The Little Words Mean the Most

"The least cheesy love story...

 

... I've ever read." ~ Sharilyn H.

 

 

Life lately?

 

For months, I disappeared from everything, reluctantly shopping for groceries when refrigerator and cupboard were both finally bare, the last bag of Trader Joe's noodles eaten, awash in more and more booze, years of it.

     Now no booze. Interesting change.

     I'm calling it a diet rather than recovery.

     I don't want to recover. I just want to put off my next alcoholic drink indefinitely. Diet is easier for my spirit to swallow. I've invested 21 honest days in my diet so far with no insurmountable urges or temptations.

 

Uncorking, decanting, let it breathe, polish the right glasses, a toast, first sips. I miss the little ceremonies with wine. Cocktails were full of ceremony, too. There's so much drama around drinking. We'll always remember the truly tipsy.

     We had a house in France for 20 years. Simone didn't drink alcohol at all, ever. But she delighted in speaking French to cousin-in-law Jean-Claude and cousin Fabienne and talking to the French proprietors and clerks. We tasted at small vineyards, under Jean-Claude's direction and hoisted eyebrow, choosing one or more types and styles, to buy a half case or a case if we'd found a taste we were looking for (cedar and leather for me) and it could age for years. Jean-Claude had a restaurant-grade wine cooler in his garage. I had an attic. Complex, durable reds were my preference.

     When we took possession of the house in France, the first guides we bought were, rightfully, Michelin: sights and restaurants. But the third essential book was an English-language pilgrimage to boutique vineyards tucked into pockets of land throughout our intensely cultivated region. We had all manner of microclimates and microsoils in Occitanie. Our tiny town hid one outstanding vintner. He sold almost his entire production to a single resort in Switzerland.  Or we could buy a bottle locally for an exorbitant price at our struggling convenience store with the day-old produce.

     We walked the vineyards of our village almost daily. It was especially kind at twilight when the heat left the dirt. Fragrant. Flowering. If rain had settled the dust, you could easily see the Pyrenees, ramped between France and Spain. In the summer, the air was hot as a skillet outside cool shuttered houses. Prickly pear cactus grew in our neighborhood. It got cold, too: we spent one January there and immediately had our contractor replace the old miserly heat with something much warmer faster.

     Vineyards were sometimes the only business in a village. The man of the house farmed. The woman held down the fort at the barn where the stuff was made and sold to any travelers who rolled up. Seasonal labor arrived for the harvest. Every fourth town it seemed had a cave coopérative where local farmers pooled their crops. I felt grounded in France when I had a box or two of small-production, high-grade wine in the trunk of our rental.

 

Twenty-four days without a drink, and my webinar producers sent me wine as a gift. The universe likes its little jokes.

 

so this is what people look like

 

June 14, 2025 ~ Providence, RI ~ No Kings rally

"this is what democracy looks like"

The Witch and I

 

Let me explain the witch. Her name is Kat. I went to her at the strong recommendation of Otis, a friend I'd met at the masterclass overlooking Loch Ness.

     Otis is a psychologist. Kat, the good witch, had helped him with something, after a surgery I think ... and whatever it was she did, it really helped. She also calls herself a wise crone. She does Tarot readings and divination, forecasting the future.

     I already had my regular, by-the-books therapist, a Ph.D. with an elite diploma and teaching accolades. He charged $150 an hour. We talked about books. He suggested quotes from Seneca, the Roman stoic; I talked about marketing laced with plenty of Sim One. Did my share of crying. There was a box of tissues next to the patient's chair. My witch charged $200 an hour, I mentioned to him one session. Doc soon raised his rate to match.

     I was a Tarot virgin. But Kat was a genius at reading the cards, which means she was a genius at storytelling ... with me as the hero/king, aswirl in Irish mists, gods and goddesses and signs.

 

My big initial breakthrough from drunken depression was (were?) long strides, taking them, lengthening my gait, walking with exaggeratedly confident steps. It seemed like an odd thing to do except there was no reason not to.

     I crossed small distances at first: bed to bathroom, 4 times a night at age 78.

     Then to the mailbox down our long curving, sloping driveway, the old quarry truck road, gravel and dirt, capped at both ends with graceful asphalt.

     My feet were telling the rest of my body something. "Stand up straight. Fake it 'til you make it." I knew the secret was doing, doing anything, moving more.

 

I tell my friend she's going to heaven

 

"What will it be like?"

She says, "There will be no time-zone restrictions. You do good deeds all the time."

"Sounds like work."

She adds that Michele Obama is actually Michael. "You could see the penis going up and down in her trousers. Just look. Michele is Michael. That's what I'm telling you. Joan Rivers said it, 'We have a tranny in the White House.' Her daughters? They were conceived by IVF. She didn't give birth to them. They were given to her by a doctor couple."

"So Barack Obama was our first gay president?"

"Bingo."

 

There's a second bottle waiting

 

There's a second bottle waiting.

     "Mercurey. Pale shiny gold. Very expressive on the nose with fresh, sharp aromas supported by floral notes, a superb but very mellow oak presence and a hint of fresh hazelnuts. The palate has a lovely structure and balance, with fresh floral aromas as well as hints of white peach and minerality. A wine of great precision. The wine was aged on its lees and spent 13 months in oak, of which 20% was new, before bottling."

     It tastes insipid. A wine of great narrowness. But that's just me, my mouth, right now.

     The big Q: Will I revert to Frankenstein's monster? I'm a familiar face at every liquor store inside a 10-mile radius. Will I pick up my booze glass again?

     You're allowed one fall from grace, I figure. One slip that doesn't condemn me to a total backslide. My witch, though, solemnly warns me not to experiment. "You'll be right back where you started!"

     So am I? The nearest packie opens at 9 AM; it's 8:45. Am I reaching for the car keys?

     9: 02. Going downstairs for another cup of coffee.

     My witch was my role model, actually. She's had the drink wrung out of her now for 30 years or more. And at her start, after 6 weeks of getting dry, she chanced a glass of wine. The stuff tasted awful. Me, too: in small triumph poured my last swallows of bland gold Commune Mercurey down the main drain. Bye.

     Alene phoned that night after reading a call-me-frank post. "You're drinking!" she worried; thought she'd caught me, ready to help.

     "No, I'm really not."

 

Twenty-four days in I break my wine-fast

 

Twenty-four days in I break my wine-fast with a cold Pouilly-Fuissé, from Burgundy.

     I've been looking forward to this moment, the first sip so furry and minerally, shaking awake slumbering taste buds. More fast sips, mini-gulps; the experience of my first half-glass after three weeks of abstinence: tin foil, with notes of grape juice. But I am determined to crawl toward a buzz this lazy, hazy Sunday early morning.

     Yesterday at  lunch when I turned down a wine glass, I explained to Libby and Brian, "I'm on a diet." They nodded. I confessed: "It's called the Recovery Diet." Ohhhhhhhhhhhh; now they understood. One more addendum from me: "I deeply miss drinking." I have too much time on my hands and it's boring.

     Brian shared a story about his father. Dad would be sober for 3 months. Shout "I feel great!" And go get plastered. You're right on schedule, Brian's tale implies.

     It's not turning out as I'd dreamed it would: the wine tastes like cigar ashes thanks to the blunt I'm smoking, sold as Lemon Cake, a pre-roll from High Plains Farm, with notes of "Lemon Skunk x Cheese." Haven't tasted any of that either.

     I down a gummy to smooth out the transition from dry to imbibing. The Pouilly-Fuissé offers less and less; I can't find a flavor in it I like.

     I wanted that first glass to last. Now it's all about gassing up. Speed. Volume. Robotically reach out. Can't say no to a fourth. Grasp. Press to lips. The wine doesn't improve as it approaches room temperature. Pour more. Where's the harm. Pours get longer, as tasty as tarpaper. I can no longer say this is an enjoyable pastime. It is a means to an end: get drunk, explore. A form of prayer.

 

I got a hankering for a Subie

 

AHG Auto and Tyre Service reports, "If you’ve ever wondered why people joke about lesbians driving Subarus, the reason is not just that lesbians like Subarus. It’s that Subaru cultivated its image as a car for lesbians—and did so at a time when few companies would embrace or even acknowledge their gay customers. You Are What You Drive."

     I got a hankering for a Subie.

     I'd driven Hondas since I was in my twenties. They rated high in reliability; I'm no mechanic. Hondas had done well by me for more than 40 years.

     But there was this story. Somewhere I'd read that when Subaru first entered the U.S. market, only professors would buy the brand and only in two states: Colorado and Vermont. Why? Because both states had significant mud seasons and Scoobs had all-wheel drive; smart people knew that. The brand had a loyal but small audience then. Older ones were unlovely boxes, but everyone I knew who had one now loved their Subaru.

     I got a hankering.

     I found exactly what I wanted online, through Carmax. Loved the dark slate color and the lines. The roof rack signaled the driver was sporty. Low mileage, just a year old. Paid to ship it to my state so I could inspect it at my local Carmax dealer.

     There are wheels, an engine and a gas tank. But the car is mostly a computer. The owner's manual is something like 500 pages long. Aside from the shift, the parking brake, dialing up my favorite radio station and navigation, I don't know how most of the car works.

     Just a few weeks behind the wheel, already peed the seat. And cleaned it.