped a pool of face wash in my hands before lathering up and de-caking my mug, washing off the day’s gunk and applying the face goo that supposedly makes me look less haggy. Feeling somewhat refreshed and less slimy this was when I noticed my toothbrush still hanging over the side of the bathroom sink, with toothpaste on it, another, “Ewe gross” as I plunged the minty flavored wand in my mouth while cursing that 4^th glass of wine once again, didn’t manage to brush my teeth either. Nice. Shuffled back to the bed, worried that I might have freshened myself right into being wide awake, pulled back the sheet, climbed into bed and let the hum and soft breeze from the fan lull me back to sleep, a very rare occurrence for this non-sleeper and another sign that weeks of go-go-go and a bottle of wine had taken their toll. 

Seven hours later I awoke, for real this time, made my way past the kid’s room, taking a peek in to see if he had made it home last night, past the massive but thankfully dark television in the living room, on to the kitchen where the aroma of finished coffee sped up my pace. Plunked down at the dining room table, mug of creamy coffee in my paws, fired up my laptop for my morning dose of whatever-the-fuck it is I read in the mornings. Eyes still heavy, coffee working on perking me up but not quite fused to my blood just yet and that was when I saw it, the box of hair dye I had left on the table, to remind me that I need to dye my freaking hair. The chick on the box of dye looking all happy and perfectly quaffed, no dark roots, flawless skin, nary a wrinkle…bet she doesn’t forget to wash her face, has better skin goo than I and her child, if she has one, has never said, “Hey Kunta Kinte, when you going to get to them roots?". Bitch. 

Truth be told I’m not so much good with the whole polishing of myself stuff. I have to time my root killing to my period otherwise I will simply forget, (which doesn’t always work seeing as I am now like 2 weeks past my cycle and them roots, still there) I’ve nearly given up on polishing my nails as the maintenance is annoying, I cut my own hair as to avoid sitting in a damn chair for like an hour, big ass mirror in front of me….ugh, and I can’t even bother to remember the kind of makeup and powder I use, have to write it down and keep the slip in my wallet to hand to the lady at the Lancome counter…every time. I did get sucked into buying one of those face scrubbing brushes, the ones that spin and forage for the gunk that gets trapped in your pores, thing is, I only use it once in a while because it adds like five minutes to my face washing “regime” and that is more time than I’m willing to expend most days, on something as silly as the “beautification” of me. I think my lack of interest might come from trying to fight a losing battle, being called ugly most of my childhood might have tweaked my focus, but I’ve always preferred it when someone finds me clever, funny, intriguing, interesting or even sexy over being called “pretty” or any other such nonsense. Or it might just be that I find truth in that beholder stuff and think beauty is something far too subjective for me to spend much time trying to attain. My own preferences lean toward the unbeaten path and while I can appreciate the guy with ripped abs or Olympic swimmers frames, it has always been, and will forever be, the guy with the quirky grin and fierce wit that can get me to slither out of my jeans….always. So maybe I’m just a freak.

Had a woman in the shop yesterday, she was in her late sixties, maybe early seventies, hair yellow-blonde, curled and teased into a marvelous poof, a thick cloud of very pungent perfume following her as she walked around the shop, an oddly orange hued layer of face makeup looking like putty spackled into the deep cracks of her skin, shimmering eye powder and enough mascara to make it look as if two tarantulas were resting upon her eyelids, all that while wearing the shortest short shorts and a tank top full of glitter. I’m sure that in her day she was quite the looker but the somewhat sad, almost costume like look she was sporting yesterday, simply over “polished”. Over done to the point of unattractive, trying rather desperately to compete with the “pretty girls” half or a quarter her age. “Well that was interesting” one of my coworkers said as the woman climbed into her black Mustang and drove out of the parking lot, “Really, I would say not so much interesting at all, her story is pretty easy to tell just by looking at her” I responded. 

I said it not to make fun or belittle that woman in any way, she has the right to spend her time and focus any way she wishes. Polish away dear lady and I wish you the best of luck….in whatever it is you are going for, in fact good for you in sticking to your guns and all but, forgive me if I find the little old lady that comes in every Saturday, in her visor and cargo shorts, crinkly face un made up, to buy her four bottles of grower Champagne to drink while she does her weekend gardening more interesting. Made me think of the last time importer Michael Sullivan of Beaune Imports, was leading a tasting at The Wine Country. In his ever-so-cool and relaxed fashion he leaned against the tasting bar and said, “There is nothing wrong with deliciousness, I love deliciousness, I just prefer interesting. At some point I find myself asking, is it her or the short dress?” I stood there, his words still hanging in a bubble above his interestingly attractive head, my heart thumping around in my chest as in that one comment he was able to sum up the exact way I feel about everything, including wine. Someone else gets it, gets me….thrilling that. 

As someone that has spent the past fifteen or sixteen years tasting wine, for a living, from all over the world I get truly bored and painfully uninspired by the Kardashian-like wines, the ones that have been buffed and polished right into insipid sameness, and don’t even get me started on the over-polished fuckers that have been clunked up so much that they taste and feel like sadly aging seventy year olds in go-go shorts with silly putty faces. I crave, seek out and drink wines that may never be considered “pretty” by some, are interesting as hell to me and that right there, sexy as hell in my book. 

Happy weekend all, and here's to drinking whatever it is that turns you on, gets your heart thumping, bits tingling, slithering out of your jeans and coming back for more.