I Was a Teenage Honda

My car, Sylvie, is a ripe eleven years old. For the most part, she is a sweet and docile southern lady, with just the right amount of spice to accelerate across three lanes of traffic should the need arise.

I used to assume that car years translated to human years at approximately (C)(5.562) = (H). Over the last few months, Sylvie has set out to prove me wrong. Instead, she seems to think that she is the identical twin of a teenager who keeps inventing excuses to go to the mall with her friends. Except, for Sylvie, “the mall” is the bay of the local auto mechanic, and her friends are the skilled and reliable mechanics who work there.

Witness the following simulated conversation:

“Mom, can I go to the mall with Scott and Kevin?”

“Sure, hon. Do you need something?”

“I need more of my acne medicine [oil change] from the vitamin store.”

“Do you need it right now?”

“Uh-huh.”

*Sigh* “Okay.”

“Mom, can I go to the mall with Scott and Kevin?”

“Sylvie, you just went there last week.”

“I know, but it’s been so rainy lately, and I need a new umbrella [windshield wipers] to keep the rain off. The old one squeaks when I open it.”

*Sigh* “All right, Sylvie, but this had better be the last time.”

“Sure, Mom! You’re the best!”

“Mom, can I go to the mall with Scott and Kevin?”

“Sylvie, I told you not to ask me that again.”

“I know, but my printer [transmission] is making the papers all blurry, and I think it needs new ink [transmission fluid].”

“Sylvie–“

“It’s for school, Mom! It’s important!”

*Sigh*

“Mom, I’m going to need to go to the mall tomorrow. Is that okay?”

“Sylvie, honestly.”

“I need new shoes [tires]! That’s all!”

“What happened to your old ones? They should have been good for years!”

“I dunno. There’s a hole in one.”

*Grumble* “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Mom–“

“Sylvie, I’m warning you.”

“My knees [struts] hurt.”

“Have you been running on concrete?”

“Yes, but that’s where the cross country team practices.”

*Sigh* “Just slow it down for now, okay?”

“But–“

“Please, Sylvie.”

“I hate you.”

See what I mean? She’s a disaster.

Just wait until she starts learning to drive…

Men in Suits, Scurrying

Today, the world witnessed the election of a new pope, Pope Francis. This may be one of the only times that A) newscasters speak Latin, B) conservatives and liberals alike wait so eagerly for a puff of smoke.

I was in the car when the announcement took place, and, history-making aside, I couldn’t help delighting in the sheer awkwardness that engulfed NPR’s “Talk of the Nation” (show archive available after 6pm EST). Don’t get me wrong; I love the show, but this was a glorious moment for snark.

First, speakers faced the time gap between the billowing of white smoke and the presentation of the new pope, brought to you by “Let’s fill time listening to the sounds of the crowd. It’s the Italian version of elevator music.”

Then, there was the surprise of the announcement itself. Lacking background information about the new pope, they seemed to strategize, “Speak very slowly, one line at a time as our interns research feverishly, and if all else fails, turn to Wikipedia.”

Once the translated announcement was broadcasted, the hosts had the task of determining if the new pope’s name translated to the English “Franciscum,” “Franciscus,” “Franciscos,” “Francisco,” or just plain “Francis.” Ah, for the days of Latin education. Now, we have to turn to that self-same Wikipedia:

The new papal name is usually given in the genitive case in Latin, corresponding to the translation “who takes the name of …” (e.g., Ioannis vicesimi tertii, Ioannis Pauli primi etc.), although it can also be declined in the accusative case, corresponding to the translation “who takes the name …”, as was the case in 1963 and 2013 when Pope Paul VI’s and Pope Francis’s regnal names were announced as Paulum sextum and Franciscum respectively.

Thanks, Wikipedia. You’re so smart.

And finally, there was another time gap between the announcement and the presentation. So, we talked extensively about the men in suits scurrying around the platform. After all, they, unlike the Latin surrounding the procedure, are something we can understand.

None of this is to undermine the seriousness of the papal conclave or the potential impact of the new pope on the Catholic and non-Catholic world. That’s the main dish, and I happily grant responsibility for it to those more knowledgeable. However, in this as in all things, I’m happier when life’s major events come with a side of snark.

Spinach in the Teeth of Life

I wish I could have been around for the meeting when some aspiring superstore organizer decided that the matches should be shelved not with the kitchen supplies, not with the camping gear, not with the candles, not with the butane lighters or the grilling tools, but next to the toothpicks.

“Hey, you know what? Both of these things are made of wood. They’re little skinny sticks of wood. Never mind that one of them has the capability to produce fire, and one of them serves the sole purpose of stabbing splinters into your gums—I think they should go together.”

I know, I know. There are probably fifteen good reasons behind the decision, but if it took two smart people—one of them a store employee—perambulating the entire store and finally consulting a second store employee in order to find the matches, there is something wrong with this scenario.

I can only imagine what the rest of the average superstore would look like had that same individual been responsible for all organizational decisions:

“On this aisle, we’ll have pencils, matches, toothpicks, and skewers. Oh, and eyeliner.”

“On this aisle, we’ll put curtain rods, toilet plungers, hiking poles, and lamp stands.”

“On this aisle, we’ll put pre-sliced cheese, napkins, printer paper, and sandwich bread. Oh, and don’t forget the baseball cards.”

“This aisle will be for the towels, v-neck shirts, greeting cards, and tortillas.”

“Let’s put the oranges, basketballs, cotton balls, and light bulbs on this aisle.”

“And we’ll put the chewing gum, pillows, dishwasher detergent gel-packs, and diapers over here. Voila!”

That would be just fine. All I’m asking is that they follow through with the logic. But no, this is another one of those situations that no one ever contests. It’s like a piece of spinach stuck between the incisors of Life. Everyone sees it, but no one is willing to call it out.

Well, guess what. If Life ever does find out about that particular bit of spinach, I know exactly where he can find a toothpick.

End rant.

What Happens to a Snark in Winter?

When you see how the snark shivers sad in the cold,
It makes you forget all your woe.
With his claws clenched in tight and his fur fluffing bold,
the snark is a summertime foe.

Evr’y feather a-quiver, each toe tucked away,
he waits for the warmth to return.
He’s no comeback to offer, no quip to purvey
until there is sunshine to burn.

So be gentle, dear friends, if you meet him unarmed;
in the winter, his bite fades to bark.
Should he die, that would fast be a cause for alarm:
what’s the fun in a heat wave sans snark?

You’re welcome, Lewis Carroll.

RE: Watch for Flying Forks

In honor of the day’s celebrations, I decided to uncork a finely aged post from the 2009 vintage. What a good year that was. Let it breathe; then savor it well, and Happy Valentines Day!


Theater people are superstitious. New Years Day is full of “do”s and “don’t”s to get the year off to a lucky start. Friday the Thirteenth? A full moon? Political correctness. He/She/It? Ahhh!!!

Peanuts.

Oh no, my friends. What you may not realize is that these days and situations have nothing on the most tenuous of days when friendships can be destroyed, tears evoked, luck ruined, and the wrath of an entire gender brought down upon your head in a single instant.

Valentines Day.

I doubt it’s an accident that the name sounds like “flying [fork] tines.”

If you read my post on New Years Resolutions, you may have realized I don’t put much stock in cultural taboos. Or at least, I try not to.

My challenge to you this Nightmare-of-Flying-Fork-Tines Day is to walk bravely under the ladder of Valentines taboos, reflecting that the color red is, after all, just a color, and Walmart has already started decorating for Easter.

To help you on your journey, I’ve compiled a list of Valentines taboos just dying to be broken:

  • Wear absolutely nothing red. Or pink. Or rose. Or maroon. Or magenta. Or fuschia. Or plum. Or salmon. Or strawberry. Or raspberry. Or fire engine red. Or even lavendar, because it’s a pink wanna-be. OR…
  • Wear every shade of pink and red. At the same time. Not because it’s Valentines Day or Broken-Heart Day.
  • Watch a sappy chick flick and scoff loudly at the most romantic moments. OR…
  • Watch a sappy chick flick and DON’T scoff loudly at the most romantic moments.
  • Eat a piece of chocolate cake for dessert without offering to share with a friend. OR…
  • Start a no-chocolate diet.
  • Change your relationship status on Facebook at least twelve times, allowing time for “aww” comments in between. OR…
  • Send all your friends who use the Li’l Green Patch application on Facebook a red rose, regardless of their relationship status.
  • Re-gift your leftover Christmas candy. OR..
  • Re-gift last year’s Valentines and candy.
  • If you’re on a date or spending your first Fork Day as a couple, add Frank Sinatra’s “Love and Marriage” to your dinner playlist. And sing along. AND…
  • Drop shameless hints every time you see a diamond commercial. OR…
  • At that fancy restaurant, get down on one knee…to tie your shoe.
  • Stage a protest of alternate Valentines Day nomenclature: Singles Awareness Day and Un-Valentines are just going too far. Fork Day is okay. OR…
  • Wish them all your single friends a happy “Singles Awareness Day.” AND…
  • Create a personalized relationship plan for each of your single friends. Present it to them with a little “Bless your heart” thrown in for good measure.

And above all else, have fun showin’ some love to the people you care about. After all, you’ve just survived a full moon, so you should be all warmed up to dodge some flying forks.

Me, I might just check my mailbox for all the incoming relationship plans; then sit down and watch Titanic for the first time and have a good cry at the end. Oh, Rose…Wherefore art thou (un-drowndest) Rose? The world will always wonder…

Poor Richard’s Bones

Today is a big day for Shakespeareans and other early modernists: Richard III dig: DNA confirms bones are king’s.

The skeleton provides a great deal of tentative information about Richard’s physique (scoliosis, yes; withered arm, probably not) and also his death.

His skeleton had suffered 10 injuries, including eight to the skull, at around the time of death. Two of the skull wounds were potentially fatal….

…Other wounds included slashes or stabs to the face and the side of the head. There was also evidence of “humiliation” injuries, including a pelvic wound likely to have been caused by an upward thrust of a weapon, through the buttock.

Popular guy, right? *shudders*

I wonder if that’s what Shakespeare had in mind for Act 5, Scene 5: “Alarum. Enter KING RICHARD III and RICHMOND; they fight. KING RICHARD III is slain. Retreat and flourish.” Somehow, that description just doesn’t have the same visceral quality. I wonder why.

Marlowe would have had a field day.

See that in the next room I have a fire,
And get me a spit, and let it be red-hot.
—Edward II, 5.5

Locavino: Grove Winery & Vineyards

hawrivervalleymap1037x1379_187x250Although I have explored many of the wineries in my native Yadkin Valley, the Haw River Valley, encompassing parts of Greensboro and Burlington, was largely unknown to me. On a misty Saturday morning in mid-January*, I found myself with time to spare on an eastward transit of Interstate 40.

Having recently cleared a few spots in my wine rack, I was only too willing to detour north in search of a new locavino adventure. Grove Winery & Vineyards, located twenty minutes north of Greensboro off of Route 29, seemed the perfect first encounter with the state’s newest AVA.

The fog broke just as I reached the turnoff to a winding country road lined with dry, grassy fields and mounds of red clay. The brilliant blue sky was a refreshing sight after days of rain. Within a few miles, I reached an unassuming gray building surrounded by winter-bare vines. The tasting room was small but pleasant, with an array of snacks and souvenirs for sale.

As it turned out, I had arrived just before a last-minute event planned in honor of the emerging sunshine, and during my tasting, I chatted with the musician, the tasting room attendant (Nate) and a few regulars. “The best dry wines in the Haw River Valley,” one of them told me enthusiastically.

IMG_4698Nate had entered the business the way many of us** do in North Carolina, by tasting and becoming a regular fixture at a favorite winery. His tasting was informative and thorough. I sampled two of the whites: the 2011 Haw River White, a stainless Chardonel with prominent citrus qualities, and the 2011 Viognier, lightly barrel-aged, with a lovely balance of fruit and oak.

I took home a bottle of the latter and opened it just this week to celebrate a sunny, lengthening afternoon. Initially, the floral qualities of the wine were foremost—honeysuckle on the nose and tongue—but as the glass warmed, the bouquet opened and the fruit reemerged as a mouthful of slightly spicy peaches with a hint of orange. The oak lent a silky texture and just a touch of vanilla to the finish.

Before moving to the true reds, I also sampled Grove’s variation on the rosé, a dry wine made from Sangiovese, crisp and true to form, with light flavors of raspberry.

Of the reds, I tried back-to-back vintages of Sangiovese, comparing the subtle smokiness and plum of the 2009 with the sharper tannins of the 2010. I sampled a Nebbiolo, an Italian grape with a very dry finish; a Syrah, earthier and softer than many; a smooth Cabernet Franc; and a tart, cherry-and-oak Cabernet Sauvignon. The 2009 Sangiovese is now sitting in my wine rack, waiting for just the right occasion.

Before I left, I met the winemaker, Max, who told me a little bit more about the winery, which houses forty-four acres of vines, most of them about ten years old. Grove also owns a small secondary vineyard in Virginia, combining to produce the winery’s three- to four-thousand annual cases.

Although a bit out of the way for regular visits, Grove Winery certainly earned my stamp of approval. For an intimate, leisurely tasting with solid wines and a knowledgeable staff, I highly recommend that you start your tour of the Haw River Valley in the same place that I did.

And don’t worry if you forget your reading glasses; thoughtful of even the most forgetful guests, Grove keeps spares on hand in the tasting room.

In vino veritas!


*Delayed post: such is life!

**Full disclosure: I work part-time at RayLen Vineyards & Winery in Mocksville, but I enjoy experiencing all that North Carolina’s diverse wine country has to offer. These reviews are undertaken on my own time, with no sponsorship by my employers.

Some Gums that I Used to Know

Dear Dentists of the World,

Today, I went to the dentist’s office after a five-year absence. Needless to say, I was nervous. It did not help that I had forgotten how to get to the office and had to call for directions, arriving late for my appointment.

When I walked in, I tried to relax by making small talk with the receptionist and dental hygienist. Then the hygienist escorted me back to the examining room.

At the precise moment that my body touched the dentist’s chair, the soothing jazz melody playing on the radio was replaced by the distinctive introductory xylophone of “Somebody that I Used to Know” by Gotye.

What you have to understand is the deep-set loathing I feel for this song, and its uncanny ability (general overplay notwithstanding) to play on any Pandora station that I create or in any public place that I frequent. I have successfully avoided this song for almost a month. A month.

Now this.

As a result, the song remained stuck in my head throughout the cleaning. I noted (with irony) the Krispy Kreme coupon calendar on the wall and tried to ignore the throbbing in my gums.

But you didn’t have to cut them down
Make them like they didn’t matter and that they were nothing
I don’t even need your love, but you treat me like a stranger
And that feels so sharp

If this were an episode of Glee, the hygienist would have sung the next verse.

No, you didn’t have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records
And then change your address
Guess that we don’t need that though
Now you’re just somebody that we used to know

I swear—I’ll do a better job of flossing! But at least you can see by my pre-decaying teeth that I didn’t cheat on you with another office. I just moved to a new house, that’s all.

Now you’re just somebody that we used to know
Now you’re just somebody that we used to know

Sigh. It is going to take another month to get the song out of my head, and now, what is worse, I will associate that xylophone with a singing, dancing dental hygienist. That’s low, dentists of the world. It’s not enough that you torture us physically; now you’ve added mental torment as well? This is getting ridiculous.

Love, Jen

5, 6, 7 o’clock, 8 o’clock rock!

What gets me out of bed at 5 a.m.? Swing dancing on live local TV.

It’s not often that you get a chance to do the Charleston, balboa, Lindy hop, and jitterbug with the other early birds, but when that proverbial worm appears, you have to snatch it up before it goes back to bed.

…with the other smart worms.

…and the other well-rested birds.

…and the people who don’t enjoy life.

…but stay awake throughzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

ZZZZZZZZZZZ

Find out more about local dances in North Carolina at PiedmontSwingDance.org.

Ode on a Frisbee Disc, by Cleats

I bet you didn’t know that athletic shoes have a poetic streak, did you? Well, neither did I, until I recently purchased a new pair of cleats to replace the sad excuse for shoes that I had been wearing for three years. The old ones did not take abandonment well, as the following poem demonstrates.

Ode on a Frisbee Disc, by Cleats

Ah, happy, happy feet! that cannot shed
Your shoes, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy sprinting soles, unwearièd,
where toes are gath’ring mud for ever new;
More happy toes! more happy, happy shoes!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever wearing, and for ever young;
Fast-breathing human runners far above,
That leaves a heart high-racing and tired,
A soaring Frisbee, and a heaving lung.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that sole flapping at the skies,
And all synthetic sides with mud stains drest?
What Frisbee lass departs her faithful friends,
What grassy hill with peaceful Reynolds school,
Is emptied of its shoes, this pious morn?
And, Frisbee lass, thy feet for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

Then again, the best poetry is born from sorrow, so at least the world stands to receive a net benefit from your departure. Rest in peace, dearest Cleats. You died too young.

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