Wine, women and song.

I've recently been reintroduced to wine.

I've always liked wine, especially red wine. The more you drink, the better it tastes. And I don't mean drink 3 bottles in one night, but over time. Glass or two a day or every other day. It starts to develop a different flavor. You get past the bite and start to notice the wood or fruit tastes. You start to notice where the liquid clings to your tongue. You start to feel where it bites your throat.

And you start to feel a bit pretentious.

I was recently contacted by an old friend who I haven't seen since college. We had a good chat over instant messanger and a couple long emails recaping what we've missed in the past 10 years. For some reason, we start talking about alcohol and I launched into this diatribe about spanish red wine like I was defending the life of a weak child in court. I went back into the log to read what I wrote, not believing I came off that pompous, but there it was. I felt like Paul Giamatti but without the benefit of a script or years of being an oenophile. I couldn't believe it.

Maybe it was the alcohol talking.

When I moved to Texas, I developed some gastrointestinal issues that required medication. The doctors said "acid reflux" but I think it was more a "weight gain, eating greasy food, hate where you live" ulcer. So I had to stop the red wine. I've never thrown a bucket of lighter fluid into a bonfire, but I'm guessing the result would be similar to what was going on in my gullet.

Long story truncated, I can now drink red wine and I'm liking it again. However, I have to ease up on the getting plastered aspect and just enjoy maybe a glass at a time, everything in moderation and some such junk. Wine tends to screw a lot of things up, apparently, not least of which is the viscious hangover I get, regardless of sinus medicine and water tricks I may employ. Plus, I've found the snob in me is actually looking for good wine, wine I've had before that was recommended or certain vintages.


Next thing you know, I'll be listening to adult contemporary music or jazz and wearing an button up shirt with one button undone to show off my gold chain as I brush my heavily product-ed hair out of my face.

Wee! Asshole man! I need an old Porsche and an appointment to get my cuticles attended to.

Anyway...

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So, Yogi came home from school yesterday and I met him and Mrs. A and his sister in the garage. I opened the door and I heard, "Hi dad." No, this isn't a dream, Yogi actually said, "hi dad." It was almost, "hi daddy" but it was at least "dad." I about cried. He also recognized the object and said the word "apple" last night. We say, what is this? And he says, A-poh? It's pretty damn endearing.

He also dances and sings now too. Not in a Fred Astaire way, more in a tribal, toy robot kind of way.

Not to take away from the first born, she was able to spell a bunch of words last night as well. Cup, boots, dog. She's getting really good at sounding things out. She's still a bossy tattle-tale, but I've found out Mrs. A was like that as well. Cute, smart, but stubborn and cries at the drop of a hat.

What I've noticed about her reading, and parents, feel free to comment on this, is that she's still memory reading her books. She's heard them so often that she's reciting and not reading. But she can read and write if she goes slow. I'm waiting for that flip where she finally slows down and reads everything instead of just pointing at a word like "beautiful" that I know she can't read, and still knows that's what it is because I've said it hundreds of times.

Not complaining, just voicing my thoughts.

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I haven't found a job. Mrs. A hasn't found a day job. Mrs. A's photography has taken over our lives. It's a good thing, but it's interesting to watch someone do something they like so much that it becomes something they don't want to do. It becomes a job. However, I'm so jealous of the success of her business. The Marine Ball is coming up and while I think she may have bitten off more than we can all chew, I want to help in all the ways I possibly can.

Even if that means being a pragmatic asshole. And for that, Mrs. A, I'm sorry.

Next few weeks are going to be interesting. Looks like I picked the wrong time to stop sniffin' glue.