D-I-V-O-R-C-E

It pains me to admit it, but Saturday night came and went without the imbibing of wine. It just didn't seem the thing, after Lemony Snicket, popcorn, Junior Mints and Schlotsky's.

Or maybe it's that the only open bottle at home was the 2002 Seigneurs de Bergerac, a blend of Merlot, Cab and Cab Franc that sounded promising. It was inexpensive (Lucas Liquors), and since it was a baby meritage, I had hopes for it. They were dashed. Had I considered it beforehand, I might have tried smuggling in a smidge of wine to accompany my Schlotzky's veggie sandwich. What goes with salt and vinegar potato chips? I'll have to ponder that.

Eh, as I've said many times before, and as the Stones said before me, you can't always get what you want.

In less than a week, I'm going to say goodbye to my two children, Ellie and Max. I've housed them and fed them and loved them for half their lives, but the time is upon me to let them go. Their Mom needs them, and I must learn to live without them. I have other children to tend, and Ellie and Max are returning to the home in which they were raised. They're actually my stepchildren, you see, and I have no wish to engage in a battle for custody. No, they rightfully belong to Kathy, and to Waldo they must return.

Not that Ellie is going to understand that. She's a sensitive, moody, needy girl, and I've spent more time with her these past years than her Mommy has. In fact, I've slept with her in my bed more than I have with Kathy, strange though that is to consider. I expect the adjustment will be most difficult for Ellie. Max is okay as long as his sister is with him -- she always has been -- and I will be okay. In time. Eventually. With some months under my belt. And the other babies to distract me.

And really, life will be easier. Physically, anyway. Tons less poop to pick up, Tons less chow to feed, Tons less mobile veterinarian visits, But still it makes me weep. . . (with apologies to Marilyn McCue and the Fifth Dimension)

This is the bitter taste of divorce. It sucks. It blows. It hurts. Despite the lack of a marriage contract. Despite the fact that Ellie and Max are frisky dogs, not little people. It's a sad truth that sometimes love just ain't enough. Not even when it's returned.

For Kathy, with whom I shared a home, a family, a life:

Interlude

On a suspension bridge
we are suspended
clear bracing air filtering the brown breezes
filling the space that surrounds us.

Rocking in a simulacrum of safety
familiar as salt
familiar as the cradle of your arms
I cannot believe we are at an end.
The bridge is so long
so seemingly strong/though
I cut the trusses myself
though I had help
though I know
outside the rocking I know
I had help.

In the dear known planes of your face
I touch my home
in the wrench of your mouth
I know my pain
and yours
and the pain to come.

Below us the tidal basin.

When the sun breaks
we will fall
Remember my heart
the art of floating.

The bridge tips toward the water
Iron. Inexorable.

Thrumming with terror
out beyond the collapsing span
I set my eyes on a splash of light
in the west.

I will miss Ellie and Max. I miss their mother. I love her, of course, and when she stops hating me so much she will remember that she loves me as well. We're family. We became a family because of love, and we'll remain family even as we step into separate lives, in separate houses.

The thought of this loss makes me want to howl at the moon. That's what wolves do. Dogs do. Humans -- well, we've been known to wail, and to gnash our teeth. We're animals, after all. When we're wounded, we howl with misery. And sometimes we drown our sorrows. What's the proper wine for the deep sting of divorce?

The Days of our Wines

My baby cried out in her sleep today. I ran down the hall and into the bedroom, heart in mouth, to find her curled up on the bedspread still snoozing. It's come to this: She even calls to her Mommy in her dreams. Usually, she pads crookedly into the computer room to bitch me out for some perceived failure to anticipate her needs -- hunger, fresher litter, some plain old wait-on-me need for attention. (It's Andie, without the arthritis! With the fur coat! Without the litter box! With. . . you get the idea.)

Last night, Brandyn shared our in-bed feast of guacamole and veggie tacos, but skipped the accompanying Dark Star Cellars 2001 Paso Robles Syrah from Meeker Vineyard. Tasting Notes: Yum Yum Yum! Let's hear it for small family wineries! And small families. . .

A long time ago, in a land called Missouri, in a country called America, where a man named Ronnie was King, there lived a couple in a house at the end of a dead-end street that abutted a horse pasture. This couple had a feline child, Radclyffe, who died young and broke their hearts. They also raised another child, Jackson, a canine gamboler of mostly German (shepherd) descent. Long after the couple divorced, the woman Laura lived with Jackson, who gladdened her heart.

When Jackson passed on to the great Robandee fields in the sky, I (the other half of the couple) wrote a story of his life, and death. Although this was many years ago, I cannot read the story of Jackson without crying, even now. He was a gallant, steadfast, headstrong dog, and his like will not soon come again.

Laura was blessed with another puppy, Pablo, a Chocolate Lab who grew to be nearly 100 pounds. She was so close to Pablo, so entwined with him, that her friends could not decide if their attachment was humorous, or scarily intimate. When Pablo became ill, diagnosed with an advanced stage of cancer, Laura spent much money and time to help her friend. Pablo, sweet and loving Pablo, died swiftly for all Laura's efforts, and a new wound was laid on her heart. And mine.

WHY do we have animals? WHY do we raise pets? They cost money, they cause trouble, they end up breaking our hearts, and they don't even clean house, or fetch wine. What's the POINT? What's the POINT, I howl to the maddening sky, what's the POINT???? I'm TIRED of losing my best friends!

When I was a high-schooler, I and all my peers read Kahlil Gibran, the Lebanese prophet, and were enchanted by such wisdom as "But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love; let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. "

Yesterday, decades after I last read Gibran, I came across this quote of his as I lay sniffling with my old baby cat in my arms, "Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding."

Bitter Dregs

The words have been changed, but the wine remains

Today's original post is being excised at the behest of an introvert, who had suggested that for her, wine was a more apt metaphor for love than life. "Love is more like wine. . . Life is something that happens to us - we are born, we die, today is cold, tomorrow is warm, yesterday there were floods. . . Life happens every day. Love/wine - now there's something we choose! And develop our "palates" for...."

As if one needs another reason to drink. . . The journal Diabetes Care tells us that drinking alcohol -- in moderation, folks -- makes one less likely to develop such yucky things as high blood pressure, a chunky waist and low levels of good cholesterol. (I can never remember -- is that HDL? LDL? LOL? AWOL? But enough about our Liar-in-Chief. . . ) Drink up to 19 glasses of wine a month and you're 35% less likely than those pitiable non-drinkers to have those symptoms, known as metabolic syndrome.

Drink more than 20 drinks a month, and cut your risk even more. Stick to wine, that's the ticket -- and don't overdo it, or your health will get WORSE, not better. You can also court health with a beer a day -- if you must. As for me, beer is only good ice cold, on a hot day. And even then, one is more than enough.

Another Saturday night, and I ain't got my honey. . .
Yes, let's hear it for the Virgo! My way belated birthday gift from Debra is the 2005 Wine Guide, and a bottle of wine that she left on the counter at home. She claims. We were forced to start the evening with my 2003 Concho y Tora Casillero del Diablo, an inexpensive Chilean Cab with vanilla and cherry notes that isn't memorable enough to buy again, despite its 90-point rating from Wine & Spirits.

Then it was off to Houston's for a veggie burger. Luckily, there was only a 40-minute wait. They claimed. So there we are at the crowded bar, all abustle on a weekend night, lucky to snag stools, and Debra is ordering her usual potion, Malibu and pineapple juice. Yo-ho-ho! I'm perusing the wine menu. . . Hmm, a Newton Claret. . . . I consult the bartender; she's of the opinion that if I like dry wines, the Newton is gonna be too sweet. I talk her into a sample. She brings over a more than healthy shot, two or three ounces, and it's. . . completely non-descriptive. Nothing to object to. A bit too warm - hey, it's Houston's -- and smooth.

Next, she suggests the Firestone Cabernet. I swirl, I sniff, I sip. It doesn't turn my crank either, although the service I'm receiving is turning a few heads. Another young bartender volunteers a smidge of the Clos du Val Merlot. So now, I'm at this packed bar and I have three large glasses in front of me in a matter of 90 seconds, all sloshing with a shot o' red wine, and I notice I'm being noticed by more than a few fellow bar sitters. I exchange a comment or two about "Sideways" with the person nearest me, as my friend swears I am NOT a wine rep, or a wine buyer. A bit shamefacedly, I order the Merlot. 'Cuz it may be a Merlot, all soft and non-challenging, but its TASTE beats the Newton lips down, and I can't remember a thing about the Cab.

And as a gray Kenny Rogers/Kris Kristofferson clone keeps his eyes pinned on me from across the bar, I wonder if it's the flashy blonde giggling animatedly at my elbow (friend Debra happens to be eye candy), or if it's that I'm so obviously a wine freak. I try to sniff and swirl inconspicuously, I swear I do -- all I want is to experience the nose and the first palate impression -- but still I must stand out, if nothing else by virtue of the wine glasses lined up before me. I wish that guy would stop staring.

Too bad I'm a Virgo, not a Leo, or I could leap up on the bar clutching my three glasses and yell, "Got WINE?" Then I'd smile at the graybeard, point to him, and say, "The gentleman there is buying a round for everyone!" I'm sure Debra and I could escape in the confusion of Musical Chairs that would follow.

Chaos and Zins

The most difficult thing I do most days is to decide what it is I'm feeling; what it is that is churning the most intensely in my belly. Is it my fear of loss, triggered by Brandyn's impending dance with the Grim Reaper? Is it money worries? Is it that feeling of being overwhelmed by mess and minutia, as when I step into my "office" to see mounds of paper leering at me; or panic at structural decay, touched when I see that the kitchen is beyond needing new paint, or the gutters need cleaning and the driveway needs patching and the hot tub needs a new filter and the birds are pooping all over the porch and where did I put that bill from MasterCard and the junk drawer is spilling over and I haven't gone to the rental house to clean up the gross fridge yet and I have cases of wine stored in the basement instead of the wine cooler which is full and will that wine age properly and why hasn't Laura called about that book I want to borrow and oh crap I forgot to call Kelly back about a coffee date and I need to start gathering stuff for my taxes and ask Sus's friend about getting that de-wormer for Picasso and talk to Jay again about the tree trimming and the oil gasket leak and remind Darcy that Jay isn't working and dam! I forgot to drop off Susan's New Year's gift but the sidewalks are so treacherous and Dio is whining for a walk but he's got that bad paw and everything is so icy and I want to send Cara that link about the self-destruction of the GOP but don't want to offend her and if Andie picks me up for dinner should we change the sheets then or wait until later in case Pook has an accident and I wonder if Robin reached Sherri about her overdue payment and why hasn't Gary dropped off his check and if Debra wants to hang out here Saturday I need to find time to do the floors and is it best to do my workout when I'm fresh in the morning or should I stick to the afternoon and save the early part of the day for writing and should I call the doctor to cancel that appointment to see if I have skin cancer since that ugly mark is fading on its own and when will Linda give me her 3-month schedule so we can plan a trip to Tucson and why wasn't I invited on the Galapagos trip not that I could go because of my ailing baby, but still. . .

Okay, it's definitely the overwhelming thing today. So: Just pick one task to tackle. One at a time. That's the way to beat back the chaos. And when that starts to grate, I'll give myself a break and do a Gomer's run, beause they've got their Zinfandels on sale and I'd like to try that Rosenblum Cuvee, and maybe the Cosentino Cigar Zin. It is so much fun for me that Andie is starting to dig wine. My grin leaped to my earlobes the other night when I walked up her drive and saw her through the window, sitting on the couch, scribbling on the crossword and pausing to lift a glass of wine to her lips. The look on her face was so contemplative, so considering, that I knew what she was doing was TASTING. Really really pausing to taste her wine.

The King-Sized Diaper

In what I hope is not a preview of my own dotage, I now sleep under a diaper (on my king-sized mattress) composed of two tablecloths sewn together by my domestic goddess, she of the copper hair and Woody Woodpecker laugh. The tablecloths are green, a nice touch to match the eyes of Brandyn, the reason for the creative diaper. Along with her chronic kidney failure, my 20-year-old companion is exhibiting signs of incontinence, mostly when her geriatric shrunken little frame is sound asleep at night. In short, my baby is starting to wet the bed.

I change my bedding enough, thank you very much. Andie's supersized diaper saves me much time and frustration: A wet spot? Whisk off the top coverlet, toss it in the wash, wipe down the vinyl urine-catcher, toss on a new top cover, et voila! Fresh diaper, fresh bed, happy sleepers.

The Pookster and I slept very well last night. She was happily drowsy after chowing down on her late dinner, Salmon Surprise, delivered by me from the Andie manse in Waldo South. I was replete with dinner and the Lindemann's Reserve 2003 Shiraz, rated a respectable 89 points by Wine Spectator. Not as distinctive as the Milton Park 2002 Shiraz, but plummy and pleasant. Worth the sale price of $10, though I'm not sure I'd pay the full $13.99 it usually fetches. For that, I could snag another bottle of the Banfi Chianti Classico 2000. And a note of warning: the lower-priced regular Lindemann's Shiraz isn't worth the $7 it costs. You're better off with the reds from Rosemount if you're looking for decent quaffs under $10. Still, the Lindemann's Semillon/Chardonnay is always good. Go for the cheaper Australian whites, is what I'm sayin', not the reds.

I was crushed to find that Costco didn't have any more of the Simi 2001 Landslide Cabernet Sauvignon, by all accounts a massive wine, and a steal at $24. Osco on Wornall has it for $29, and it's worth every penny, according to the resident wine freak. Costco looked to be low on most offerings in the wine department, perhaps a result of the recent holidays; or, more likely, the long-lasting ice storm hangover. People flock to Costco to stock up when there's warning of bitter weather. Most of my own Sunday Costco run had to do with refilling the pet larder, as both dogs and cats were running low on grub. The Costco Kirkland brand is excellent, and less than 40 cents a pound. Winetaster's shopping tip o' the week. . .

Picasso and the Dog Catcher

Barely fortified by a middling sized (grande) cup of Verona from the Westport Starbucks, I made it back from Waldo South by 8 a.m. On a Saturday. After a Friday evening spent at Fric 'n Frac. Bad mommy, bad! All the companion canines had their legs crossed -- hello, biped, how would YOU like to go 11 hours without a pee? Nah, didn't think so! Still, it's not as if the pups had a skinful to burden their bladders -- and neither did I. Sigh. 'Twas a wineless evening, as horrific as that sounds.

It's a Fric 'n Frac thing. Stopped girlfriend from ordering wine at the neighborhood joint. Inferior jugs, open god-knows-how-long, do not make for quaffable wine. The tiny slosh of pink stuff delivered to a nearby table confirmed my disdainful take on "bars and grills" -- unless yer a fan of "White Zinfandel," don't EVEN order vino at dives. Order things that come in closed containers. Beer. Or beer. Or perhaps beer.

Not being a beer drinker, I had what is quaintly termed a "margarita" at F & F. It's not lacking in tequila or mix, but it always comes. . . carbonated. Bubbly. Ennyhoo -- I slouched home from Starbucks with my companion firecracker, she of the red hair and fiery disposition. It was a new day. A Saturday.

Dropped off Picasso's daily fare (a few cups of Kirkland Chicken and Rice, dry, with a partial can of wet) in the evergreens, a task made more challenging by the ice-coated evergreens bending down to the ground. Slithering on my belly, I managed to snag the empty bowl and replace it with the full, gathering the usual pine needles down the back of my pants, with the lovely addition of sleet particles. My darling wild dog did not make an appearance during the butt-chilling morning foray, but I didn't think much of it, being more focused on rushing home to Brandyn and the rest of the pack.

Pack sated, Brandyn doing better, I was startled to see an Animal Control truck slowly cruising down my street. Startled, and suspicious. And, quickly, anxious -- anxiety being my forte. From calm to fretful, in five seconds. Was the guy after Picasso? Worse, was Picasso injured, or dead? Stomach jumping, cursing not so softly, I watched from my window as the truck driver walked a small circle around 26th and Charlotte. He didn't seem to find anything, which perked me up a bit. No way Picasso would get caught by ANYONE, if he weren't crippled.

Girlfriend and I hit the streets just as the truck departed. Slushy, frozen, grey snow/ice crunched beneath our boots as we made the trek 'round the block, tracking doggie footprints and wondering where in Hades the warming trend was. It's been four days since I was able to enter my icicle of a car, and I had hoped to make a Costco run. . . ah well. We proceeded to Picasso's evergreen hideout, his Midtown den where only I and a few others know there is an igloo doghouse cached away from prying eyes.

I don't know if Picasso has ever USED his kennel, mind you, but it comforts me to know that he can survive any Kansas City weather if he's inside it. And the boy is a survivor, no doubt about that. It's been years, perhaps three, since Laura and I first spotted him limping through the neighborhood. No one has ever gotten close enough to pet him, although for many months all the Hospital Hill interns and students dumped fast-food leftovers by his intersection.

I spotted Picasso as we turned the corner onto 25th Street, heading east to Charlotte. He seemed okay, and I inwardly cheered his victory over the forces of Animal Control. The driver probably never even saw our boy.

Picasso knows me, knows my voice, as much as he knows anyone, I suspect. I'm the daily deliverer of a hot breakfast, and that counts for much, even in the world of wolves. Wild dogs, that is. Lone ranger. Piney recluse.

Still, even though I'm the feeder, and the namer, I was surprised when Picasso popped out to follow me up the street. That's only the second time he's ever done that -- the other time when I was walking Dio. That was when I first wondered if Picasso were a female, Dio being a stud of a dog and Picasso showing friendly interest.

"He just wants food," Andie opined. "Well get him some then," I responded, worried my Picasso would cross the street into traffic. I crossed back to his side, and waited while girlfriend trudged up the hill to fetch the grub. Picasso had re-hidden himself by the time his second helping was deposited, but I imagine he's up there now, snoozing on a full belly and dreaming of how well he's got his humans trained.

That's what HE thinks. No way I'm sharing my stash of wine with that mutt, no matter how prettily he bats his eyes.

A Toast to Barbara Boxer

If Senator Boxer were in my home right now, I'd salute her with a raised glass of '99 Tomassi Ripasso. I'd even offer her a 7-ounce pour in my favorite oversized crystal. My favorite wine, in my favorite glass, for my favorite U.S. Senator: the only member of the Senate with the balls to lodge a symbolic protest against the "irregularities" of the 2004 election.

Irregularities being shorthand for voter fraud, disenfranchisement, long lines, scarce machines, Blackwell shennanigans, Diebold boasts, electronic disappearing ink, and everything else that reminded us all of the stolen election of 2000. People, how long does it TAKE to clean up our voting act?

Ugly shades of Katherine and Jeb: Repug after Repug lined up at the mike to tell America that Rep. Conyers, Tubbs Jones and every other concerned member of Congress who had the temerity to speak out for voters that -- there was NO problem with Election 2004! And besides, it's all Michael Moore's fault!

Rest easy, Bill Clinton: the G.O.P. hatemongers have a new whipping boy in Mr. Fahrenheit 9/11. After they draw and quarter the oversized rabble rouser from Flint, that dam' Barbara Boxer better watch out, cuz thar's a dunkin' stool in her future. Burn that broad at the stake!

Sigh. I love my country. But this Bushco-aided slide into neocon, religious extremist, sociopathic fact-denying intolerance has me longing for a drink. And it's not yet 4 o'clock. Still, it's Friday, and even if the Milton Park 2002 Shiraz bit the happy dust Sunday, today is another weekend. I'm thinking Chateau St. Michelle 2001 Cab. . . only it needs to breathe. After the disgusting spectacle of Dems joining Repugs to endorse the specious Electoral College tally, I need to breathe myself. I might even need a beer.

Life in Wine

No doubt there are hundreds of clever ways to compare wine to life, or life to wine. I'll let others do that, or I'll attempt it on a day when I'm less sad, or lazy, or snowed in. For now, I'll just say that I can't imagine a life without wine; that is, I can't imagine MY life without wine. I'd sooner give up cheesecake, or sour cream, or Tucson sunsets.

Okay, maybe not Tucson sunsets.

Life is choice; is acceptance; is plateau or tsunami (the word 'o the week, and much preferable to Iraq; devastation; immoral war; Bush; Gonzales; Rumsfeld; lies lies and damned lies).

Life is choice. Why not choose wine? Why not choose that which tastes good, which warms the belly, softens the humors, blunts the edges of a painful world, provokes conversation (at least for the first two glasses) and promotes the bonds of friendship?

Speaking of friendship: For New Year's Eve, Andie and I schlepped two bottles of red to Laura's, to celebrate her fourth anniversary with Porkchop. One was a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon recommended by the wine freak at the Osco at 75th & Wornall (yep, the Osco), a soft Chilean beauty whose name utterly escapes me at present; the other a simple El Viaje Syrah -- both bottled in 2000, the year our happy couple met.

It was a purely symbolic gesture, as Laura opted for a very wet Ketel One martini (her second of the evening), and Porkchop stuck to a mug o' Guinness. Still, Andie and I enjoyed the fruity charms of Dame Dona Whatshername, and all of us were sufficiently freshened to slope to the living room for a rousing, amusing hour of karaoke. Porkchop is an accomplished singer, of course (appearing at Jilly's this Saturday night!), and Laura is a Leo. My own vocal talents are conspicuously absent, a sad deficiency in an otherwise richly gifted individual (okay, I can't draw, either), but Andie. .. oh Andie, redheaded extrovert of my heart. We couldn't peel the microphone from Andie's warm white fingers. (Girlfriend was way sore-throated in the morning. Although perhaps that was the Macanudo with which she puffed in the new year.)

Nor did we try. Even though we had to listen to WAY too many songs from Grease. And Sonny and Cher. Still, Porkchop and Andie were more than passably good on their unrehearsed take of California Dreamin'. I don't know who was the Momma and who the Papa.

Andie and I saw in The Year of Our Lord 2005 with a private turn on the dance floor to Hallelujah, k.d. lang's cover of the Leonard Cohen ode to painful love. And speaking of painful love, you don't know pain until you learn that your love of 20 years is dying. Oh, she's been fading slowly for a while now, growing ever skinnier and slower, her stark beauty dimmed by the ravages of time. I've been in love with her since we met, all her demanding, spunky, peevish intensity and huge green eyes combining to send a bolt of pure passion through my heart. I love her more than wine itself.

And she's dying. Squeezing my heart 'til it drips tears of lemon. These next few months are going to test me more than her, I suspect. I've always been there for her, and that won't change. But I will. I can't conceive of a life without her, although I know it's coming. I've always known it was coming. Known that I courted the largest loss of my life in loving her, known that the price would have to be paid.

For Brandyn, love of my life, I wrote this elegy. I wrote it a number of years ago, when I could still breathe through the wind of pain whistling through my bones. I wrote this for me, for her, at a time when I drank as many white wines as red. That time is behind me, although Brandyn isn't. Not yet. Not quite yet.

Out of death

you sprang
into my life/my house
irascible, querulous, demanding.
How could I know
you'd outlast four loves
two therapists one marriage
watch me through my transformation
unchanged?
In your annual descents into madness
morphing into a white-fanged demon
of a vicious sudden moment
I hid my fear, swabbed the wound
waited for reason to return
held to the unshakable debt I owed:
your steadfast gaze seeing me through
those suffocating sweat-soaked nights
of doom and lies
when I sank in mortal sadness
you climbed on my chest
quieted its frantic panicked beating
with your soothing ready rumble
carrying me safely into morning.
Owlish one, you promised me twenty years
do you remember?
And oh the laughter
your loud admonitions
to quell my own loud anger
or off-key singing
your tarantula dance
sibling cuffs
peevish prance
honey bear mantra
on the rumpled covers
happily growling
your greedy imprecations
for oil, milk, treats NOW!
And I tell you these things now
in this Elegy for Brandyn
I do not wait for that day
when your heart stops
when you leave me
my voice will flee me
my pen lie crushed/mute
I'll propose bargains with god
pacts with the devil
I'll trade all the snowfalls
that ever were or will be
to have your soft footfall
padding across the room
your insistent satin nose
nudging me
your velvet paw
stretched out to touch my face.
And how will I ever sleep again
what comfort can the night offer me
without your sweet face near mine?
You promised me twenty years
that day you squalled into my life
but I prayed for more.

She just came in to fuss at me, so I'm off to tempt her waning appetite with some cream. Who cares about lactose intolerance when you're 100 years old and in chronic renal failure?