From girl to woman through boys and (army) men

It has been eight years since my maternal grandmother passed away. I don't remember the exact date of her death, but I'll never forget the day she had the heart attack that caused it. It was the last Friday in March of my senior year of college; and it was, until then, the Perfect Day.

Like most seniors, I didn't have class on Friday, so my perfect day had actually started the night before. After a long cold winter the weather had finally turned, bringing forth what seemed like the entire campus out to celebrate the first warm weekend of the season. Our favorite bar was packed, most importantly with boys, and I smoothly navigated among my many interests flirting shamelessly in that innocent way only a 21 year old girl can. (God, I miss that girl!)

So when I woke up on Friday morning to an even more glorious day, my first thought was to go for a run. I've never been a morning runner - afternoons/evenings are more my speed - but that morning I had an amazing outdoor run through campus, sweating out all the toxins I had ingested the night before, reveling in the fact that I didn't need my long sleeve shirt because the 11:30 Syracuse sun was making me sweat. I saw another crush at the gym that morning, who gave me props for being up and out so early. Could life get much better?

Of course - I was in college. We had a 50's Prom Party scheduled that night with our favorite fraternity, so my plans for the day were to go costume shopping at the Salvation Army. Cara and I cruised to the thrift store with the car windows open, marveling at how even industrial Erie Blvd seemed optimistic under the sunny blue sky.

Costumes purchased, we had an entire afternoon ahead of us. I joined Kristin at boy toy KC's barbecue, where we could party until meeting up with other friends at Happy Hour. I remember Kris and I hobbling down the street to the lacrosse house - not drunk, just unused to wearing open-toed shoes after months of boots and socks weather. There were little green army men all over the porch floor, and I took some as a tangible reminder of how perfect the day was. (And because I'm a klepto. No, seriously, I was.) I wanted to remember the day forever.

Happy Hour was another entertaining boyfest, but lest you think I had a one track mind, I was just as happy to leave and hang out with my girlfriends. After all, we had a 50's Prom Party to attend that night, and (secondhand) poodle skirts to wear to it! Cara, Kris, Greaux and I all left 44's, stopping at Faegan's for takeout. On the way home, we chowed. I mean, running down the street eating our salads, because we just couldn't wait the ten minutes it took to get home.

It was six o'clock on the most fun, fabulous Friday of my college career, the start of a memorable weekend to be sure. As we're eating and laughing and gossiping about such juvenile things as only young sorority girls can do, the phone rang. For me. It was my mom, telling me that my grandmother had gone into cardiac arrest, that she was in a coma, and it didn't look good. Struck by the news, I slid down the wall to the floor; the room's gales of laughter hushed as I burst into tears. And the whole time I thought to myself about how much I had jinxed everything by saying aloud that it had been the perfect day.

I know my interests at the time, and therefore much of this story, might come off as trite and superficial; but you know what? In college, I was both those things. Yet it took so little to make me truly happy. I took those green army men so I could always remember that perfect day; I've kept them all these years as a reminder to take nothing for granted.

Boys may have at one time ruled my world, but the army men have always reminded me of my place in it.

Freak Week

Saturday night I went to this party where the conversation somehow turned to the subject of The Apprentice. One of the guys I was talking to happened to work with Tammy, the cute brunette on this season's Synergy team. Fast forward to an hour later and my second party of the night, and who was there but Tammy and co-cast member/munchkin Allie. Weird, right?

Come Monday, I'm relaying this sighting to one of my co-workers, and the subject turns to how we both know people that have auditioned for various game shows. She tells me that in college, two of her friends were contestants on Supermarket Sweep - that so-awful-it's-hilarious food shopping show that ran on Lifetime and Pax TV in the 1990's. I hadn't thought of that show in years, but I had an odd fascination with it in high school and would watch it nearly every day. Fast forward to tonight at the gym when I recognize one of the regulars as Sweep host Dave Ruprecht. Okay, now THAT'S weird! But it get's weirder...

I came home and checked IMDB because I'm only about 85% sure this guy is him - he looks like him and according to his bio he lives in the area, but I can't find any recent pictures on the web that might better reflect the person I've been looking at for the last six months. What I do find, however, are two more coincidences that go beyond anything having to do with Mercury in retrograde, but are more like something out of my own personal Twilight Zone:

1.) He had a recurring role on the last season of Three's Company, and in fact married Janet, the girl sitting pretty on the upper right hand corner of this page

2.) He also had a role on Doogie Howser MD, the only other celebrity I've ever seen at the gym. Just last weekend.

Who's next? According to one of my favorite books, The Celestine Prophecy, there are no coincidences - seemingly random run-ins are really nature's way of delivering important messages. But what is the message here? Do I need to go food shopping? Audition for a game show? Date a 16 year old surgeon? What?!?

And the rubber band snaps

I usually don't have too hard of a time finding ways to embarrass myself. Crying in public is an oldie but goodie; crying at the gym is an art form I practice maybe once every six years. With Mercury in retrograde, I thought I'd revisit it this weekend.

Three months after I completed my Equifit test, I finally booked my complimentary training session. I hadn't meant to go so long - my original trainer who conducted the Equifit flaked out on my first appointment back in January, and I gave him the benefit of two months to re-schedule before finally asking management to book me with another trainer. So yesterday I arrived to meet with Kevin, an ex-marine who stood over six feet tall with at least 250 pounds of solid muscle. I was immediately thankful upon sight. Unlike my somewhat-gangly original trainer, Kevin actually looked the part, and I knew I wouldn't have a hard time convincing him to work me to the bone.

What I liked even more than Kevin's stature was that he was just the right amount of friendly mixed with pure business. I've worked with too many trainers who are happy just to sit and chat all day and I have to gently remind them that I am there to work. Kevin got right to it, and I knew almost immediately that I would pay to spend time with him again.

He seemed just as pleased with the pairing, and I knew I was impressing him with my strength. I'm not the most cut girl, but after more than a decade of working out I'm pretty damn strong and can lift more than you'd guess just by looking at me. As we worked our way through various exercises, he continually told me how surprised and pleased he was at my fitness level. When it came time to stretch me out, he was even more impressed by the fact that - despite being a runner and weight lifter - I'm as limber as a dancer and, like a rubber band, can stretch far beyond my natural resting state.

I finished the workout on a high - I had never liked a trainer so much so quickly before, and I couldn't wait to buy a package of sessions. Even though I knew it would be expensive, it would fall within my budget and well, if I ever needed an excuse to splurge I think my upcoming 30th birthday is as good a reason as any. You try being 29 and single in a size 0 city and tell me what you'd spend your money on. Judging by the next 10 minutes, though, one could argue that my money might be better spent on therapy.

For some reason I'd had it in my head that I'd be able to pay for the sessions in installments. Bally's allows it, 24 Hour Fitness allows it; but I should have known that Equinox, whose monthly membership costs close to Bally's and 24 Fitness combined, wouldn't stoop to such a second-class practice. Apparently, if you can afford their gym, you can afford to pay up front. Or work out on your own, you poor fat slob.

I had my credit card in hand, ready to buy a package of 12 sessions, practically begging them to take my money - just not all at once. That amount on my credit card was just intimidating, and, in my book, unnecessary if I was willing to pay the same price over time, right? I spoke to the trainer, the sales staff, the manager, and then his manager, and they all told me the same thing. No. Frustrated and angry, I acted as any GI Jane tough girl in combat would do - I cried.

I didn't mean to - don't even know what happened. One minute I was happy, proud, excited; the next I was staring at the price sheet, keenly aware of a lump forming in my throat and tears threatening to break forth. Instead of listening to the explanations or deciding to hold off my decision for an hour or a day, I stood paralyzed, concentrating solely on not crying all-out in front of the entire staff. After 90 minutes of push-ups, squats, lifts, and crunches, not-crying was the one thing I just could not do.

The tears started to roll down my face and the five or so staff members at the desk stared at me with complete and utter bewilderment. Upstairs I had been a pillar of strength; down here I was a mental basket case unraveling before their eyes. I just couldn't bring myself to buy 12 sessions, but I couldn't walk away from the best trainer I had ever met, either. I would regret it, and I knew it. Desperate to end the humiliation and get out of there, I finally purchased one session, dripping tears on my receipt as I signed it. Pretty hot, huh?

Kevin walked me out with his arm around my shoulders, adding compassion to his list of admirable traits, but by that point, in addition to being mad and disappointed, I was beyond embarrassed, and moreso, baffled as to why I was so upset about losing something that was never even mine to begin with. Did he work my muscle tissue so hard that I was physically and mentally exhausted? Was it an emotional release, the way many people cry during a massage because the work actually goes much deeper? Whatever it was, something snapped, and now I'm left with a sorely bruised ego.

I mentioned that, sadly, I'm not a complete stranger to crying at the gym. The first time was about six years ago, when a trainer booted me off the treadmill after I surpassed the 30 minute time limit. Minutes from my goal and on top of a classic runner's high, I flew off the treadmill in a rage and gave him the same eloquent reaction of this weekend: tears. Inexplicable, unneccesary, and unfortunately unstoppable tears. I suppose it's possible I had been stretched too thin.

Mercury rules

Even if you're not into astrology you've probably heard of the term "Mercury in retrograde." Susan Miller offers a great explanation here, but in short, when Mercury goes in reverse, anything related to travel, communication or technology falls apart, and we tend to have run-ins and reconnect with people from our past. As a Gemini who is ruled by Mercury, I am particularly succeptible to the effects, and believe me, it can suck. Remind me to share my Steven Cojocaru story at another time. Like when I'm drunk, because it's much funnier then.

Anyhoo, Mercury has been in retrograde since March 2nd, and my month has been a textbook case of having my past come back (or forward?) to visit. Two weeks ago I got a call from an old client who would be in town and wanted to get drinks and catch up. Then last week I got an email from another old client playfully requesting I come back to New York to work on her account. I'm assuming that because communications are so jarbled this month, Mercury is to blame for my not having heard back from either of them after I enthusiastically said, "okay!" At least that's what I'm telling myself.

The nail in the coffin, though, or the cherry on top (I'm running short on cliches today - blame Mercury) was the call I got last night from an ex-boyfriend. (No, not the news reporter. That would have been REALLY weird.) He had met a friend of mine, and - even though we haven't spoken since the breakup - called out of the blue like we were old friends. And now, strangely, I feel like we are.

Then again, when Mercury is in retrograde, faulty judgement is par for the course.

Of love and war

So, it seems that in my excitement over having rounded the corner on my first year in LA, I overlooked another important anniversary this weekend - our country's three year mark at war. I don't remember where I was exactly when the war began (unlike when I learned the news of the Gulf War in Ms. Beshke's 9th grade English class), but I do remember how I spent that St. Patrick's Day weekend: doing the New York Times Sunday Crossword under a tree in Central Park with a boy who would later teach me what a bitter broken heart really felt like. Boo for March of '03 and kicking off things that probably shouldn't have been started in the first place.

A few weeks after that first date we came home from brunch at the Plaza and learned that NBC News Correspondant David Bloom had died. Bloom had been reporting from the desert in his then-groundbreaking mobile newsroom, and suffered a fatal pulmonary embolism from, essentially, doing his job for too long without stretching his legs. When we turned on TV, the news was covered on every channel through the various graphics and news crawlers that were so popular in the months that followed 9/11. Barely weeks into the war, we had lost our first recognizable figure, one who was widely considered to be a rising star in the unfolding drama.

It was a shock to me; he had been on the Today Show every morning, and, like we do with many TV stars, I had developed a sense of familiarity about him - like if we met, we'd be good friends. The boy was crushed. A fellow news reporter who actually bore a resemblance to Bloom, I noticed that day, he took the news hard. I don't know all of his personal reasons, but I can only assume he felt some kinship - on a greater level than my imaginary friendship - and that losing Bloom to the job they both loved was like staring a losing battle in the barrel of the gun and going in anyway.

I think the boy is a producer now, or at least picking up some work as an extra. The war, on the other hand, is still fighting the same battle it was three years ago.

You could say Seattle's not on my short list

I woke up at 7:30 AM today. Not quite sure how that happened since I went to bed at 2 AM last night, and, in fact, have been partying non-stop since Thursday. I stayed in bed for a while, trying to go back to sleep; but my brain, pushing past the familiar throb of a possible hangover, was just too excited to stay inactive. Excited for what, I don't know. My daily plans include nothing out of the ordinary, but that's the thing, I guess, about LA - the days just always seem to have so much promise.

People talk about our weather (what weather?) as being one of the best reasons to live here. I won't argue with 70 degree days, everyday, but I've found that it's not just the temperature that sets the mood, but the sun. When the sun is out, as it usually is, streaming through my window at 7 AM, I'm filled with an optimism I haven't felt since college or my early 20's. A whole day lies ahead, and in it I can do anything - have an exhilarating run, get in a canyon hike before lunch, find the perfect pair of black espedrilles that will last me through the summer. Even weekdays are easier. I find that I rarely have to set an alarm clock before work and, despite being in a professional holding pattern, I start each morning with genuine enthusiasm, looking forward to tackling whatever challenge might present itself.

In the first few weeks of my living here, when sunshine in March was still a novelty and I didn't have a job to rush off to in the mornings, I would sometimes sit on the floor in front of my big picture window, and, like a cat, bask in the sun's warming rays. Since I've gotten furniture, I don't sit on the floor too often, but something inspired me to do so this morning. Just five minutes of sitting in the sun was all the motivation I needed to get my coffee, apply brain to blog, and kick off year two in LA with just as much enthusiasm as I had when I arrived for year one. Coming off one of the best weekends I've had in a long time, I think I'm already off to a good start.

Doogie in the House

Tonight I had my first celebrity gym spotting - Neil Patrick Harris! He still has such a baby face I had a hard time convincing myself it wasn't just a look-alike UCLA undergrad, but there was no mistaking child prodigy Doogie Howser. I seemed to be the only one that recognized him, or maybe I was just the only one that cared.

One year in LA

I will try and write something more insightful tomorrow, but for now, I just had to say, a year ago today, I moved to LA. You can read here about my first exciting weekend as a west coaster.

I don't know if my unabashed enthusiasm leaps off the page or if I just remember wanting to jump out of my skin with excitement, but I dare you to find anyone else in this town as truly happy to be here as I was. And, in all honesty, still am.

Blahnik Bites It

You don't have to own a pair or have sat through more than one episode of Sex and the City to know that Manolo Blahnik makes legendary shoes. So I kind of feel that maybe the company has jumped the shark a bit with the launch of a new candle collection.

Whenever a high end designer launches an extension of their signature brand, be it fragrance, accessory, or home line, it's usually in the hopes of attracting would-be customers with more affordable "luxury" items. If a 29 year old woman like myself loves her Dior Addict perfume, you can bet she'll be shopping at the Dior boutique the first time her paycheck allows. The problem is that the strategy often takes on its own life and the brand ends up as a Designer Imposter spray sitting on some teenager's dusty shelf next to the Clearasil. Oh, sorry, enough about me.

That's not to say the brand extension won't work (although in my professional opinion they should have launched something that better reflected Mr. Blahnik's legendary craftmanship; candles are so, well, random, and from a company that makes shoes, well, I'm just saying its not the best connotation.) But it has been said that since SATC catapulted the shoe company to worldwide fame, the brand has suffered a bit of a backlash. Overexposure led the fashion-driven Carrie Bradshaws of the world to seek out the next best thing, which, going by the number of red soles in Hollywood, is Christian Louboutin. Pick up any UsWeekly or Star magazine - that celebrity's crimson sole isn't a reflection of the red carpet, but Mr. Louboutin's subtle, but brilliant, trademark.

I guess I see it like this: if Louboutin is It-Girl Lindsay Lohan, Manolo is Yesterday's News Paris Hilton. Somewhat appropriately, well-heeled rival Jimmy Choo has already aligned itself with Nicole Richie (via the ad campaign), so maybe the candle collection was really Manolo's way of channeling Paris - with something "that's hot." Too bad that is SO 2004.

Update 3/16 - Note this relevant story than ran in the NY Observer that covers said backlash.

Update 3/30 - More consensus that candle collection might not be the best, um, step.

March Madness, Redux

I'm a few days away from my one year anniversary of living in LA (cards and flowers may be sent for Saturday delivery, thank you), and I can't help but already be nostalgic for that week, that month, a year ago. The day I left New York I wrote something about how the past had a remarkable way of repeating itself when the end was near; and, as the calendar approaches the same date in 2006, I have the same odd sense of deja vu I felt at this time last year.

For one, March Madness is here, Syracuse is playing, and I'm overwhelmed by the school spirit my fellow alumni have both for our team and for power drinking nearly 8 years out of college. Same scene, different coast. I can't imagine life any other way.

Two, New York magazine just came out with its annual "Best of" issue. That issue last year named the bar at which I was having my going away party the "Best DJ Bar" in New York - five days before my party. Instead of adding excitement or cache to the night, it just meant that a lot of my friends couldn't get in.

The flowers in my front yard that greeted me upon my official arrival have bloomed again; from now on, I will look forward to seeing them every March and will think of them as my perennial welcome banner.

And finally, what better explanation than subliminal deja vu to explain why I randomly busted out the fugly Mossimo sweat pants this weekend - for the first time since they were banished to the back of my closet LAST March. This time though, there was no fashion-savvy wino to offer his opinion.

My space, having nothing to do with MySpace

As an only child, I grew up with a good amount of personal space. I had my own bedroom, my own bathroom, and because my mom typically worked late evenings, my own dinner in front of my own TV which played whichever program I chose to watch. Unlike most of my friends, I never had to deal with siblings fighting to change the channel, vie for parental attention, or bother me in the least. And this suited me just fine. I like to think that the constant quiet allowed my imagination to thrive, uninterrupted, and the imposed autonomy set forth an internal confidence with which I still carry today.

That's not to say I was spoiled, necessarily, or one of those annoying sheltered kids that can't adapt when you give them a taste of the real world. The epitome of the adaptable, sociable Gemini, I happily spent my summers sharing camp cabins with no less than 10 other girls, and for one year, a sorority house with 26 more. I'm even still friends with every roommate I've ever had. But I still really like - no, need - my space, and I tend to get a little bit of agita if I go too long without some peace and quiet.

So, it was kind of hard this weekend sharing my one-bedroom, thin-walled apartment with my mother. One one hand, she is the ultimate houseguest - neat, quiet as a mouse, considerate, washes my dishes, gets me coffee just as I'm waking up so by the time my contacts are in, it's just the right temperature. (Okay, I'm a little bit spoiled.) On the other hand, I have a one-bedroom, thin-walled apartment.

A naturally early riser whose internal clock has been set to EST, my mom woke every day around 4 AM. Even though she tried to keep quiet, I would hear from the next room, acutely aware of the change in energy. My first few mornings were clouded by Vicodin, so I was able to turn over and continue in slumber; but by Sunday I woke when she did, agitated by the slightest rustle of sheets or steps on my squeaky floorboards. Were I a more patient girl, I would have smiled with comfort and fallen back asleep reassured by my familial company; but, patience has never been one of my strong points and it just made me annoyed. (Okay, I'm a LOT spoiled.) Of course, the fact that I was annoyed just made feel supremely guilty, since the whole reason my mom had made the trip was to make sure I comfortably survived the pulling of the wisdom teeth, and here I was contemplating how I might slip her two of my Vicodin.

It makes me wonder: having spent nearly 30 years alone, following my own schedule, my own personal whims, will I ever be able to adapt to someone else's life? Not that I'm there now, but will I ever be able to live with someone, like a husband, who might not want me to drug him just so I can get a good night sleep?

I dropped my mom off at the airport today at noon, and instead of relishing my freedom I immediately longed for her return. I guess like the best of sisters, we can co-exist in a tiny apartment and spat out fights in one hour, and collapse in giggles in the next. Her restless energy is both exhausting and contagious - and I know, the genetic source of my own. She's the most fun person with whom anyone would ever want to share a bottle of wine, and she's the one person who genuinely shares my enthusiasm over the offerings at Whole Foods or the discovery of a new South Beach frozen pizza.

Tonight, my apartment seems too quiet, empty. My couch is still indented with the spot she sat in for four days, quietly reading her book, sipping her drinks; the empty space looks lonely, like it's waiting for her return. I don't dare sit in it yet.

Tonight, I guess, I will sleep through the night, uninterrupted; but tomorrow will be a lot less fun to wake up to without her here.

Lori, 1; Wisdom teeth, 0

Exactly 24 hours after undergoing surgery, I'm up and about - drinking coffee, blogging, planning my day. For all my years of procrastinating, the procedure was embarrassingly easy. I walked in at 9:00, went under at 9:15, and walked out the door at 9:45. Sure, I don't remember the ride home, or much in between the times of 9:15 and say, noon, but my mom said that the doctor said it was an easy surgery with minimal bleeding, and no need for stitches. Sorry, was that too much information?

The anesthesia made me incredibly tired, so I slept for most of the day yesterday, only waking up to take my antibiotics and vicodin. Today, my jaw is a bit sore but I think I'm okay enough to downgrade to Aleve. And aside from the free meds, I've discovered two additional benefits of getting my teeth out:

1.) Sore mouth=liquid diet=pounds lost!

2.) 20 hours of continuous sleep=disappearance of undereye bags!

Had someone told me this surgery had not only health, but cosmetic benefits, I might have scheduled it long ago.

Magdalenian Girl and Me

The timing of this story is oddly appropriate as I am getting mine out on Friday. I guess she was a late bloomer, as well.

Wish me luck, and look for at least one post written under the influence of a codeine cocktail!

LA Friends

Funny how I had to move out of New York in order to hang out with a bunch of dark-haired Jews.

Nigella Lawson, I'm not

So, I've been living in this apartment for 11 months and two weeks now. Back in week one, way before I even found the supermarket, I decided to make pasta for dinner one night, using a box of spaghetti and jar of tomato sauce that Ted had left for me in the cupboard. When I went to boil the water on the stove, though, only gas came out, no fire. Perplexed, I dumped the water in the sink and called for takeout.

I asked around to my neighbors and my landlord, and the general consensus was that my pilot light must be out. My landlord suggested calling the Gas company to come over and fix it, but the idea of spending a Saturday waiting for them never appealed to me; so, I've spent the last 50 weeks microwaving Lean Cuisines and frankly, not minding at all. Because I don't have a dishwasher, home cooking would be that much more of a chore, and well, I lived off Boca Burgers for 6 years - these microwave dinners are culinary bliss in comparison.

But okay, once in a while I do get the urge to bake Toll House cookies, and I sometimes get invited to dinner parties in which I am expected to bring something homemade; then there are also times when I think to myself, I'm going to be 30, and the thought of living for a year without a working stove is just depressing. I mean, how am I ever going to land a man if I can't whip up a spell in the cauldron?

With a little good natured (guilt) pressure from my mother (thanks Mom!) who is coming to visit this weekend, I finally got on the ball and asked my handy neighbor to take a look at my stove. There, flickering in the dark, were all my pilot lights in working order. The burners needed a bit of encouragement from my lighter in order to reach their flame potential, but flame they did. While it might not be the best working stove in LA, it does work, and now I'm going to have to find a much more creative excuse for not cooking.

Hey, I still don't have a dishwasher...

Live from my couch, where I've been for the last five and a half hours

Okay, so I saw Crash back when it came out, and while it was a great picture, I don't think it was worthy of the "best" title. I wish Brokeback had won, not necessarily to make a political statement, but to compensate for the losses of the Best Actor and Best Supporting awards. I didn't see Capote, but I was hoping that if Heath had to lose, it would have been to Yummy (though increasingly bloated) Joaquin Phoenix. Speaking of Heath, what was Michelle wearing? I'm not at all mad about saffron.

Other notes:
- Judging by her hair and makeup, Dolly Parton takes association withTransAmerica way too literally
- Typically-chic Felicity Huffman is at least a decade too old to be wearing Zac Posen; just ask her sternum
- Sandra Bullock preggers or just chub? Publicity-driven faux date Keanu obviously meant as a distraction
- Large green goiter steals spotlight from Charlize
- I quit Team Aniston midpoint through her presentation

I'm looking forward to reading recap coverage tomorrow (work? what?), especially to see how the public viewed Jon Stewart's performance. I'm not a big fan of the Daily Show and wasn't sure what to expect from him, but I actually quite enjoyed him as host. I'm interested to find out if that's because I fit his target audience (liberal, Jewish) or because he was genuinely funny.

Just a little bit obsessed

One of the best things about living on the west coast is that the Best Actor/Actress/Director/Picture awards will air at a decent hour.

One of the worst things is having to start my day ay 8:30 AM, just to fit everything in before the red carpet coverage starts at 3.

Not quite what they meant by "Sideways", Last call

Are you as sick of this story as I am? This is the last of the wine trip posts, I promise. But if you're just tuning in and have, say, an hour of time to spare, catch up on parts 1, 2, and 3 here, here, and here.

Some trivia about the movie Sideways is that the title is in reference to the feeling one gets from drinking wine; in essence, "sideways" is a more creative term for "drunk". I was in no way drunk or even tipsy, but I did spent the rest of the night sideways - curled up in a ball in the hotel bed, wishing my fever away, wondering when, how, I could have possibly picked up this sudden bug. Pity party of 1, your table is ready!

We had discussed going to dinner at The Hitching Post, one of the most prominent settings in the movie and situated less than a mile from our hotel, but there was no way I could have sat upright for two hours. I sent Kristin and Heather without me, and they, of course, met two guys who paid them compliments and paid for their meal. I, per usual, miss all the good stuff. Pity party, 1? Going once!

Few things are worse than learning the details of someone else's illness, unless it's listening to someone else's pity party, so I'll wrap it up. By the next day the worst had passed, and I felt fine to drive everyone out of Santa Ynez and back to their respective airports. At 8 AM, the car ride back was more subdued than the drive we shared going up. Our anticipation earlier in the week was so physically tangible, it had been like a fourth passenger - one we must have left in Solvang on Friday night. In its place we got Heavy Silence, or Contemplation, neither of which are any fun.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I just felt deflated - my fabulous weekend planned for months, tainted by situations completely beyond our control. I felt guilty that Heather was so far away from her grieving family, which was clearly where she mentally needed to be. I was also privately frustrated - I get so little time with these girls, my closest friends, and here I wasted precious moments being sick. Not that it was my fault, but like I've said before, God has a funny sense of humor, and apparently appreciates a good laugh at my expense.

Overall, the trip was amazing - the very best thing I have done in years. Fun, for fun's sake. I'm just afraid the memory will remain bittersweet, a red wine stain on my mental scrapbook.

Not quite "Sideways" Part III, or Jeepers Weepers

Miss parts 1 and 2? Grab some wine and read them here and here.

With nine hours of sleep under our quickly-widening belts, we woke up bright and early on Saturday, ready to start the day. I had booked a Jeep company to take us on a tour of the bigger wineries, but since they weren't coming until 11, we had a few hours to eat and shop on our own. We headed back into Solvang where we enjoyed a hearty breakfast at Paula's Pancake House, and shopped for overpriced trinkets that have no place in my modern apartment.

We pulled back up to the hotel at 10:45, and there, shining brighter than the blazing sun, was our big yellow Jeep ready to take us on an open air tour of the grounds. Because the Jeep holds six - and we were only three - there was to be a second party in our group: three women our mothers' age with enough collective energy to power the Jeep even without gas. We were greeted camera lens first, overwhelmed by hearty hellos and welcoming whoops. Would we have to stay with them all day, I thought?

A bit taken aback but excited for a good story, we piled in the Jeep and prepared for 50 MPH winds whipping through our carefully coiffed 'dos. The Firestone Vineyard was first on the agenda, and a Bachelor Andrew sighting was high on our weekend priority list - windswept hair or not. The vineyard was beautiful - large, rolling desert hills, lush foliage, and striking bluejays completely unafraid to be privy to the party. The scenery - and our lives - couldn't have been more presently perfect; therefore, what better time for God to shake things up, ensuring no one was truly happy for longer than our selfish hearts were deserving?

Heather left the tasting room on an emotional high; the physical beauty of the vineyard was moving enough to want to share with her family. Fifteen minutes later I found her outside crying, bawling, if you will, on the phone with her mom who just explained that the family dog had died that day. It wasn't completely unexpected, but sooner than anyone thought, and apparently closer to the family than any pets I've ever had. She was beyond consoling. We all tried to do our part in comforting while also giving her space, but an unmistakeable shadow had been cast on the day.

Not that our three companions would let that slow them down. After trying their best to lift Heather's spirits (to be honest, they offered better advice than me), they decided to sing songs, based on any random word we threw out. Mountain? "Climb every mountain!" Yellow? "We all live in a yellow submarine!" Yeah. It was awkward.

So we headed to Kohler nonetheless; Heather managing to stop crying only so our three new friends might leave her alone. Halfway through the second tasting, though, I started to feel strange. First I thought I was just full - I ate a small breakfast but last night's dinner and wine selection were surely still in Bodyland. Then I thought maybe I was just going too fast - sniffing the wine too quickly, taking large, careful sips - must be gas piling too quickly in my stomach. Funny how no one else had this problem. By the time we arrived at our third winery in Los Olivos, I felt even worse - my back was hurting - surely from standing up at each bar for so long. And this is when I knew something was not right: I actually stopped drinking.

If you haven't figured it out by now - not from reading this post but from reading this blog over the last year and a half - I like to drink. There's very rarely, if ever, a time that I won't drink, and while it's not necessarily something I'm proud of, it's something I'm keenly aware of and, for the most part, embrace. But I couldn't drink now. The thought of ingesting one more thing - even the finest wines in the region - weirded me out. So I took a break. Uncharacteristic, but we still had the day in front of us, and surely it would pass, I would come in strong for the comeback late in the game - slow but steady, right?

Oh, I was so wrong. We arrived at Bridlewood, the most scenic and historic of all the vineyards, and we were to eat a picnic lunch before the tasting. If there's one thing I do more than drink, it's eat, yet here I had no appetite. At this, I started getting really scared. I can always eat! I thought maybe I was internalizing some of Heather's pain and that was causing me to be too full to drink, but there's always room for lunch in my stomach. But not today. After lunch the group went tasting, and I stayed outside having a minor, personal panic attack, freaking out at the fact that I was missing crucial time with my friends, one of whom was mourning her dog, wondering if I was imaging the whole thing in my head for some personal, need-for-drama reason, but WHY THE HELL DOES MY BACK HURT SO MUCH??? Near tears in my own personal pity party, I contemplated calling home but tried to hold it together for the sake of not having two criers on the Jeep. There's no crying in wine tasting!

The final winery was Kalyra - where Miles and Jack meet Sandra Oh in the film - and I didn't even try. I stayed in the Jeep the entire time, shivering in the 75 degree sun and stretching my achy back over the two back seats. To look at me, you'd think, poor drunk girl, can't hold her liquor. To you, I'd say, liquor? I hardly know her! I haven't had a drop in four hours! Beyotch! But I wouldn't have had the strength, so you could have judged me all you want.

By the end of five wineries our companion trio finally ran out of songs, though oddly, not out of energy, and we all arrived back at our hotel at 4 PM on the dot. I tipped the tour guide and counted the steps to the elevator, and the seconds until I could collapse my sad, feverish body into bed.

To be continued...