Taking A Walk On The Wild Side....

You ever have one of those moments when you find yourself completely captivated for reasons you are unfamiliar with, unsure about, slightly suspicious of but the intrigue, the excitement and the racing of your heart are just way too thrilling…..enchanting to ignore? Like you’re sitting at a table surrounded by things and people that flow so gently. The conversation congenial and not unlike those you’ve had at dinner parties hundreds of times before. The food simple but lovely, the wines in varying shades and flavors, all with a voice you’ve grown to recognize and feel comfortable with, the mood delightfully at ease, your confidence high as you slip into and flourish in this oh-so-comfortable setting like moving about the dance floor with a trusted hand pressed against the small of your back, bending you this way and that, giving you a spin before pulling you back, close and tight to the chest. You move about the room stopping for short visits, the “Hey do you remember that time we_______?” stories bringing the pleasant grin of memories, faces, bottles and platters long ago devoured. 

The night pours along, plates and dishes robbed of each last morsel, removed and more bottles placed on the table. Another glass of delicious familiarity breaking past your lips, spreading across your palate and landing like a gentle sigh in your waiting stomach. That tingly warm feeling of satisfied satiation snuggling into your bones as you look across the room and your eyes fall upon a face you’re not quite sure you’ve seen before. Sitting not alone but not tucked into a buzzing group of partygoers, your brows burring down on your eyelids and you strain to get a better look, struggle for recognition. The spins on the proverbial dance floor leaving you just light-headed enough to move closer. Your gate slow and methodical as you pace yourself, flipping through the rolodex of faces, names, parties, voices…none of them giving you the slightest flicker or spark of clarity. Rim of the glass resting on your lips as you take another long sip, the face across the room getting closer with each step, now making eye contact and without words summoning you. Your heart now rattling away in your chest, heat moving up your neck, the thrill of an unknown flirtation stretching your legs….guiding you. Your “I think I know you” gaze met with an outstretched hand and a, “No, you don’t….but you will” look that reaches inside your body and pulls you even closer. The brush of new flesh against your palm, a mouth you can’t take your eyes off of, a voice so different and exotic that silences anything, everything and everyone else around you….fuck I love those moments.

2009 Salinia Robinia Lake County Sauvignon Blanc

Found myself running through a box of samples that were dropped off last week. The bottles nearly empty after a day of being shown all over LA, the sales rep long gone, labels I’d never seen but varieties I’ve come to know like the back of my hand….or so I thought. Yanked the tired looking cork from the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, poured the wine and was immediately knocked off my, “I think I know you” chair when I saw the color. Not “orange” as much as deep, rich and golden. The liquid sitting in my glass didn’t leap when I gave the glass a spin, it was more of a cool ass sachet, a sensual oozing as this thick bodied wine slowly crept up the sides of the glass and settled back on to itself….captivated. 

I slowly brought the uncommon wine to my nose, a skeptic’s tilted head and distrusting raised left eyebrow as I leaned in. The rattling in my chest, that thumping of my heart began the second the aromatics pounced from the glass and seemingly grabbed me by the throat, in a good way. My teeth firmly digging into the flesh of my bottom lip, the insides of my mouth watering, curiously aching to take this stranger in. The voice that slid across my tongue causing my head to spin, throat to open and silencing everything around me, as if the room had emptied and it was just me and my sexy stranger, alone and exploring one another…

I know Sauvignon Blanc. I am wildly in love with Sauvignon Blanc but this, this is a whole other creature and it possess a wild, untamed, unpolished, raw sensuality unlike any I’ve ever tasted before. A depth, complexity and indescribable desirability that feels like that wine’s teeth are still biting into the base of my neck. One case. We got in one case yesterday and me and my thick bodied, oily textured, pant-inducing new lover…..we have the whole night, this wondering soul and this willing mouth to spend it in. 

Counting down the seconds…..  

For particulars click here http://www.thewinecountry.com/pc/0000000106894/CalSauvignon/Salinia+2009+Robinia+Sauvignon+Blanc.html       

I May Be Pissed Off But.....

There are several ways to cope with feelings of fear and rage. When I was younger I would cower, when I became a young teen I ran, fought and at times used my own rage…let it bubble up until it had nowhere to go but to be unleashed upon others and when I hit 18, had my son and saw what was truly important I was able to fold all of those feelings; the restlessness and urge to lash out, make others afraid of me to ensure that they would leave me alone, into a blanket that only needed to be unfolded should someone threaten our safety. Like many others I figured out that love does in fact heal many wounds and the love I have for Jeremy, the way I instinctively needed and wanted to protect him and be a woman he would be proud to call his mother, well that ointment healed wounds that had been raw and exposed for decades. I’ve often indicated that my son saved my life and I assure you, it was not for dramatic effect. The path I was on would have assuredly destroyed my life, either figuratively or literally. Took only the wrap of those tiny fingers around mine, the grip from a three pound survivor lying in an incubator to show me what strength really was….inspired me to put all of that bullshit aside and pour my whole heart into caring for that young man and ensuring that he always felt safe, loved, protected and that rage touched him as little as humanly possible. 

I stumbled along the way. I was far from a perfect mother in the beginning and even had feelings of anger towards my son, as if his being there was somehow a burden that I wasn’t capable of shouldering. Once again it was his overwhelming love and affection, those tiny hands on my cheeks when he would grab my face and kiss me. The way he looked at me like I was the most important person on the planet. The way he slept beside me, so soundly, his tiny chest rising and settling, his little lips tugging away at an invisible bottle, dreaming of whatever it is two year old's dream of. The confidence he wore, even as a little one, that showed me that he was growing up feeling safe, cared for, loved and protected. Changed everything for me. Taught me how to open my heart, trust, let myself be afraid but not allow that fear to turn into rage or resentment. I did raise my son but in many ways, he raised me too. Can’t remember the last time I was so upset, fearful or angry that I wanted to actually hurt someone…..until this morning. 

Jeremy had the early morning shift today, was at his car at 6:00AM to find that his window was broken and the contents of his car cleaned out. Third time he has been robbed in the five years he has lived in Louisville. Mother fucker. The call came in at 3:00 our time, the voice of our beloved son bubbling with rage as he looked at a brick sitting amidst broken glass in the car he was about to drive, to the job he has had for four years, to support himself and pay for the things he wants and needs. I feel my son always but never quite as much as I do in times like this. 

He’s old enough to take care of all he has to, in fact he has already called the bank to cancel his cards, (yes and learned a powerful lesson, I’m sure, about leaving your wallet in the car) is having his window repaired and has called both the police and the insurance company. He’s handling it, is very capable and while I’m sure this harsh bit of reality will leave a mark, he will recover just fine. Doesn’t take away this feeling I’m left with, being thousands of miles away and not being able to do anything to help my son. Can’t even begin to explain how helpless this feels. How angry and shaken I feel…in fact my hands that normally fly across the keys of this laptop are shaking so fiercely that the backspace key seems to be the only one being properly used. The gnawing in my gut causing a wave of frustration induced nausea to hit me every ten minutes. Nothing I can do…..

I can however turn my anger and frustration to words across my screen. Not let this one event undo anything that makes me the person I am now. The greedy fuck that took my son’s things, his hard earned money and has caused me to cancel my own credit card, the one I gave Jeremy to use in cases of emergency, he has broken a window, ruined a day and made me way fucking angry but….I get to walk out of my house this morning knowing that my son is twice the person that thief is and that right there makes me proud. 

Things are looking up already.....

Sometimes More Is Just....More.

Now I know lots of people, my brother being one of them, that think if you are at all picky about wine that you are a snob. Not quite sure why it’s so much more so with wine than any other preference, I mean someone can tell everyone they don’t watch network television, won’t eat at chain restaurants or only listen to indie music and that is viewed as a preference, mention you don’t like a certain kind of wine and here comes the, “Oh well, aren’t you particular?” complete with exaggerated and elongated snooty face. Trust me, as the French wine buyer for our store I hear it all the time, “Oh look who has come to grace us and taste California wine?” tossed about with a chuckle, often with a hand poised in the air with pinky finger extended, or the “Ohhhh that’s right, you only like French wine” again with nose in the air, snobby voice stretching out the word, “French” and hard raised eyebrows. Hate that shit. Like truly. I’ve said it hundreds of times before, I don’t think French wines are better than other wines, they are just what I prefer. And I honestly believe that anyone who makes those snoot faces and implies that French, or any old world wine really, wine drinkers are being snobs are actually saying more about their own insecurities than anything about the person they are trying to make to feel like they are being a snob for what they like. Plus I’m an advocate or great wine, from anywhere, just so happens that my palate leans towards the old world wine therefore that has become my focus, both in the shop and when I’m drinking at home. There’s defensiveness to that kind of verbiage and thinking that is not only annoying, it’s getting down-right insulting. Hey, they make all kinds of wine, from all reaches of the world, drink what you like and lay off the name calling of people that drink other than you do…okay? Sorry, bit of a tangent there…

So, for me, when it comes to wine, food and even music really, I like things simple. I’m not a bells and whistles kind of girl, not in the least. I like clean, simple and restrained flavors and find myself somewhat grossed out when I’m sitting in a restaurant looking at a list of dishes, all of which have about ten too many ingredients. Sure it looks dazzling to see, “Oven roasted chicken breast, stuffed with ricotta cheese, sundried tomatoes, mushrooms, roasted garlic, caramelized onion, topped with creamy Marsala sauce and Parmesan crust” and where some folks might be impressed with the number of things offered on one plate, to me it looks like a big ass mess with no focus. That whole, “More is better” thing isn’t better to me….it’s just more. Give me a great roasted chicken breast with a simple, well prepared sauce and I’m a really happy camper, throw a bunch of shit on a plate and try and wow me with volume, and I’m out. 

“442?!” that’s what I blurted out this morning as I selected the Champagne/Sparkling Wine button on Total Wine’s website. They have 442 sparkling wines?! I felt my heart thumping away as I began to scroll through the “selected” offerings, feeling like my little bubbly department must look woefully puny to consumers in the face of 442 options. It was deflating as hell looking at that number but as I continued to scroll through the giant list of bubbles another feeling took over, one very much like the way it feels to look at a menu full of shit you don’t wanna eat. All those options and there was not one bottle of sparkling wine that I would buy to take home and drink. Not one. Rather astounding really, and then it dawned on me, those wines weren’t selected at all, they were amassed. I figured out the focus of the department, or stores actually, to have more options than anyone else. Not better options mind you, just more of them. It’s a business model that is clearly working, that chain is becoming a scary beast that is gobbling up consumers and freaking small stores like ours right the fuck out. They’re big, pretty, impressive in scale and can offer 442 sparkling wines along with 664 Chardonnays, not to mention they do seem to train their staff, at least a bit, on the bajillion skews they stock, but much like Costco or any other big box chain, there isn’t anything all that special there. There just can’t be when you have to stock over 70 stores, period. Some consumers will be dazzled by the “more” of it all but I’m banking on those folks that want, crave, and need better.  

That bit of depression that hit me when I saw that 442 slipped away as quickly as it hit me. We freaked out when BevMo started moving into the area and this monster is even scarier but I have to believe that just as there will always be those restaurants offering simple, clean, focused dishes that can survive the Olive Garden that moves in down the street, that a store like ours, one that has the opportunity to stock truly special and interesting wines, can educate consumers that more isn’t always better, well that we too will not only survive, we will create even more passionate wine lovers. That being said, a little word of mouth certainly helps so should you happen to be talking wine, please feel free to slip in the name of your wine blogging buddy's shop, help us stay around to assist the next wave of wine lovers.

If railing against mediocrity makes me a wine snob, well this time I’m okay with that.

May Days

Been thinking of you a bunch as of late. Little things at first, a song while I’m flipping through my XM stations that takes me back to being seven years old, sitting next to you in the car, seatbelt scratching my cheek as I sit on the hard rubber seat, trying to avoid the scary and jagged tear and exposed yellowing stuffing, my heart swelling when your voice would lift, grow louder, mouth wide and belting out the words, the weight of your world easing just enough to let your body sway and voice fill the inside of our VW, “Even though we aint got money, I’m so in love with ya honey, everything will bring a chain of love. And in the morning when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes and tell me, everything is gonna be alright” my eyes closing and head resting against the seat back as I took in your sheer elation in being lost in a voice, music and lyrics that spoke to you. Heard that Kenny Loggins song yesterday on my way into work…

“People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one” as the song began I waited for that feeling, the one I’ve always gotten when it came on. That strange combination of reunion and anxiety, joy and sadness but yesterday the feeling that landed in the pit of my stomach was that of seeing a long lost friend. No sadness, no fear, no worry. The memory of you freely belting your heart out and of me snuggling into it. Sounds like a silly thing I know but it touched me in a way that actually did “Bring a tear of joy to my eye” and assured me that in fact everything “Is gonna be alright”. I’m not a believer in “visits” or signs from loved ones passed but, well I felt your presence in some odd way and this time there was an unconcerned comfort in thinking about and visiting with you, that I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.

I wondered if you would be speaking to me yet. You know, after the rather unflattering series of posts I wrote about our relationship a couple of years ago. Suspecting that you would be, although the words I freed upon my screen would have put an even further distance between us. Your hurt, in the face of my exposition of your frailty, rage, sometime lunacy, leaving a gap of distrust that I think we would still be trying to hurdle. As the song ended and the light turned green, I pressed my foot to the gas, the wind coming through my open window flipping my hair across my lips I found myself smiling and kind of okay with that. Almost as if I needed to clear out all that old garbage, dump it all out on the lawn where everyone could see it, to make room to actually see all the sweet, loving, cherished moments we had together. Mom, I hope you too are okay with that.

My drive to work became a Ferris wheel ride. My hair, memories and heart flowing, the radio still playing I heard nothing but, “Sam! Are you going to stay in that water all day?!” and, “How’s my little mouse?” your voice and laughter filling the interior of my car. The hours I spent cross legged in front of you as you applied my makeup, waiting in the car as you cashed a check at the corner liquor store, a check we both knew was going to bounce, so you could take me out to a Prime Rib dinner. The way you held Jeremy, his tiny body safely tucked and cradled in your arms as you read, the way you would laugh when he would rub the soft flubbery skin under your chin. The unmistakable gaze of a woman truly in love that you had whenever he was near you. I may have envied that look at one time but yesterday, yesterday it made me proud that I was able to give you something back. Through the heart of that tiny young man and the chain of love that made everything alright. And just so you know, he still has your high school photo, the one we had blown up for the funeral, he asked for that and it is still hanging above his bed here at home and although he is rarely in that room anymore, when he does come home to visit and drops his bags off in the room where he grew up, he lets his gaze fall upon you. He was young when you left us but I promise you, he has never forgotten how much you loved him. Never.  

May is always hard for me Mom. Your birthday, Mother’s Day, the last time I saw you, the day I got the call….and arrived too late to say goodbye. The anniversary of those dates hanging in the middle of the month, waiting for me. Maybe it was you that made that song come on the radio, sending me the gift of Kenny’s voice and the words that soothed you all those years ago….

“People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one, and we've just begun,

Think I'm gonna have a son.

He will be like she and me, as free as a dove, conceived in love,

Sun is gonna shine above

And even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with ya honey,

And everything will bring a chain of love.

And in the morning when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes,

And tell me everything is gonna be alright”

I miss you

We all do

Love always

Your Mouse

Sam

"More Than A Beverage, More Than A Beverage To Me......."

“You knew this would happen. I move south and I just can’t seem to make it up here anymore.” The words of a longtime, long time ago customer that stopped by the shop the other night. A kind hearted surgeon that was a once or twice a week drop by that would drop anywhere between $80 and $250, depending on the day of the week, on high-end Chardonnay. He’d been in line waiting and I saw his head craning a bit, just checking out the changes in the shop since he was there last, maybe looking for a face he knew, that’s when I tossed out the, “Well how the hell how you been?” big smile on my mug as I emerged from the tasting room where I had been checking my wines for that evening’s class. I could literally feel him softening when he saw me, like there was some kind of relief in seeing a face he recognized while revisiting a space he had been to hundreds upon hundreds of times before.

We got caught up, the two of us genuinely happy to see one another, our one-liners fast and furious almost as if it hadn’t been three years since we saw each other last. He was sighting his move to Laguna for his absence, me poking fun and accusing him of slumming by stepping foot back in Long Beach while I rang up his Maldanado and Rombauer Chardonnays. “So, what you got going tonight?” he asked with a toss of his head in the direction of our tasting room, playful smirk on his face and wind-blown hair falling flat and slightly oily across his brow. “Oh, not much, just going to be pouring the wines from the guy that has been called, on several occasions, the Master of Chardonnay” smirk now gone and an inquisitive, fiercely curious gaze was upon me. “Oh really?” he prodded, “And who is that?” next thing I knew the wines that I had just run through, merely buried my nose in, swished around in my mouth and spat, they were now tingling up my spine, urging me to share them with this man, this passionate Chardonnay lover, my own excitement about what I’d just tasted and how perfectly suited they were for him, bubbling out of me. 

I rattled off Dominique Lafon’s many credentials, explained how his wines are some of the most sought after, coveted in all the world, (so much so that his wines now come with a shiny little counterfeit strip along the foils) of wine and then, then I thought of this long ago customer’s average bottle budget and said, “And you know, he has a property in the south, in the Maconnais, where he is making some kickass wines for like a quarter the price”. After the, “Pick me one, no, pick me two” outburst this old familiar face was looking down at me, big meaty hands wrapped around his two bags of wine, his gaze causing me to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot and then he spoke again, “This is why I came here. Why I need to come here more. Thank you” I was sufficiently puddled and bolstered with confidence as I bid my farewell, (and yes, there was a “come back and see us ya hear”) to him and readied myself for an evening of wines that even after nearly sixteen years in this business left me almost speechless and dizzy with intoxication, not from alcohol but from their sheer beauty.

“I’ve known people that have been in the wine business for decades that haven’t been able to do what you’re about to” I said, my rump resting and hands gripping the tasting bar behind me, “And there’s a reason for that” I went on to explain to the not-sold-out class that you almost never see a lineup like the one we were pouring that night. A night devoted to the wines from two of France’s most iconic estates, those of Domaine Didier Dagueneau and Domaine Comte Lafon. “Sure people have maybe tasted some of these wines over the course of their wine tasting/drinking/education but to taste this deeply from these wineries in one setting, well it just doesn’t happen. You see, retailers don’t have to pour these wines, they sell on their own so pouring off a bottle or two doesn’t fiscally make any sense whatsoever. Look around you, we have what, maybe 24 people here? Now take a look at your tasting sheet and quickly add up what it costs to pour one bottle of each of those eight wines….yeah, almost $850 right? Well because of the number of people we have here tonight we are opening two of each. Everyone paid $45 to be here, which I understand is a good chunk of change but if we do the math again, 24 people, $45 each…..you get my point. We start out in a massive hole as far as profit goes and as much as we want and need to make money, a class like the one we are doing tonight, it’s not about money. It’s about education, sharing our passion with you, helping you understand why we lose our minds over these wines, why they’re different, and more expensive than most. We want you to be able to read these names, in our publication or someone else’s, and have your heart thump around in your chest, your mouth begin to water as you remember the wines you taste tonight. We are retailers, but we are also teachers and tonight, tonight is about education.” 

Was a pretty quiet class I have to say. People completely engrossed and seduced by the wines in front of them….I too found myself silent, enraptured, dominated by a lineup of wines so brilliant that they literally took my breath away. By the end of the evening there was clapping, loads of “thank you!!” and that smallish crowd descended upon my French department and decimated it. I was speaking to a young gentleman at the end of the night while I was ringing up his rather hefty purchase. Discussing the wines, both of us glowing from the whole experience, “You know, I had read about Dagueneau lots of times before, just never had the opportunity to taste them before tonight. Thank you for doing this” he said as he handed me his credit card to pay for his over $300 bill. He gave me a shy grin and said, “Yeah, going to have to work extra hard next week to pay for this but…..well if there had been any Lafon Meursault Charmes left I’d have bought that too, so I guess I’m getting off easy.”  A rather remarkable comment and perfect end to an extremely enlightening night, for all of us. 

Sunday morning I woke to find a link in my message box, the same link that has gone freaking viral and is on every wine person’s Facebook feed or blog, the Costco story. For those of you less obsessed there is a link at the bottom of this post, but the gist of the (taken somewhat out of context ) piece that has everyone’s panties in a wad is that they wine buyer for Costco said wine is just a beverage. There was some toilet paper comment, that was lobbed out by the person giving the interview, and man did people take that and run with it, but she (the Costco lady) was basically saying that Costco is about the bottom line and wine is just one of the many thousands of products they peddle. Pretty passionless no doubt but shocking? Hell no. You mean to tell me that Costco only cares about making money?! Get Out! Oh and, duh. 

Look, Costco has always been about huge volume and cheap prices, always. The fact that anyone thought they gave a rat’s ass about wine needed only go to one and see the piles of rather soulless and often factory produced wine, or try and get someone to answer any questions about the wines they stock. Stack ‘em high and watch ‘em fly has been Costco’s model on everything from wine to the afore mentioned toilet paper and for a wine to show up at one of those establishments there needs to be enough of it to stack high in the first place. Pretty easy to figure out right? And for those wine folks that are still under the somewhat delusional impression that a wine like Caymus Special Select is something, “special”, well they can pop a bottle or two in their cart along with that 15 pound jar of pickles and happily be on their way. Wine is just a beverage to Costco, but for some of us…..it’s way more than that.

Three Wine Country employees, (okay one was the owner) have been to Dominique Lafon’s cellar, watched him pull wines from his barrels, explain the soil and winemaking process……. stood there as he examined our faces, answered our questions and smiled when we took those deep sniffs, long palate staining sips and scribbled our impressions on notepads. Had dinner and spent the night at Dagueneau, sat around a dinner table tasting, drinking, eating, laughing with the people that made those wines, shared those stories and memories with the customers that would come in to buy them. We don't sell vats of mayonnaise or boxes of frozen taquitos, we can however turn you on to wines that we've spent years of our lives learning about, share our passion with you....remember your palate and help you explore your own. 

For us wine is not a bottom line nor is it just a beverage. It’s about people, the ones that make and buy them.....it's about the enrichment of all our lives and I for one am honored to be a part of that.

http://eater.com/archives/2012/04/27/costcos-wine-buyer-doesnt-think-wine-is-different-than-toilet-paper.php 

My First Love

I remember the second I first fell in love. When I felt my heart split wide open to make room for another and the first time we touched I understood, truly understood unconditional love. I knew I had finally met someone I would lay down my life for, without question or regret.

My first love and I met 30 years ago today and while we see each other far less than I would like I love her as much today as I did the day those big, beautiful blue eyes of hers met mine, and to this day just hearing her laugh can nearly bring tears to my eyes. 

I've grown to love others with my whole heart but she was the first, will always be my first and I wanted to wish her a very happy 30th birthday today. I don't tell you enough how proud I am of you, how much I love you but....well, we're sisters and that's how it works butthead!

Happy Birthday Baby Girl
I love you so...

Lucky....

So as many of you already know I try to keep politics to a minimum here on this blog, be they the politics of the nation or the political rumblings within the wine business. It’s not that I don’t have opinions, hell I have loads of them, just not so arrogant that I assume everyone cares what they are, or that my rants here are going to do anything to change anyone else’s mind. In the earlier stages of this blog I would climb atop my soapbox more, sling some mud around or cheer when my political party had a victory but, well I began to see there was really no point, nor did politics have any place on a blog where the focus has always been to bring people closer, make them more comfortable, showing the more personal side of wine and the people involved in it. The more political pieces I wrote simply didn’t fit or belong here. Now that being said….

“Can I buy you a drink?”

My husband was out of town a couple weeks ago and after a long 9 hour shift I found myself hungry, tired and not in the mood to head to the market let alone cook, so I did something I had only done a couple of times before, have dinner out and alone Headed to a local place my husband and I go to at least once a week, good food, servers that know us and that has a great little backroom bar that’s quiet and if anyone there is “on the make” they are the 80 year olds from the senior living center down the road. As safe a place as I could think of to have a drink and quick bite to eat. Walked through the front door and gave the usual smile and point to the hostess, letting her know that I was heading to the bar and would not need her to seat me, made my way down the hall and stood at the podium at the entrance of the low-lit bar until a busser gave me a nod to pick whichever of the ten open tables I wanted.  Slid into a booth and gave the server, (not my usual one but it was a Tuesday and I rarely go on Tuesdays) my drink order, pulled out my phone, a book and a small notepad I keep for taking notes. Things to busy myself while I waited for my food.

My drink arrived, icy and exactly what I was needing, after one sip I gave the server my order before going back to my cell phone to read and answer emails. “Can I buy you a drink” I looked up from my phone, past my still half full cocktail to see a man that looked to be in his mid-fifties standing at the edge of my booth, a glass filled with ice and some sort of brown spirit. “Oh, that’s sweet, thank you so much but I have one” I said with a fairly warm but firm tone. “You might be in need of another one plus it breaks my heart to see a beautiful woman sitting alone in a bar” I could feel my face going a little hot but stood firm. “I’ve already told her” pointing at the server across the room, “that I will have another when my dinner comes. Just popped in here for a quick bite and some quiet since my husband and his friends are playing cards at home” total lie but I wanted to make it very clear that I was married and in fact there to have dinner and some peace and quiet.” “I would never let my wife eat out alone” the getting-less-attractive-by-the-second guy responded, “Yeah? Well I can’t imagine why” I lobbed back, this time less warm and with the smirk that tends to make others back down pretty quickly. This dude, relentless. 

The banter continued and after a few minutes I was pretty damn blunt, not easy for me as I know it takes some courage to walk up to a stranger and I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings but, “I really do appreciate the gesture, I’m flattered but I honestly did just come in for dinner and to be alone” which was met with, “Oh you work at The Wine Country? That’s the place on Redondo, in Signal Hill right?” fucking uniform. So now I was not only me I was a spokesperson for the store which makes being mean even trickier. This began a short conversation as to why I was having a martini rather than glass of wine, “Well the wine list here is pretty dreadful, plus there’s just something about steak and eggs with a cold martini that works for me” still in store mode and grateful to see my server heading to the table with my dinner and second drink. Plates placed before me, my tummy rumbling both from hunger and anxiety but knowing this would be the end of my little unwanted chat with a stranger.

I slipped the silverware off the paper  napkin, laid the napkin in my lap and took a little bite of buttery, crunchy and still warm hashbrowns. Surely this would be an indicator that it was time for my pesky intruder to go away, “Hey I need to use the restroom, you mind if I leave this here?” the asshole now placing his sweaty drink on my table. “Dude, the bar is right there and that’s kind of what they do right? Watch your drink?” to which the cat chuckled and waltzed off to the “Little boy’s room”….fuck. I start eating, finished off my now too warm first martini and took a sip of the second for refreshment and a bit of liquid courage, time to be rude dammit. I was slightly distracted by how perfectly my meal was cooked, steak had a nice seer and was delightfully reddish-pink inside, eggs just set and yolks still oozy, just the way I like ‘em, and those damn hashbrowns the best I’d had there in months. Could have been a wonderful meal….

My fork and knife in hand I start to cut another piece of steak, had nearly cut a piece off when I feel the cushy bench seat beneath me tremor a little, look up to see that smarmy grin and flat brown eyes staring back at me, this time across from me….at my table. The aggressive prick had taken it upon himself to have a seat, at my table, while I was trying to have dinner, alone. He picked up his drink, wet wad of cocktail napkin still stuck to the bottom, leaned back against the back of the booth and shot me what I’m sure was his, “No chick can pass this up” smile. I pushed my plate to the side, laced my fingers, my back rigid and face now twisted into a fierce glare. “Look dude, I’ve tried to be polite, tried to be compassionate, I’m really not a bitch but you don’t seem to be hearing me. I came here to be alone, I’ve said that over and over again, not looking for a dinner….or any other kind of companion. You’ve gone well past being annoying and are teetering on the edge of pissing me way the fuck off. If you don’t get up now I will have to ask these people throw you out” I said through teeth so tight I could feel an ache in my jaw. 

A long stare, my eyes filled with anger and the tears that tend to come with that as I watch the goofy, flirty face across from me go from hopeful to full of rage. “Fuck You!” he screamed at me, “You should feel lucky I was even hitting on you in the first place!” bits of spit gathering in the corners of his snarling mouth, arm now raised in a backhand position and with an extremely violent swipe he knocked over not only my glass but the condiments on the table, everything crashing around me in a series of clinks and thuds. Startled by the noise and the pool of gin that was now gathering into a little river and was headed straight for my lap, I leapt from my booth to my feet just to hear the clatter of more noise as he slammed his fist against the table. My head reeling, heart pounding so hard it was making my ears ring, my hands curled into fists, nails digging into my palms as the prick slowly rose from the table, “Ma’am are you alright?” followed by, “Sir, is there a problem here?” two Long Beach police officers that just so happened to be on dinner break a couple of booths behind mine, now standing between the asshole and myself. Guy taken outside, table cleared, a fresh new cocktail and the offer of another meal to replace the now cold one. Dinner was already ruined and my stomach wound into such tight knots that any appetite I had was long gone, I sat with the officer and relayed my side of the rather unbelievable story, my hands shaking almost too much to even bring the martini to my lips. The gin steadying my nerves a bit as soft-spoken officer tried to calm me down and assured me that I had in fact done everything correctly…. 

“You didn’t sit at the bar, you had reading material, you aren’t dressed provocatively” those words swimming around in my head as I made the drive home, incident behind me as well as two very well meaning officers that insisted on tailing me to make sure I got home safely. As well-meaning and correct as the officer’s comments were I found that I was even more enraged by the time I got home. “You did everything correctly”? Is there a laundry list of shit that men have to consider before dinning out alone? Complete and utter bullshit, a sad fact but still bullshit.

The whole incident too much of a glimpse back into a part of my history that I’ve spent a long time trying to distance myself from. The locking of my front door and closing of all the windows in my apartment, that uneasy feeling with each and every noise from outside, the fear that I’d rid myself of back, a least for a little bit, leaving me feeling deflated and by morning, severely pissed off. I knew that guy wasn’t coming for me, in fact the police told me he was extremely embarrassed by his behavior and while I felt threatened for that moment at the table I wasn’t even really afraid to drive home alone but….. that look in his eye, that trigger temper, that, “who the fuck do you think you are” face, that loss of control on his part….wasn’t the first time he’d gone after a woman, sadly probably won’t be the last either. 

Tuesday night The Wine Country hosted a fundraiser; one Randy has been doing for years and one that I find too difficult to work, simply due to the fact that I find it damn near impossible to hold my shit together long enough to make it through it. An event to raise funds for a cause that far too often goes swept under the rug. A cause that infected my family for a decade and that to this day finds little pockets of infestation that flare up, cause suspicion and leave me…in the face of questions and “Why didn’t you tell us all of it?” longing for the faceless, nameless moments of peace found in that bloody bathroom stall. Last year I wrote this post, http://sansdosage.blogspot.com/2011/04/asking-for-help.html  sharing my story, the nightmare I went through, for over 10 years and while I never lived with the man that stalked, tormented, tortured and haunted me I can say, without hesitation, or apology, I was a victim of domestic violence. Bats against my skin, broken teeth, running up the stairs of my complex, my shirt hanging in rags in front of me, back exposed, bleeding and raw from a beating, the cold tip of a knife digging into my flesh as my monster slashed at me. I ran, I hid, I fought long enough to make it into the safety of my home. Did what I had to, needed to, to make everyone believe I was on top of a bubbling situation that could have cost me my life.  Thing is, I had a place to go….

I was lucky. Didn’t feel so lucky when I splashed cold water on my face, held the cotton balls saturated with peroxide, to my split open and enflamed skin. I felt lost, afraid and like a fool for ever falling into a web of suffocation and brutality in the first place. Like it was my fault, for being blind or stupid or so alone that I would let a monster close enough to do irreparable damage to me or my family. Owned that long after the slashes and bruises were gone. The event our store hosted raised money for the people that didn’t….don’t, have anywhere else to run. Think about every woman you have ever truly loved…now click on this http://www.sucasadv.org/. Help them. Help them assure all of us that there is indeed a place to go, to feel protected and cared for….a little bit of peace and quiet not filled with shame, rolls of tissue paper collecting blood or in the grease scented stalls of a fast food restaurant. Help them.

I woke this morning, the buzz of good doing and hope pushing at the balls of my feet and making me feel light and strong as I made my way to my morning coffee. Poured the blackish liquid onto my mug. Clink of metal as my spoonful of sugar clunked and bumped along the side of my mug, the “sploosh” of cold milk  added and I had my milky coffee, cigarettes and it was time for the reading of all things important.

This is when I found this: http://my.democrats.org/page/s/reauthorize-the-violence-against-women-act?source=DNC_HQB

So the GOP is all up in arms now that the Violence Against Women Act now includes same sex partners and the ever unsavory, undocumented immigrants. They are trying to kill the bill this week, because of the addition of gays and illegals...no thought to all the good the bill has done. So let’s forget the fact that that since 1994, when this act was passed, that domestic violence abuse has decreased by 54 percent and the number of women, being killed, killed, by intimate partners had dropped 34 percent. We are seriously considering throwing this baby out with the bathwater?!Don’t let this happen. 

The girl that nursed those sores, stood in the face of pure evil, tried her best to raise a family…bruises, cuts, sores and all is now asking for the help that I never did way back then….help me, help us, please. I was lucky, many women aren't.

I won’t ever forget, nor will I surrender...

Take a half second..

Please.

End of political rant.....