Well, hey there Internet! Yes, it's really me! I thought I'd peek into this world wide web here and make sure all is right in your world since I've been gone for like a million years or two months or whatever.

My world? Well, it's all been uphill since I found out I do not have cancer. Just a clean horizontal slice of a scar on my boob, a reminder that life is this fragile, ever-shifting, dazzling thing. 

And even though I should have known this all along, there's a newfound delight in that realization. And it fills me up every morning, when through my haze of waking, I think, yay! I have today and tomorrow and tomorrow and all of these ever afters to drink coffee and pet dogs' wiggly bodies and listen to my girl's stories and kiss my husband and judge people harshly while driving and just live like it's champagne and strawberries, 24/7. 

Although, that might not be the best example. Too much champagne makes me bloated and headachy and if I eat too many strawberries, I get mouth ulcers. 

But you get the point. Hopefully.

Anyway, I wish for all of you this very same kind of delight. And also lots of fancy new shoes.

So, in honor of the wonderful days I have been given, I thought I'd tell you about an encounter I had recently. It has taken me a while to talk about it because, well, it was just so . . .  

Bad. 

Like, really, really bad. I'm talking crazy-ass bad. 

And yes, I know I tend to be dramatic. At life. And in general. 

And I know when I say something's really bad, most everyone will be rolling their eyes and saying, "Okay, like the time your coffeemaker stopped working because it needed to be descaled and you didn't know how to do that and your husband, the descaler, was out of town for 2 weeks and so, for 2 weeks you had to go to the gas station to get your coffee because going to Starbucks means you would have to make a u-turn on a busy highway and that's too much pressure to take before coffee, so you had to settle for gas station coffee for two weeks—that kind of bad?"**

**This is actually a true story. And yes, it was bad. But not anywhere near the caliber of bad I'm about to rain down on you.  

So here goes, as I wince and tell the story from between my fingers.

A few months ago, my daughter, the only one left at home—who is now lucky enough to be the sole recipient of my machine-gun-barrage of questions as soon she comes home from school since the only social contact I have on most days is the UPS man and the three dogs—that long-suffering girl asked me to take her to the store because she wanted to bake a cake. 

I had just worked out, so I told her I'd drive her up there but I was going to stay in the car because I was gross-out sweaty. (Okay, so maybe I wasn't dripping in sweat. Maybe I laid on the floor and did a light Pilates workout while watching Breaking Bad and when I mean light, I mean I didn't even bother with a workout bra. But I needed some kind of story to justify watching Breaking Bad all day. Besides, I really didn't feel like going into the store since that would require putting on a bra, which—hello—way too much effort.)

So off we went to the store. I dropped her at the entrance and parked. 

I sat in my car, reading some Jonathan Franzen or maybe I was scrolling through my Instagram, (I can't really remember), when a pickup truck parked next to me. 

My car is low to the ground, so the pickup occupant had a good view of the inside of my car. 

And view he did. 

I immediately sensed someone staring and I looked up to see a man leering at me from the truck.

Now when I say man, I mean the poster child of Perv. Everything that would make the hair on the back of your neck stick up because a serial killer was parked next to you, sizing you up to see if you would make a good skin suit, was this guy. Big unfashionable creeper glasses, baseball hat scrunched down low on his head and a gross, gross, grosser than an old man in bicycle pants, pornstache—walrus-like and furry. 

I shot him a dirty look because I am adept at the F**ck You look when it comes to leering creepers. (I guess I have a type.) And then I moved my seat back in an effort to block his view and went back to my big Franzen novel. Or Instagram. 

He sat in his truck for what seemed like forever just full-on staring at me. (I could still see part of his serial killer leering face after I moved my seat.) So I tried to ignore him, but it was hard to concentrate on the prose, Filtered photos, as his eyes bore into me. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he apparently grew tired of trying to bore his way into my poser workout clothes with his overly magnified eyeballs. He got out of his truck and made his way into the store.

I was relieved. Surely, my daughter would be out soon. She was only going in to buy cake ingredients, but then again, she did have my debit card which she thinks is a magic card that allows her to get all the free makeup her teenage heart desires.

Unfortunately, Perv Man was back before I could check the sexual predator database on my phone. 

He had no shopping bags probably because they were out of Jeffrey Dahmer eyewear. I pretended not to notice him, keeping my head down as he got in his truck. But as the minutes ticked by, he didn't leave and I could feel his heavy stare upon me, like hot breath against my neck. 

Infuriated, I gave him a quick sideways sneer and that's when I realized he wasn't sitting in his truck the right way. 

He was sitting in his truck sideways. 

Facing me. 

With the door open just enough that if I craned my head forward, I knew I was sure to see something that would haunt every corner of my very small brain for the rest of my days.

He just sat there in that flasher position, his body angled toward me, his truck door open just enough for me to see whatever he had going on there in Perv world. 

I was panicked. Scared. Sick. I felt like I had been draped in a blanket of Ick. 

I was on the verge of tears, with my hand on the gear shift ready to back squealing, out of my spot and race far, far away from this vile, twisted creature. (I'm not very good at backing up, but I figured my fight or flight response would kick in and make me drive like that racecar girl who does the Go Daddy commercials.) 

And then suddenly it hit me. That was exactly what he wanted me to do. Flashers get off on terrified reactions. 

Don't they? 

Actually, I have no idea what flashers get off on nor do I ever want to know, but what I did know was I refused to allow this sicko and his twisted act turn me into a blubbering mess of fear and panic.

So, even though my heart was racing, I decided to stand my ground. 

Eff him. I was going to be strong. 

I was going to stare him full in the face, give him an indignant smirk as if to say, "Really? You shouldn't even bother showing off that pitiful thing." And then pull away slowly, making a big show of snapping a picture of his license plate. Then, I would park safely away from this asshat and immediately report him to my grocery store and the police. 

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar—Perverts of grocery store parking lots. 

But before I could put my empowering plan into action, the perv did something that froze my heart and froze me, like, seriously. I could not move, because . . . 

He started moving. 

As in sitting in place, his head down as his body rocked in a back and forth action. 

A jerking action.

As in, something was getting wanked. 

For my viewing horror. 

I wanted to scream. I thought I was having a heart attack. I was breathing, hyperventilating really, in squeaky little gasps. I couldn't believe this was happening to me in the middle of the day in my very nice suburban grocery store parking lot. I couldn't lean forward and look. It was bad enough that I was the victim of a wanking predator, I didn't want to carry the image of that horror around for the rest of my scarred life. 

And then it hit me. 

My daughter. 

Who would be coming out of the store at any moment. 

Who just wanted to bake a cake. 

Who was 15 years old and didn't deserve this sort of wretchedness. 

And my panic did a 360 as the mother bear inside me roared to life. 

Forget, I Am Woman. 

I Am Mama, you punk-ass bitch and you WILL hear me roar. 

I picked up my phone and with shaky hands, hit the button that rolled down the passenger side window.

I held up the phone, trembling so badly, the phone threatened to slip out of my tenuous grasp and yelled fiercely, 

"GET READY TO GO TO JAIL, YOU MOTHERF*****R! I'VE GOT YOUR PICTURE AND YOUR LICENSE PLATE AND I'M CALLING 911.* YOU MESSED WITH THE WRONG GIRL, YOU F***ING PERV!"

*I did not have his license plate, but I figured I'd snap a quick pic as I squealed out of there while calling 911. Multi-tasking, my friends. It's the key to getting things done. 

Now here's the thing. . . 

I figured Mr. Jack Off would panic, zip up his fly, hopefully catching his perv parts in the process and haul ass out of there. 

But instead he stopped wanking, looked up at me, his googly eyes blinking through his thick lenses and just stared at me as if I had three heads. 

I know, right? Some nerve. 

And then?

He looked to the right and to the left and then behind him, as if, as if he were trying to figure out who the hell this crazy lady was yelling at. 

And it was then, this one thought, like a nuclear bomb, went off in my brain. 

It occurred to me that perhaps I should lean forward and check out that, in fact, he was actually wanking off instead of assuming he was wanking off. 

Since we all know what happens when you assume.  

So, I promptly leaned forward, certain I was guaranteeing myself years of therapy from what horrors I was about to view. 

But instead?

I saw Lotto scratch-off tickets. 

Three of them. Neatly spread out across his thighs. 

He'd been scratching off. 

Not jerking off. 

And because I am never quite content to be just a regular moron, I doubled up on my moron-ness and decided in my panic to pretend I was talking to someone else. 

Yes. Yes I did. 

I pointed emphatically at some vague spot behind this poor man and said, "That's right. I'm talking to you."

And pretended to take a picture of some other Wanking Pervert behind him. 

I then tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, threw my car into reverse and high-tailed it out of there, away to the other side of the parking lot before he could get my license plate. I found a parking spot behind a big construction dumpster and texted my daughter, telling her to call me when she was through and to meet me at the farthest exit of the store. 

I was still shaking when she came out of the store. 

She got in the car and took one look at me and said, "Mom, what's wrong?" 

And as lightly as possible, since 15-year-olds should be spared the details of their mother's total jackass-ness, much less stories about bogus wanking, I told her that I kinda accused an innocent man of flashing me. 

She didn't even hesitate. She said, "Eew Mom. You are so gross."

Oh, my darling daughter, gross doesn't even begin to cover what I am. 

Today's Definite Download:  So much beautiful music has been made since we've spoken last. I want to share it all, but for today, I'll give you just this one treat. 

A few years ago, the bands Mumford and Sons, Old Crow Medicine Show and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros decided to get together for a six city tour on a vintage train, starting from California and ending in New Orleans. 

They made a documentary of this fantastic event, The Big Easy Express, and it's on Showtime right now. If you're into music, you should watch this. It's such a celebration of music and the people who spend their lives making that music. 

It made me very happy. 

And one of the biggest reasons for my happiness was Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros. I know. You're probably saying, "Who?"

The Zeros are an indie group with a whole lot of people in their band. Their music is rollicking and quirky, sometimes joyous, sometimes sadly beautiful but always incredible. Their most commercial song is called, "Home." You might know it. Here's a link. 

Alex Ebert (Edward Sharpe) is the lead singer. You might have seen him on the Golden Globes, the really tall hot hipster with the man bun who won a Globe for best movie score and talked about meeting Diddy on a yacht in St. Bart's. Now, that's rock and roll talking right there. 

On the Big Easy Tour, the three bands would end each concert, joining together to sing the old gospel song, "This Train Is Bound For Glory." And when I say sing, I mean they Put. It. Down. 

If you want to be happy, watch this compilation of their finales. If you don't want to be happy, go right now to the theater and buy yourself a ticket for that Meryl Streep/Julia Roberts movie. 

Good Freaking Night, that thing was darker than a cave with hurricane shutters. You think you're going in to see a dark COMEDY, because the trailer is quite misleading and you leave there limping and muttering, "Nothing will ever be good again." Like, it was layer upon layer upon layer upon layer of bad. Like not even the Kennedy's have this much bad shit happen to them in one sitting. 

I advise this big, messy, rollicking performance instead. Alex Ebert is the tall one who's dancing around like an old time preacher at a revival show. Enjoy. I'll see you soon. 

✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴ ✴

Really? Really?

That's what you all think of me? 

You think I've been ARRESTED? 52 guesses and only three people believed I wasn't a criminal. Everyone else was all, "Let's see here—arrested?  Oh, that is DEFINITELY the truth!"

And that doesn't even include my Facebook friends and people in real life who All. Guessed. Wrong. 

Even my best friend Michelle guessed something else and I was all, "You know me! You think I've been in the back of a squad car? I mean, you know, for arrest purposes?"

And Michelle was like, "Well, I know what we've done on some of our nights out that could definitely qualify as misdemeanors, so I figured it just slipped your mind to tell me you finally got busted for something."

She does have a good point. 

But no. I have never been arrested. I've had two, count them, two speeding tickets throughout my whole life. And I am convinced I got one of them because it was early in the morning and I had my fright wig hair going on and no makeup and my broken glasses taped at the corner and yeah, I didn't even try. The other one is a long, freakish story involving a slow speed car chase and well, I'll tell you that another time. 

So the thing is, I might be an anarchist, but I am a law abiding anarchist. 

I have a feeling you'd like me to go over the rest of the list, right? 

Okay, here we go. 

1. Yes, I've had something on my body tucked. 

A few years back, as my friend Paula brilliantly coined it, I had my whore of a uterus taken out. At my post- surgical checkup three weeks later, after I gave my doc the 411 on how I was feeling, he asked, "And how's your urination?"

This is not something I'd ever been asked before. 

I started to say defensively, "My urination is just fine, thank you!" But then it hit me and I was all, "Heyyyy, my urination is AMAZING! Now that you bring it up, suddenly I can hold it forever."

And he nodded and said, "You're welcome. When I was in there, I gave you a bladder tuck. Your bladder was in pretty good shape, but it's quite a small bladder and I figured it could use some extra help."

I already knew about my small bladder. I had a doctor one time, describe my bladder as infantile. And I don't think he was talking about its maturity level. 

My Hubby has never been happier over my bladder tuck. He doesn't have to stop every 20 minutes when we're in the car anymore. I can go on a trip to China and never have to pee. 

I would highly recommend a bladder tuck. 

2. As for this next one, keep in mind, we've been collecting wine for years.

Keep in mind that we get wine club shipments like this just about every week.

And keep in mind that we really love wine. We have paintings professing our love of wine.

Keep in mind too, that when we built our house, this was my Hubby's main priority. And some of you correctly said, you cannot have a wine cellar in Florida, which is true. Our high water table prevents it. It's not technically a cellar. It's just two steps down. Really.


And it has wine.

Lots of wine.

Up high and down low and behind all the rows are more rows of wine. 

We're more than equipped if a hurricane comes.

Here's my Julia with the hounds, none of who drink wine.
And this is me, concluding my tour of my wine cellar. You can often find me here, especially on my daughters' shared PMS days.

3. I do seem to know someone wherever I go, which drives my hubby bonkers. And yes, I was once in a strip club with my friend Michelle, (thankfully she didn't guess this one as a lie) and I ran into a guy I knew. It's a good story, a great story, as a matter of fact. I'll put it in the queue for later.  

4. Yes, I have stood outside Bono's homes in both Ireland and NYC, just kind of loitering and and waiting to see if he was around. He wasn't. 

One of my commenters said this one was the lie because they didn't think I knew where Bono lived. Clearly, they are not well versed on stalking. 

Google. It's a stalker's best friend.

And when I say stalking, I mean just hanging around outside. I would never try to climb through one of his windows and go from room to room, going "Bono, where aaaarrrree you?" Because I'm not a creepy stalker. I'm a nice, LAW-ABIDING stalker. Just for the record. 

This is also a good story. I've made references to it before here at the blog, but I never tire of writing a Bono post, so I'll fill you in on this one, too.

5. I HAVE NEVER BEEN ARRESTED. GEEZ! Althoughhhh . . . I was responsible for a man getting arrested, recently. Actually, my hair was responsible for getting a man arrested. And I wasn't going to blog about this one, but I think I've changed my mind. Trust me, this is one crazy story you won't want to miss. 

6. It's all true about my gator trapper. You see, here in Florida it's a felony to kill an alligator, which is completely ridiculous because gators are everywhere and they eat people and dogs on a regular basis, but we can't retaliate against their man and pup eating ways.  

Damn gator huggers. Gators are good for nothing but purses and shoes.

And since I've never killed a gator, I have not committed a felony nor a misdemeanor, so I'VE NEVER BEEN ARRESTED. 

Anyway, when gators climb onto the banks of private lakes, they're considered a nuisance. It usually means they've lost their fear of people, because some idiot was feeding them. When you start seeing them in your yard, you can call the state licensed gator trapper. A few years back, we had a big one in our yard, so our neighbor called the gator trapper. That's when his wife told us the gator trapper had died and we were all, "A gator got him?" 

Because that's what you would think when a young gator trapper dies. 

But no. 

Now my part of Florida is the strawberry capital of the world. Strawberries are king down here. It seems our gator trapper was best buddies with one of our biggest, wealthiest strawberry farmers. One day, the strawberry farmer invited the gator trapper over to check out his new helicopter. And as the strawberry farmer showed off his new toy, making all kinds of fancy moves, the gator trapper was on the ground filming his best bud. The strawberry farmer in one of his fancy moves, clipped the side of his house and came crashing down, right on top of the gator trapper. 

Now I ask you, if you hunt gators for a living, what are the odds you're going to get killed by a flying helicopter? Quite rare, I'd say.

7. I am an obsessive compulsive toothbrusher. If I eat something, I've got to brush. If I don't, I can just feel the bacteria sprouting in my mouth. I also floss obsessively, too. 

This, does not in any way, mean I have good teeth. 

My  20's didn't have a lot of dental visits. Add to that, the fact that I nursed three babies for over a year each and I hate milk. Hello, cracked teeth all over the place. I've had more than my share of implants, (oh, that would have been a great truth!) to replace my broken teeth. 

In fact, I was a little worried that my dental hygienist Mary would read this post and make a comment. 

By the way, Mary is also the genius behind all my Bono and Me pictures and I'm so excited to unveil her newest creation. Taa-Daa!

Bono and Me at some art show. Isn't that just awesome! Thank you Mary for another great Bono and Me picture. 

But I was afraid Mary would read my list and comment with, "Number 7 is a lie. I am intimate with your teeth and I know this to be a big fat lie." 

My teeth are clean, they're just jacked up. Well, they're not jacked up anymore. Copious amounts of money have taken care of the jacked up part. 

And even though they're jacked up, my dentist does always compliment me on my saliva flow. He says I have more saliva than any of his other patients. This evidently is a good thing. It helps prevent cavities. In fact, as I sit here writing this, I just had a stream of drool run down the corner of my mouth. It's the downside to heavy saliva flow. My kids hate it that I'm a drooler.

8. Yes, I have been naked on a beach. Recently, I might add. Story to come. 

9. Yes, I have been trapped by firetrucks and lots and lots of hot firemen. I'll put this one in the queue. You'll highly enjoy it, Internet, because it involves me making an ass out of myself along with hot firemen. 

10. Yes, I have flashed my lady bits at my daughter's pediatrician. I'll tell that bit of mortification in the days to come. 

So. 

Now that we've confirmed I am no criminal but I am just about everything else you can imagine, including a flasher, we will continue the stories another day. 

Here's what we have to look forward to: 

The time I was involved in a slow speed car chase, me being the one who was chased. And as it turned out, I also knew the police officer. I told you, I know everyone. 

My story of bumping into someone I knew in a strip club and my reason for being in a strip club which probably is the most amusing part of the whole tale.  

My stalking of Bono and the fact that I NEVER GOT ARRESTED for stalking or anything else for that matter. 

My hair being responsible for a man's arrest. 

My wild swinging nudist lifestyle on the beach. 

Getting trapped by a bunch of hot, hunky firefighters while a building burned. Oh, that is such a good one. 

Flashing my daughter's pediatrician. 

I just have to say, I'm re-reading this list and I'm realizing one true thing about myself. 

I am an honest to goodness freak! This has never occurred to me before.  

So, here's how we're going to do this. I'm going to finish the Mexican tales and then we'll tackle each of these. 

Today's Definite Download: My team won the Super Bowl last night. I didn't realize this until everyone at the Super Bowl party started cheering and I was all, "Is it over? Who won?" 

Because that's how much I love football. 

I chose to root for the Packers because I like cheese. That's it. It worked for me. 

And even though I didn't watch the game, I did, of course, watch the halftime show. Last night, I thought the show was pretty terrific. But that was because I was drinking wine and whenever I drink wine everything's pretty terrific. I went back and watched it this morning and without wine—not so much. 

Now, I love the Black Eyed Peas and Slash and Usher. In fact, there should have been more Usher and I do mean more Usher. I was sitting there hoping that white coat of his was coming off because there is nothing better than a shirtless Usher. Sadly, that didn't happen. Because if it did, this halftime review would have been much different.

What I'm saying is, I've seen better halftime shows. 

I know this year they were trying to infuse a little more youth into the show after being criticized for having way too many oldsters up on the Super Bowl stage these last few years.

And I love new music more than anyone. My playlist is more representative of a 20-year-old than someone of my cobwebbed years. But . . . 

I started thinking about other Super Bowl halftime shows and I have to say, many of those oldsters kicked The Black Eyed Peas ass. 

Because they went out there and did what they do best, they sang. Just sang. They didn't have dancing, glowing Tron robots. They didn't have to ask Where Is The Love because the LOVE had been hijacked by the LOIE, all in lights. They just went out there and rocked the house. Something I think the Black Eyed Peas lost in all their glitz. 

For today, I'm going to highlight some oldsters who've rocked the Super Bowl house. 

The first is a 61-year-old man who shows the Peas how it's done. Click the link right here because the NFL will pull a video from your site before you even have a chance to blink. Check the backbend this old man does at the beginning of his set. Pretty damn good for an AARP member. 

For a better indicator of this rocker's raw energy and talent, check out this amazing performance here. 

The Black Eyed Who?

And then, of course, you have this 50-year-old man and his oldster band who brought a Super Bowl stadium to its knees, right here.

And for a real taste of what this Irish boy and his band are capable of, take a look at this bit of gloriousness. Here they are at home, performing their most sacred song at Slane Castle. There is, hands down, nothing like this band playing this song live. 

My Hubby swears that one of these days he is taking me to The Emerald Isle to see these boys perform. He's a good man, I think I'll keep him. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some teeth that need brushing. 

I am not a port drinker. My Hubby is. 

So, off we went to Prager Winery where they specialize in ports. 

We'd been wine tasting for a good part of the day, so I was content to sit in the car with my book while my Hubby went inside to try some ports. 

He was gone a long time. 

Chapters of long. 

But I had my book and it was a good book. 

As I sat there engrossed in my story, a ruckus outside made me look up and to my horror, I saw a large group of people who, for a minute, I thought were a tour group, headed right towards me. People I did not know. Well, except for that one person who happened to be my husband. 

The woman leading the troops pointed at me and said, "Is that her?"

And I was descended upon, by loud, drunken people who pulled me from my car and insisted I come inside and try some of this wondrous port. 

My Hubby makes friends easily. 

Prager Port was delightful. The tasting room was just an alcove of a room with a utility sink and Mr. Prager himself, with his Kris Kringle beard, was pouring the port. And I will admit, the port was silky sweet and tasted like the finest candy. 

The group of folks who pulled me out of my car were locals who spent their weekends imbibing in the fruits of their land. 

There were about ten of them and they insisted we accompany them to the next winery. 

Which we did. 

After we tasted at Rombauer, they insisted we follow them to the next stop.

About that time, I looked at my hubby and quietly informed him,  I didn't want to follow them anymore. 

They were a little too . . . drunk, for my taste. 

So, my Hubby decided to lose them. When they took a turn, we didn't and we laughed and laughed at our cunning getaway. 

The next thing we knew, they were there, right behind us, beeping their horn, flashing their lights, and waving us down. 

At the red light, they all got out, looking like a gang of Chinese Fire Drillers and ran up to our car, banging on the windows. We didn't want to roll the window down. We were worried about being subject to some sort of drunken, angry car jacking, but we did anyway. They apologized for losing us, reassuring us they would drive slower and be extra mindful because we just couldn't miss the  next winery that they, our new best drunk friends, were taking us to. 

We looked at each other and sighed. We were stuck with the tour group of Drunkies. 

And the thing is, I'm so very glad they found us and got out of their car and pounded on our windows and insisted we follow them.

They took us to a little winery, a cult wine they loved, with just this tiny, hole-in-the-wall tasting room.  

It was called Frank Family Vineyards. 

Our drunken Chinese fire drilling friends promised us the wine was spectacular and their chardonnays were over the moon magnificent. 

See, Chardonnay used to be cool. It's not so much anymore. As trends go, Chardonnay is now the low man on the totem pole. 

But I am here to come out of my Chardonnay closet to say, I love Chardonnay. I do. 

I like big wine. I like wine with something to say. My favorite wine is Zinfandel. And no, not White Zinfandel. 

I have a shirt that says, "Friends don't let friends drink white zinfandel."

Zinfandel is a big, hearty wine, full of jammy, berry tastes and a bite of spice to its note. Zinfandels are a notoriously fussy grape and hard to get right.

I think that's part of the reason I love it, because it's fussy. I'm fussy. But when done well, it is sublime. The wine, that is, not me.

Chardonnay is the big boy of white wines. It's not fruity like a Pinot Grigio. It's not grapefruit laden like a Sauvignon Blanc. If it's done properly, it's buttery with just a taste of oak (because in my opinion, this wine should only be fermented in oak) and the fruit will just dance on your tongue. It's a great white wine.

And so there we were, in this hole in the wall. 

We were greeted at the door like old friends because these people were loyal patrons of Frank Family. In all honesty, I think they were loyal patrons of A LOT of wineries.

Anyway, we were immediately ushered to a back room, a VIP bar where I was poured one of the best chardonnays of my life. It had this buttery taste, luscious and creamy, with the perfect amount of oak and it was big and just brilliant and I fell in love with Frank Family instantly.

And Dennis. 

Dennis runs the place over there and his heart is just as about as big as the barrel chest that encases it.

We became loyal patrons of their magnificent wines and with each and every trip we made to the Wine Country, Frank Family, was always one of our favorite stops. 

A few years down the road, my father died, quite unexpectedly. 

The week after his death, my Hubby and I were scheduled to head out to Napa and Sonoma. 

We decided to cancel our trip. But my siblings wouldn't hear of it. They said my dad would have wanted it no other way. 

And that dad of mine, who loved life, who loved a good wine, who loved us, would, indeed, have shooed us out the door, ordering us to have a good time.   

So my wonderful Hubby informed my mom and my Aunt Lorrie, (my dad's sister and one of my favorite people in the world), to pack their bags — they were coming with us. 

My Hubby booked flights and rooms for the ladies and we took them out to the motherland with us. My sister Beth and her husband also accompanied us. 

There were more than a few tears on that trip, as we toasted my dad. And in those moments where we shared stories of his life and I just could feel my heart cracking in such grief as I let go of this incredible dad of mine, I felt his presence so strong, that love of his, so fierce. He was with us. I felt him there. I am certain of that.

But along with the heartbreak, there was an awful lot of laughter too, just the way my dad would have wanted it. 

I'd like to share one of those laughter memories with you today. 

Up in the hills of Napa and Sonoma, oftentimes it's hard to get radio reception. This was before the days of satellite and iPods and so we got nothing much but static. 

We were in a tasting room perusing their gift shop when my aunt picked up a CD called "Music of The Wine Country" by Al Stewart. 

"What do you think? Should I buy this so we can have some music?"

And I'm pretty sure at this point, I'd been to far too many wineries that day, because I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "Why not!"

I wasn't thinking about "The Year of The Cat."

What else would explain me embracing the music of Al Stewart, except copious amounts of wine. 

We listened to that CD for the entire day.

And if at all possible, it was far worse than "The Year Of The Cat."

It was 

But wanting to be polite, I just went with the crowd and pretended to enjoy it as I steeled my ears against Al Stewart's whiny yowl that ironically sounds like a wounded cat. 

On the second day of our trip, someone popped in the CD and I thought, "If there is a God in Heaven, let that CD be scratched."

The car was quiet as we listened to Al Stewart and his whining punctured with yowling. After a few minutes of this simply unbearable "Year of the Caaaaat in Whiiiiine Country", my aunt said, "You know, this Al Stewart is just awful."

I breathed a sigh of relief and joined the chorus of "I know, right?!" from the entire car who had all kept their opinions bottled up until now. 

My Hubby was driving, concentrating on the winding curves, as we all sat there complaining about Al Stewart and his awfulness. Suddenly, without a word and without skipping a beat, he just popped out the CD, rolled down the passenger window and flung the CD out of the car. 

My dad, I'm sure, loved it.

Later that day, we found our way to Frank's Family. Dennis was there and as he was leading us back to the private bar, we told him about my dad and how we were all here, still so raw and full of grief, celebrating his life. 

Dennis looked at us and said, "Come with me."

He took us into his office, a cluttered little gasp of space, where he opened up one of their finest vintages and filled our wine glasses. He raised his glass and said, "To Jack."

And we sat there in Dennis' office and told our stories about Jack and his greatness. And Dennis, listened well and good and kept our glasses full and whiled away the afternoon with us, listening to our stories of this great man, so much like himself. 

The years have passed and Frank Family is no longer just a cult wine with a room in the back. Word of mouth and multiple awards have turned Frank Family into a rock star of the wine world.  

We went to see our old friends at Frank's. Their new tasting room is gorgeous and cavernous and as always, we were welcomed with open arms. Big, wide arms.

Sadly, it was Dennis's day off, but Rick brought us into Dennis's new elegant office, so fitting for a man of his calibre.

Rick was kind enough to give us a private tasting right there in Dennis's office, just like that day of so long ago. And once again, I swooned at their buttery chards, their splendid wines, all of them. 

Afterwards I asked Rick if I could take a picture with him as I stood by his side. 

Rick grabbed me by the waist and pulled me onto his lap for the picture.

Later I said to my sister, "Why is it that guys always grab you and plop you in their lap every chance they can get."

And my sister was like, "What are you talking about?"

She says this doesn't happen to her. And she is something, with her glossy locks and sapphire eyes and long, lean marathon body. 

I am nothing. I mean nothing. You should see my upper arms. They could be a member of the Wiggles. I am not long and lean. And I have a turkey neck. And yet, men have always done this to me. 

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, riiiight.

Well, here's what I'm talking about. 

Three men in two day's time, two days in a row, on vacation, pulled me down on their lap. Men I did not know. Men, who I was just standing next to them, posing for a picture and bam, the next thing you know, I'm on a lap!  I'll show you the proof in the next few posts. And one of them, my friends, is a doozy.

So Ladies. out of curiosity sake, I'm taking a poll, I'd like to know, does this happen to you? 

I personally find the lap thing a mite uncomfortable. 

And not because I'm all of a sudden, sitting on a man's lap.

Hardly.

I adore being on a man's lap. It has nothing to do with that. I'm talking physical discomfort. 

I'm uncomfortable because I refuse to just plop myself down on a man, full weight and all. I certainly wouldn't want to crush anyone. And so therefore, I center all my weight on my legs, so the man has the illusion, I am as light as Tinkerbelle. And even though my thighs get quite the workout as I'm all perched on the lap, it is excruciating after about 20 seconds. And that is why I am uncomfortable on a man's lap.

If you're ever out in Napa, Calistoga actually, pop in and see Dennis and Rick and the rest of the crew. They'll treat you like family and share some of their finest wine, which is mighty fine. And watch out for that Rick, he's a feisty one.

Program Note: I know I haven't been around much this week. I am heavy into critiquing my writing partner's manuscript as we speak. We are swapping our novels back to each other at the end of the week and as usual, I am behind. It's not just laundry that defeats me. Trust me, there's a whole list of things that defeat me on a regular basis. I'll be back to my usual bloggy self next week.

Today's Definite Download: This is one I've already used in my playlist, but it was in the days when the only one reading me was my wonderful non hula hooping sister. I love this song very much and it fits here, today.

The Weepies, "The World Spins Madly On" for Dennis and Jack and yes, even lap man Rick and especially for that man of mine with his big generous heart and the way he makes me laugh every single day. Good men, I am so blessed to have known as my own world spins, madly and I do mean madly, on.

Go take a listen, right here.  Enjoy.