Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Changes

My ode to my dead computer, not backing everything up,
my dreams, getting out of school......
looking for a better job, and for love, and for sanity...
Sheryl always has the right words!

Ten years living in a paper bag
Feedback baby, he's a flipped out cat
He's a platinum canary, drinkin' falstaff beer
Mercedes rule, and a rented lear
Bottom feeder insincere
Prophet lo-fi pioneer
Sell the house and go to school
Get a young girlfriend, daddy's jewel

A change would do you good
A change would do you good

God's little gift is on the rag
Poster girl posing in a fashion mag
Canine, feline, jekyll and hyde
Wear your fake fur on the inside
Queen of south beach, aging blues
Dinner's at six, wear your cement shoes
I thought you were singing your heart out to me
Your lips were syncing and now I see

A change would do you good
A change would do you good

Chasing dragons with plastic swords
Jack off jimmy, everybody wants more
Scully and angel on the kitchen floor
And I'm calling buddy on the ouija board
I've been thinking 'bout catching a train
Leave my phone machine by the radar range
Hello it's me, I'm not at home
If you'd like to reach me, leave me alone

A change would do you good
A change would do you good
Hello, it's me, I'm not at home
If you'd like to reach me, leave me alone

A change would do you good
A change would do you good
--Sheryl Crow

Monday, November 2, 2009

Lyrics that made my realize the truth

SMILE…Uncle Kracker

You´re better then the best
I´m lucky just to linger in your light
Cooler then the flip side of my pillow that´s right
Completely unaware
Nothing can compare to where you send me
Lets me know that it´s ok yeah it´s ok
And the moments where my good times start to fade

You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed sing like a bird
Dizzy in my head spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Ohh you make me smile

Even when you´re gone
Somehow you come along
Just like a flower poking through the sidewalk crack and just like that
You steal away the rain and just like that

You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed sing like bird
Dizzy in my head spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Ohh you make me smile

Don´t know how I lived without you
Cuz everytime that I get around you
I see the best of me inside your eyes
You make me smile
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild

You make me smile like the sun
Fall out of bed sing like bird
Dizzy in my head spin like a record
Crazy on a Sunday night
You make me dance like a fool
Forget how to breathe
Shine like gold buzz like a bee
Just the thought of you can drive me wild
Ohh you make me smile
Ohh you make me smile
Ohh you make me smile

Monday, October 26, 2009

Lyrics from the past

Am I blue....

It was a morning, long before dawn
Without a warning I found he was gone
How could he do it
Why should he do it
He never done it before

Am I blue
Am I blue
Aint these tears, in these eyes telling you
How can you ask me am I blue
Why, wouldnt you be too
If each plan
With your man
Done fell through

There was a time
When I was his only one
But now im
The sad and lonely one...lonely

Was I gay
Untill today
Now hes gone, and were through
Am I blue

harry akst / grant clarke...recorded by:
Diane Lane for the Cotton Club

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Watching The World Go By

Sunday morning I crawled out from under my cozy down comforter into the cool briskness that is my house in the morning. My feet touched the cold, wooden floor, gingerly as they searched for my little silk slippers. I had found the slippers in Chinatown earlier that year. I wrapped my body in my robe and made my way into my closet. As I searched for my fleecy sweat pants and my running shoes I felt the cold nose of my dog, Oscar, nudging my leg. I tossed my hair into a braid headed for the door.
The cool, autumn air woke both of us up as we rushed down the street and along the river, stretching our legs. We quickly came alive. Autumn has always been my favorite time of year. The sun had just come up, shedding its dandelion yellow light over the city. The sparkly dew on the grass was drying. The leaves hanging from the trees were that interesting green color of early autumn. In the summer the leaves look dark, greenish-blue, and glossy. In the autumn, before they turn golden, orange, red, and brown, they become an odd combination of yellowish-green. Once, I hunted through one of those big boxes of crayons to find a name for that color, and the best I could come up with was yellow-green. I thought I’d find a better description than that, but I didn’t.
The morning was quiet, just the way we liked it. I could smell the smoky coffee half a block away. There was never a line this early, on a Sunday, at The Market. Oscar and I found our favorite table on the street side patio. He gnawed on a dog biscuit as I settled in with the travel section of the New York Times. No matter how old I get, the anticipation of seeing a new place for the first time is one of my most cherished emotions. My coffee was particularly strong, so I laced it with cream and stirred it with my biscotti. The smell of that smoky coffee reminded me of the coffee that I found in Rome. Sitting quietly, it was kind of a shame to watch people fretting with life so early on a Sunday. It seems that the pace never slows down in America, not even early on a Sunday morning. What could possibly be so important? I still don’t know.
I went to the same place every morning for espresso, while I was in Rome. The sign in the window said it had been there for nearly two hundred years. I liked the walnut brown, steaming hot liquid, served in tiny, white porcelain cups. I liked the warm brioche globes better. I slathered the bread with butter and fresh lemon curd made from the lemons from the trees surrounding the city. This was the first place I had ever seen beautiful stacks of freshly prepared sandwiches lining the glass display case, ready for the day. I have seen them all over Europe, but I remember seeing them here first. The cases are stuffed full from top to bottom. Sandwiches are pressed against the glass to best display their appetizing ingredients, like sliced proscuitto and mozzarella fresca with basil and tomatoes.
This is also the first time I realized that the price for a coffee at the counter is less than the price for a coffee at a table. I always took my coffee outside. As I sat at a little table, across from the Spanish Steps in Piazza di Spagna, I watched the men in tight-fitting suits gather at the counter for their morning ritual. I could never understand their quick Italian but I imagined that their conversations were about the weather, or the latest conquests of their soccer teams, just like men around the world would be discussing in the morning, over their coffee. They never splashed their espresso with milk, but they always used sugar. The sugar, always real sugar, came in long, paper tubes.
The lemon yellow sun inched its way through the ancient buildings illuminating the street with golden beams of dusty light. The leaves on the trees in the courtyard were a muted yellow-green. Teenagers, babies, and grandmothers dotted the 300-year-old steps. They nibbled on brioche and warmed themselves with their cappuccinos. I wondered to myself what this place was like when the English poet John Keats lived and died in the building just to the right of the steps. Was it as hurried and as cluttered? Did it smell of crushed herbs and rosemary? Did he sit in this very café and gather ideas for his writings? Perhaps. The architecture of the city is hundreds and thousands of years old. The traditions run deep. I wondered, how many artists have been inspired by Rome? I ran my finger through the sugar I had spilled on the table and traced it on the tip of my tongue.
A year later I found myself walking down Rue Saint Germain, smoking a Gauloises cigarette as I looked for a café au lait and a piping hot croissant. I settled into a classic Parisian street side café and proceeded to do what Parisians do; watch the world go by. There is no other place in the world where I’d rather sit and enjoy doing absolutely nothing. Parisian street side cafés were designed to make daily life a spectator sport. The elegant, bent cane, wicker chairs were lined up facing the sidewalk with a gorgeous, wrought iron pedestal table neatly placed in front of each pair. Each table had the requisite ashtray, which was always mysteriously empty but never for long.
The architecture and the grand boulevards in the chic neighborhoods along the Seine River were designed primarily by Baron Haussmann at the request of Napolean III at the onset of the 1860’s as a way to modernize and beautify Paris. The avenues were lined with stoic old trees. The leaves were just beginning to lose their waxy, bluish-green hue for a recognizable yellow-green tint. It was the Paris of photographs and of films. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Just to the north of the Seine River, is Montmartre. Best known as the Bohemian and Artist district of the city, Montmartre is home to the Moulin Rouge on scandalous Rue Pigale, hundreds of bistros, and the famed Basicilica du Sacré Coeur. Climbing the hundreds of steps to the Sacré Coeur for the first time was monumental. I dropped a coin into the viewer at the top of the stairs and I could see the whole of Paris behind me, and it took my breath away.
I walked a few blocks to the famed, open-air artists market on Place du Tertre and browsed through the paintings. I always enjoy watching the artists at work. I slid into a chair on the patio of Le Sabot Rouge and watched the sunset, as the artists packed up, and the glass lamps warmed with light. A fussy woman of a certain age was perched at the table next to me with her French Bulldog sitting at her feet. She was sipping on a glass of red wine and puffing on a cigarette. The ash on her cigarette was very long and the smoke rose in a curlicue into the brisk evening air. The Parisian sky became the legendary violet it is known for, dotted with the golden globes of the gas lamps and the electric lights of the city. As I ordered a glass of Chinon and a bowl of onion soup, I slipped my little notebook out of my shoulder bag. This was a perfect time to record my thoughts of my day as I watched Paris slow down and melt into the night. I wondered if Oscar Wilde had scribbled musings at that very spot? Maybe Ernest Hemingway penned a draft of The Movable Feast from the table where I sat? The square was bustling as the cafés and bistros filled with people. The same scene was being played all over Paris. People were joining friends and family to relax, converse, dine, drink, laugh and debate the news of the day.
Sipping on my glass of red, wine I remembered that there was a vineyard just a few blocks away. The Parisians had been making wine on Montmartre for two thousand years. From the Middle Ages, the Cloistered Nuns of Saint Pierre’s Church owned the lands surrounding the church. Every year in October, the citizens of Paris celebrated the wine with the popular Fête des Vendanges (harvest festival), which I hoped to attend one of these years. Winemaking has such a lengthy and rich history in France. Wine has been considered France’s national treasure throughout the ages. There is nothing quite like French wine and there is nothing quite like visiting a vineyard at harvest. The earthy, dusky smell of the soil married to the lush ripeness of the swollen fruit can be enchanting.
The muted Californian sun was streaming through the sheers of my window tickling my eyes open. The previous night was a blur of begging a waiter to serve one last smoky wood-fried pizza as he was closing for the night, followed by a freezing cold dip in an ancient stone pool surrounded by poplar trees, the scent of honeysuckle and night blooming jasmine, and then a scorching hot bubble bath. I slept like a baby, but perhaps a little too late. I flew down the stairs of the bed and breakfast I grabbed a coffee and some fruit before the car arrived. The air was already humid and hot. Some friends were taking me deep into the Russian River Valley for a private tour of several exclusive vineyards. I’d never seen the vineyards in this part of California. We drove for what seemed like an eternity. As the miles clicked by, we passed some of the most coveted and brightest stars of California wine. Finally we arrived at the highest peak in the area. From there, I could see the Pacific Ocean through the clearing fog. Miles and miles of vineyards surrounded me. The leaves on the vine were signaling an early autumn and the fruit hung heavy and ripe on the vine. In some parts of the region this would be the first day of harvest for the season.
I listened carefully to the vineyard manager, and tasted grapes from each row. It was interesting to taste what he tasted. The grapes from the north side of the vine were not as sweet and ripe as the grapes from the south side. I crushed the pips on my tongue, and I realized that they were just reaching phenolic ripeness in some vineyards but were days even weeks away in others. We grasped handfuls of soil to analyze scents, taste, and quality together. We tasted the soil, just a little bit. I wandered toward the edge of one of the vineyards to inhale the smells and snap a photograph and I realized that the leaves on the vine had and interestingly familiar color, a simple yellow-green of autumn that I had observed all over the world.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Three Poems

The Blood of the Gods

Just one grape is so precious and so rare
That has only lived in ever one place.
A lovely Magdalene with long red hair,
On the lips of a dying man she traced.
A wine reserved only for Caesars and Kings,
Poets of Rome praised the Falerian,
About it often the chorus did sing,
Yet the name, buried by historians.
The blood of the gods and the blood of man,
Long ago forgotten just like this wine.
And a myth I will never understand,
Covered long ago by the ash of time.
From Mount Vesuvius and Mount Vulture
Aglianico is still the poet’s lure.



Temptation

Flipping through the latest Hollywood magazine
Gazing at your glossy celluloid dream
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.
I suppose I could wish you into my life
Find a red candle and a flame to light
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.

A sliver of the moon hanging low in the sky
The acoustic guitar in my room begins to cry
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.
Swaying and slow dancing in the hall
Press me up tight and long against the wall
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.

Kissing until you bruise my lips
Hands wandering down around my hips
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.
The heat of your touch and the palm of my hand
The sweet taste, salty sweat, a delicious man
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.
The initial temptation of skin against skin
Invoking waves of delay in me again
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.

Perfume of last night lingers low in the air
Your fingers run through my tangled hair
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.
We never think twice about proper etiquette
They won’t know, we’ll never forget
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.

The pale light of the dawn warms my skin
Pulling me back from where I’ve been
Half a glass of warm red wine,
And a lit cigarette.


How can I become everything to me?

How can I conquer the world?
When I haven’t even conquered
My own hometown yet?

How can I soar to new heights?
When I haven’t ever stepped
Out of the wadding pool just yet?

How can I give you my gift,
My knowledge and lessons,
When I know you don’t want them yet?


How can I ever love you?
When I don’t even know who you are,
I haven’t even met you yet?

How can I give you my smile?
When I have never taken a chance
Quite like that yet?

How can I become everything to me?
When I don’t even really know
What that is just yet?


How can I finally earn my due,
Gain my respect from you,
After so many years of trying?

How do I begin to feel,
And make it real,
After so many years of hiding?

When will I set it right,
And give up the fight,
And begin living instead of lying?

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Deucalion and Pyrrah-fiction for you

After seven years coming to this vineyard in Spain every summer, Chloe was finally used to walking with her back to the vines and talking to the crowd, in high heels no less. The heels accentuated her long, slender legs. Twenty years of dancing kept her agile and the discipline showed. Her taut body was draped in the tight black pants and the fitted black silk sweater of her uniform. As she spoke she twisted her wavy hair up and secured it with a silver barrette. “ This has always been my favorite vineyard and winery in Rioja.” She said to the group of middle-aged tourists, guiding them down an ancient path through gnarled, old, tempranillo vines. “The owner’s family has been collecting art for hundreds of years. Some of the most beautiful paintings in the world are just inside the house.” Chloe motioned to the ancient chateau poised up on a hill, her flattery was more pronounced than usual.
She always liked to save this vineyard for the end of the ten-day tour through Spanish wine country. On this day, however, she was distracted by something other than her job as a guide. The bright sun was dipping low on the horizon and blinding her view of the faces. She managed to glance often over to the chateau in the distance, as if she was searching for something there. Two men were unloading the travel coach and lining up the luggage. Her new luggage stood out. It was larger than the rest of the bags. The porter took the bags inside the chateau.
Chloe lead the group through the gardens and through the old, wooden double doors of the chateau, she paused for just a moment to catch her breath and let the group congregate. Before them was a long corridor filled with some of the most legendary and coveted paintings and pieces of art ever seen in a private collection. Behind her was a glorious sunset of magenta and orange that rested on top the vines. From somewhere in the distance, the sounds of acoustic Flamenco guitar were gently flooding the hall.
Her eyes came to rest on a single painting, hung out of the way and poorly lit. It pained her to see it neglected in that way, hanging alone, in the corner, in the dark. “Deucalion and Pyrrha,” was dusty and ignored. She had loved it instantly when she first discovered it there, seven years ago. Overwhelmed by the dusky beauty of the painting she looked at every brush stroke, every color and the layers of meaning in the symbols used to convey the myth. Each character symbolized the chaos of the birth of man and the seeds of destruction of all humanity. The decadence of life; the feasts, the wine, the jewels and finery were all on display. Deucalion and Pyrrha had the choice to continue along their path populating the world with humans. With each human they created, they brought sin and hedonism and lust into the world. The struggle was on their faces and in the pain of the piece. It was dark and brooding with vibrant splashes of crimson washed through the azure and violet background. Aloud, but to nobody in particular, she glossed over the little brass plaque; “‘Deucalion and Pyrrha’ was painted in the 1600’s by ‘Il Grecchetto’ Giovanni Benedetto Castiglione.” She then murmured to herself, “and it ended up hidden away in this corridor, in the corner, in the dark.”
She felt the air shift and become cool outside as a storm approached. She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect evening to spend in the old chateau. She loved the rain. Mesmerized by the painting, the music, and the perfumed air; the voices of the group became a jumbled noise that blended into the quiet thunder on the distant horizon. As she spoke to the crowd, her mind wandered to her studio at home, and the dozens of paintings lined up against the wall, which mingled with empty wine bottles bearing the label of the vineyard. Each painting was exactly the same and yet each was in some way flawed. As she paced back and forth in the corridor, like a cat in a cage, she dutifully rattled of the details of each painting to the group of tourists. She gazed at her beloved painting once again, and as she sighed to herself, a smile was on her lips which was barely perceptible to the group or to even to her.
The rain began to fall, gently at first. The blaze of orange had given way to grey storm clouds. The warm and welcoming smells of paella, tempranillo and tapas were wafting through the air. The Flamenco music had gained force and the tempo stirred something in the group. They were bored of the art, tired from the day of traveling, and hungry from the smells of dinner. They made their way out of the hall and looked for the dining room and the aromas of Spain. Chloe trailed behind as she shook off the spell of the painting.
The dinner went well as these dinners usually did. The owner of the vineyard presented himself and played Flamenco for the group. The clients always paid for an exclusive experience. They wanted to visit the very best vineyards, dine on the most delicious cuisine and sample the most impressive wines. They wanted to be entertained and educated. This group was no exception. The vineyard owner was always a gracious host and Chloe was their passport into the world of luxury and finery that most people have only read about. Everyone was tired after seven courses and dozens of bottles of the vineyards finest wines dating back forty years. Plumes of smoke billowed around the candles in the chandelier that hung above the table. It was dark and cool, despite the fire that burned in the old marble dressed fireplace at the end of the room. Outside the storm raged on. It was late in the season but the grapes on the vines were still waiting to ripen and the storm was making the vineyard owner uncomfortable. He was afraid of losing his most prized possession just before harvest. The guests were sipping on the last glasses of Palo Cortado Sherry and one by one, they excused themselves for the evening. According to protocol, Chloe showed each guest to his or her private suite, which were scattered throughout the old Chateau. Through the years she had learned to walk lightly on the creaking floors to prevent waking anyone from their slumber. She new each weakness in the floors and expertly avoided the noisiest spots.
Once the last guest was safely tucked away, Chloe and the vineyard owner shared one last glass of wine in celebration if yet another successful tour. The guests were satisfied and she sold more wine on this tour than ever before. Their conversation turned to the upcoming harvest and the dangers of the storm. Their conversation slowly trailed off. After what seemed like hours of silence as they both stared into the dying fire of glowing embers and blue hot flames, Chloe wished him goodnight, kissing each cheek, and made her way to her room. She was exhausted from the trip and lulled by the meal, the wine, and the weather. She kicked off her high heels, pulled her nightgown out of her new luggage and sat at the edge of her bed, deep in thought.
Chloe slipped out of her room closing the door behind her without making a sound. As she made her way down the long corridor, she could barely hear the owner as he strummed the guitar. He was so close, but thankfully he was wrapped up in his own thoughts and worries. She found herself standing in front of “Deucalion and Pyrrha” and she trembled. She nearly dropped the bag she was carrying as she lowered it to her feet. Seven years she had waited for this moment. She stood motionless and listened as the owner played. Seven years of wanting; of desire so strong that she could not focus or think of anything else. Outside the storm moaned and cried. Seven years of painting, and her own personal torment of craving something so badly that she could never have had before.
She breathed deeply and slowly to calm herself and her shaking hands. She focused on the neglected painting intently as she used her knife to ease it away from the backing and slipped it carefully out of the frame. The music had stopped for a moment and she hadn’t noticed. Chloe hesitated, and then she rolled up the painting with a silk cloth to protect the ancient paint, and slid it into the long black tube she had strung across her back. She worked very quickly to replace it with one of her own. Finally, she took a step back and realized that it was nearly perfect. She smiled to herself as she paused to listen to the storm and the faded Flamenco guitar that dampened any sound she might have made. She gathered up her things and disappeared into the shadows as she quickly made her way back to her room.
The morning sun shone through her window and danced in the gauzy sheer drapes that canopied her bed. Chloe awoke her from her slumber and stretched like a cat to wake her limbs. The group was departing that morning and she was returning to her little apartment in the city. Her eyes were sleepy as she arranged her things in her new luggage. She pulled on her uniform and slipped her feet into her high heels. She whisked her wavy hair into a silver barrette and slicked on some lip-gloss. She grabbed the handle of her new luggage and wheeled it through the door and snuck down the corridor as quietly as she could. She lined her new luggage up with the rest of the bags and walked through the old, wooden, double doors. The bright sun had come up over the horizon and it blinded her as she turned her eyes toward the vineyard and the group that was standing there waiting for her. She took a deep breath and smiled.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Ma muse, le vin

Wine is my muse and has been the muse to many writers from the early Chinese poets, to the ancient Egyptians and Greeks. The Roman playwrights and historians detailed their affair with wine. Italian monks and French priests labored over the vines and the pages in their journals discussing wine. Historians, politicians, diplomats, poets, artists, courtesans, society ladies, trustifarians, actors, filmmakers, and musicians, have all discussed the finer and lesser attributes of their muse, wine.

Wine is a feminine, eretheal goddess who has transcended time and culture. She is sultry, perfumed, glimmering, and exquisite. She entices and seduces the least expecting victim with her luscious charms. Even when she takes on a charismatic and masculine guise, she is still sensual and succulent and beautiful. She can be girlishly sweet and joyfully bubbly. She can have a sharp and acidic laugh or a sturdy if slightly bitter way about her. In her older years she tends to be mellow, warm and comforting. She is always inviting. She nourishes and she gives life. She reduces the stresses and inhibitions of the day. She is greatly misunderstood and often she appears to be complicated. In reality she is very simple. She just wants to be loved, respected, and appreciated for exactly who and what she is, nothing more and nothing less. She is always looking for someone new, but she never forgets her old friends. Once you have been tangled in her delicate web of inky mystery you may never be able to wrestle free. You will be hers forever.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

My New Pair of Old Jeans

Recently, I was in Portland, Oregon, working with The Wine Academy of Spain on a three day Spanish Wine Certification Course. This was the second city of a brief, four city, west coast tour. These classes are all day long, intense, and tend to be fairly disorganized. This particular venue was quite nice and the staff was fairly well prepared for the event. They pre-sorted and catalogued all 200 bottles of wine. The tables were laid out classic banquet style instead of our usual classroom set up. They were dressed prettily, as if for a wedding. The wine glasses were huge balloon type goblets and were completely inappropriate for a wine tasting. We needed new glasses.

A student offered to bring us 100 new Reidel professional tasting glasses from his Tiki and Wine Bar. We took a mini break and I continued working on tying up every loose detail for the remainder of the tour. This is a job that is never finished and is always changing with every moment. It keeps me flexible and on my toes. The student returned with the new glasses, the tables were reset in a flash and the show continued on flawlessly.

By the end of the second day, my partner Esteban, and I were feeling a bit exhausted. The students always like to take us out on the town to show off their city and Portland would be no different. Portland has a fantastic restaurant scene. As we were cleaning up, Esteban tossed me a bag of Honey & Almond Nougat candies, knocking over two full glasses of red wine, which splashed down my legs soaking my blue jeans purple. I squealed and we laughed. Quickly I realized I had nothing to wear to Davis Street Tavern but an inappropriately formal dress. The same student chimed in that he used to be a jeans broker and had a supply in various cuts, styles, and brands. He asked my size and promised to deliver a pair to my hotel in time for the dinner. Relief.

I washed my jeans out in the tub in my hotel room. Hand washing jeans is no delicate task. Luckily I had a balcony and hung the sopping wet mess in the hot and humid Portland air to dry. It was going to take forever. So I wrapped myself in my robe and turned on the shower. Looking down at my purple stained thighs I laughed to myself. Someone was knocking at my door. “Hmmmm,” I wondered to myself, “Someone must have the wrong door.” I heard the knocking again so I tightened my robe and answered the door. To my surprise, there stood the student, grinning and clutching a pair of jeans. Shocked I said hello, I hadn’t expected a personal courier. I thought he’d leave them at the front desk for me. How did he get my room number? He pushed his way into my room, thrusting the jeans into my hands. I was completely shocked. “Ok,” I said very cautiously, “Let me try them on.” They looked suspiciously like a well-worn pair of men’s jeans but they were very cool Ben Sherman button fly’s from London. So, I popped into the bathroom locking the door and pulled on the baggy in all the wrong places, quite obviously not women’s jeans, jeans. I looked like I had a package where I clearly do not. I slid on my tee shirt and walked into my suite to thank the student for the effort and to show him that the jeans were a moderate success. As I rounded the corner, I stopped short, I gasped, and exclaimed, “What in the hell are you doing!”

There he was, sprawled across my bed his clothes strewn on my floor. “I thought you might want some company, it must be lonely on tour for so long,” he stammered, grinning like some sort of deranged hyena. I spun around facing the wall and answered, “No, no I do not, you have got to go, now. I need to take a shower and get ready for dinner, and you have got to go.” He had the balls to say, “Can I join you? You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I just want to join you.” I walked over to the door and flung it opened, standing next to it motioning for him to leave. He wriggled back into his clothes and wandered out the opened door, which I promptly slammed on his ass! I shook my head and said out loud, to myself, “What in the hell is wrong with people.”

I dolled myself up in an edgy top and great heels, and I looked ok in the jeans at the dinner. I avoided the student’s acidic stare and bitter little comments. I mingled with the students and later over beers I told Esteban the story. He was not pleased at all but we had a good laugh.

About a week later, once I had returned home, I received a text from the student. He told me to keep the jeans in exchange for the highest score on the exam, which would qualify him for the free trip to Spain in the fall. Now, I have nothing to do with the grades for the exam but I suggested to Esteban that he fail him for unprofessional conduct and attempting to bribe me with his old jeans. But, I kept the jeans anyway.

Monday, August 17, 2009

My First day of my Last Semester

Today is the first day of my last semester...love the way that sounds.
Yesterday, I returned to Denver from my two week west coast tour with the Spanish Wine Academy...I have never been more exhausted. I had an incredible time and learned more in two weeks than I could in a semester at college.

That said...I am completely unprepared for classes today...and I must have senioritis because I don't really care...I am sure that will change by the end of the week.

Dreading my french classes and my algebra class...I guess I saved the worst for last..lol..
I am trying to figure out when and how I am going to learn Spanish...working for a Spanish company has presented the opportunity to work for several other Spanish companies...why did I just take three years of French?!?

Saturday, July 18, 2009

What I like in a man…

A few nights ago my favorite gay boyfriend and I were talking about our “types” and tastes in men…he realized that I have no consistent type when it comes to matters of the heart and attraction. None of the men I have dated resemble each other physically. But, I protested…I do have a type, a personality type. Many of the men from my past are not the most beautiful men or the most successful men…but they are all very sexy men.

I go absolutely weak in the knees for men with a little quality I like to call “Throw Down.” It is almost indescribable and can be difficult to articulate but throw down is a combination of factors that I crave in a man whether he is a certain physical type or not.

Throw down is that little bit of passion that makes him slyly sneak a kiss from me when I least expect it. It is never forced or demanded…but stolen unexpectedly as he walks by me on the stairs, barely hidden from view, on his way back to his meeting. It is never for show or to prove a point or to mark me as his possession in front of his friends…but, it is a private little moment shared between us. It is the kind of passion that fails to ask if it is ok to kiss me, but just thrusts my back, hard up against the wall, and takes my face in his hands as he kisses me. He has the confidence and the conviction to know I am not going to be able to resist him.

This kind of man has passion in his life as well, not just passion for me or for sex. He always has a love outside of romantic entanglements….an interesting career or hobby. He is often an artist or a musician, but that is rarely his job. He is passionate about his work and his hobby and that kind of fire permeates his life. This is the kind of man that has a full life. He has interests and friends and a past and a future. He is not obsessed with his baggage because he has dealt with it…but, he is not obsessed with his future either.

This is the kind of man that knows how to treat a woman. He is romantic. He is chivalrous but not too much. He is confident enough to tell me what to do, as a man, and he knows I will respond, as a woman. It is only in his ultra masculine presence that I feel comfortable enough to soften my prickly and independent exterior and allow my feminine and seductive side to shine through. He is completely a man and I am able to become completely a woman.

He is generous, kind and gentle but really only in private….and I know it is only for me, which makes me feel incredibly special and ultimately loved. He can be a bit arrogant and cocky but never to the point of being vulgar. He is an expert in his field but he has some humility about it. He knows how to take control of the situatin, of his life, and of me….and I want him to do it…..

These men have very strong, masculine personalities. It is almost impossible for me to make eye contact with them in public, because I melt. They are potent and virile and intoxicating. When I am in their presence I am completely at ease….and yet I am incredibly uncomfortable because we cannot keep our hands off of one another….but we do, because it is so much more exciting to wait for the private little moment…like it is a hidden and dirty little secret. When we are in seclusion there is nothing that can dampen the fire.

He has a sense of style. He dresses edgy even when in fabulous jeans and a simple tee shirt. He always has a great haircut, his hair is slightly messy, not too short and never too long. and he has a fantastic white smile. He pays attention to his skin and to the look of his hands. This guy cleans the dirt out from under his fingernails. He is never obsessed with his looks but he is a combination of Rob Thomas, George Clooney and the guy next door. He always knows what is appropriate for every situation and never under dresses but he never over dresses either. And…there is absolutely something sexy about a simple silver bracelet on his left wrist.

So…essentially…my “type” doesn’t just consist of beautiful brown eyes, short hair, fantastic abs, a sexy accent, and the most seductive smile I have ever seen…

Monday, July 6, 2009

My Secret Garden



My garden is a crazy, little mess...the rain has turned it into a fantastic jungle of tomato plants, green beans, and snow peas....

Sunday, June 28, 2009

My favorite places in Denver for lunch and a nap




I love to have little picnics, outside, in the shade, on a warm day. I have my lunch and then I will lay down for a brief rest and gaze up at the blue Colorado sky.
When I take the time to relax like this a few times a week I find I have more energy and I am happier with my daily life. Nothing seems to get me down.....

Often, I take the simplest lunch I can, like a juicy, sweet honeycrisp apple with a few slices of nutty manchego cheese and salty prosciutto. I add a few tangy olives, a crisp cracker or two and an icy cold Pelligrino water. For dessert I will have tart, ruby red cherries that stain my lips and fingers or a bunch of sweet grapes. If I don't have too much work to do in the afternoon, I will enjoy a cool glass of rose wine, which I hide in a clean Starbucks cup.

I can't think of a more perfect lunch alfresco...and there is nowhere I'd rather be for the few minutes I find in my day for my break.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

I got caught in the rain today…

Not just any rain but a torrential downpour, a deluge. The black sky opened and flooded the streets. The air became very still and calm just before it happened. Seduced by the change, I was drawn outside for a walk amongst the roses in my yard. The scent was honeyed and pungent all at once. The earthiness of the damask and tea roses combined with the heady perfume of the pink and red floribunda modern varieties swirled around me, enticing foolish and industrious bees. All at once I heard a thunderous roar as the first drops began to fall.

Initially, the shock of the heavy rain against my body felt prickly…but the sensation melted, and as I relaxed into the feeling I began to enjoy the sensuality of the experience.

The raindrops were huge orbs of sweet water that felt like warmed bath water against my taut skin. They tasted briny and dusty on my tongue. I tilted my face toward the dark clouds and let the water wash over my closed eyelids and my lips and through my long hair.

The rain poured down over me, fast and furiously, drenching my clothes, gluing them to my every curve. Every inch of my body became visible, slathered in my linen dress. The energy of it all was exhilarating and refreshing.

As I stood there, perfectly still, under the shower of silky water…my thoughts ran back to you. I remembered your warmth and your touch as you lathered my body, washing my limbs and my hair. I remember the way it felt to be in your arms, slowly moving to the music of the city and I long to dance again…with you…in the rain.

Friday, June 19, 2009

My life, as it is in Denver

A man recently told me that maybe Paris isn't good enough for me and maybe I should think about what I have had already in my life...maybe I should write about that...I have had a brilliant life, enough stories to to entertain for a while. I have lived fully and I have much to tell.
Maybe, I will take his advice and revisit the life I have had here in Denver..and...I will tell secrets I have never told.

Comment c'est que je peux tomber dans l'amour dans quelques jours ? Où est ma tête? C'est irrationnel, délicieux, et dangereux pour mon coeur. Mais ici je suis, désarmé et impuissant. Je suis sous le contrôle de quelque chose plus grand que ma propre volonté. Je suis changé et je ne serai jamais le même. Et J'ai félicité...

¿Cómo es que puedo enamorarme en unos pocos días? ¿ Dónde está la cabeza? Es irracional, delicioso, y peligroso para el corazón. Pero aquí soy, indefenso e impotente. Estoy bajo el control de algo más que mi propio hago. Soy cambiado y yo nunca seré lo mismo. Y soy feliz....

How is it that I can fall in love in a few days? Where is my head? It is irrational, delicious, and dangerous for my heart. But here I am, defenseless and helpless. I am under the control of something greater than my own will. I am changed and I will never be the same. And I am blissful....

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Sultans of Swing...for you

How is it that one man can so profoundly change my life in a matter of four days? As I write this I feel tears in my eyes…tears of bliss, of fatigue, of desire, of longing…I feel aching in my heart.

I am lost in a strange agony…I am exhausted but yet, I cannot sleep. I am famished and I cannot eat. Wine does not quench my thirst. My mind is swirling with thoughts and memories and I cannot focus on anything. I only wish to close my eyes and remember his, the way he looked at me….I will never forget the deepness of the way he looked into my eyes and my soul.

He changed me and he changed my life in the minutes we were together and I know I will never be the same. I will never recover. I fear that he was the first man I have ever known that is completely for me. He read my secrets and saw things in me that only he has seen. He was a stranger to me but I trusted him in ways I have never trusted a man before and will never again. His passion, his control; he led me in dance and for the first time in my life I learned to follow. I learned what it is to melt into someone else and just be free in the moment with the music.

The sound of his voice is haunting my thoughts sending a chill down my spine. My body craves his body. My lips crave his lips, his soft breath on my cheek. My ears wish to hear the sound of his beautiful voice. My eyes, my eyes desire to soak in his every move, his devious smile, his anger, his bliss, and his distant gaze. He left his shirt and it smells like him...intoxicating...

I would sell my soul to have one more day...lying next to him…listening to Sultans of Swing...in his arms.

Sultans of Swing lyrics:

You get a shiver in the dark
Its been raining in the park but meantime
South of the river you stop and you hold everything
A band is blowing dixie double four time
You feel all right when you hear that music ring

You step inside but you dont see too many faces
Coming in out of the rain to hear the jazz go down
Too much competition too many other places
But not too many horns can make that sound
Way on downsouth way on downsouth london town

You check out guitar george he knows all the chords
Mind hes strictly rhythm he doesnt want to make it cry or sing
And an old guitar is all he can afford
When he gets up under the lights to play his thing

And harry doesnt mind if he doesnt make the scene
Hes got a daytime job hes doing alright
He can play honky tonk just like anything
Saving it up for friday night
With the sultans with the sultans of swing

And a crowd of young boys theyre fooling around in the corner
Drunk and dressed in their best brown baggies and their platform soles
They dont give a damn about any trumpet playing band
It aint what they call rock and roll
And the sultans played creole

And then the man he steps right up to the microphone
And says at last just as the time bell rings
thank you goodnight now its time to go home
And he makes it fast with one more thing
we are the sultans of swing

(and then, one of the most beautiful guitar solos of all time....)

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Priorities and Life

It is said that priorities change over the course of your life. I believe that is true, to an extent. But, I also believe that friends and family should always remain a priority. When we are younger, our friends come and go as our lifestyle changes and we grow. By the time we are in our mid thirties, we have pretty much figured out who we are and what we want out of life. We also know what we want from our friendships and what we want to give back to our friends.

Sometimes I wonder if “Sex and the City” has given me an unrealistic expectation about my friendships. These four women are always a phone call away. The four of them are always going out together. They get together at ‘Coffee Shop’ for brunch on Sunday mornings. They are together even when they are romantically involved with men. They meet in pairs for lunch. Occasionally one of them has other plans and it is just three. Throughout it all, they nurture and cherish their relationships with one another. It is beautiful, and it just may be unrealistic.

I would love to have that kind of access to my friends. I rarely see them and it is really starting to bother me. I try to nurture and build my relationships with them. Sometimes I feel like I am the only one calling to make plans. When we are together everyone says how great it is and how we should make it a point to see each other more often…but, it never seems to happen.

Do I expect too much from my friends? Maybe I do, but I really don’t think so. I don’t see how a friendship can flourish without attention and contact. Only one of my friends is a phone person, Nina could spend hours on the phone….mostly when she is driving for hours to and from work. It’s never been my thing. I like to meet in person. I like to see the person I am talking to. I want to read body language and experience the relationship with all of my senses.

Do I expect them to be able to drop everything and get together for brunch? Sort of, I expect them to set aside two hours for brunch, but only once a month. This year, I decided it was time to cultivate my friendships after conversation after conversation with each friend about how we never see each other and we should get together more…so, I decided to plan a monthly brunch for my girlfriends and we all agreed to commit the time to attend.

In February, Michelle, Natasha and her daughter Siena, and I met at ‘Crepes et Crepes’ in LoDo. Nina didn’t make it. The second month only I showed up. The third month Michelle and Nina and I met at ‘Great Beginnings’ near Parker. And last month Michelle and I met at ‘Mimi’s Café’ in Highlands Ranch at Nina’s suggestion but she and Natasha didn’t show up. Obviously, my plan isn’t working out very well.
Now, we always have a great time and I love seeing any of my girls, but I don’t understand why we all can’t get together? What is standing in our way?
It seems that work, men, kids, money, and logistics get in our way.

On “Sex and the City” the ladies live in Manhattan, which is a is a tiny island covering just 33 square miles surrounded by the Metro area, which totals 6,720 square miles. The ladies are relatively close to one another. Even when Miranda moves to Brooklyn, she is just across the Brooklyn Bridge from Manhattan. Easy Access.

Denver is sprawling, it is spread out across 159 square miles while the entire Metro area covers 8,414 square miles. Michelle lives in Parker, which is 30 miles south east of downtown. Natasha lives in Idaho Springs, which is 35 miles west of downtown.
Nina lives in Highlands Ranch, which is 20 miles south of downtown. I live downtown.

Michelle has two daughters and works a classic nine to five. Her husband travels during the week and occupies most of her time on the weekends. Of all of us, she needs the girl time break the most! Natasha is a single stay at home mom. She lives with her parents and hates it. Nina works in the entertainment business right downtown, she has a nine to five but she occasionally has to work an event at night and on the weekends. I am a full time student and I work full time.

Even with the distances between us and the life stuff that gets in the way, we should be able to meet once a month!

Sunday, April 26, 2009

A Literary Salon

I have always wanted to be a member of a literary salon. I am not just talking about an ordinary book club where lonely gals get together to drink wine and commiserate about their lives. I am talking about a salon like the ones hosted by the literati and their hangers on during the high periods of European culture. Often, the mistress of some powerful official or the wife of a professor would host the event. She would invite an interesting mix of educated men and women and they would sit around her salon, sipping on wine and puffing on cigarettes, and discuss the important topics of the day from the latest philosophy to the most scandalous politics. How delicious it must have been to be so completely intellectually stimulated and challenged.

Modern technology and our extremely busy schedules are increasing the isolationism in our country. People no longer gather to discuss and debate much of anything. I can’t even gather my girlfriends once a month for brunch! People no longer have time for a conversation. The newspapers are faltering, giving way to online sources, television spoof news, and info-blogs. Students were once at the forefront of the discussion, and yet, most that I meet know nothing of the headlines today. The average twenty-three minute network evening news consists of six minutes of sports, six minutes of weather, seven minutes of entertainment or local happenings, which leaves just two minutes for world news. I never bother watching anything but the weather. I read the New York Times and BBC World News online edition. I also check the Montreal Gazette and Le Monde at least once a week. But, I have no one to discuss it with. What good is news that cannot be shared or debated?

Putting my modern technology to good use, I found two interesting Meet Up groups in my area. The first one is a French club. It has 296 members and small groups meet several times a month. I’d like to give it a try. I need to practice my speaking and listening skills. I often have difficulty deciphering spoken French…it is so dang fast! The French meet up doesn’t have any scheduled meetings for May. The other group I have heard of before. The group was founded in 2004 and has nearly 200 members. It is poetically labeled the Socrates Café due to the philosophical nature of the discussions. That could be very interesting and very intellectually stimulating. The next meeting is on May 7th. I will plan on going to check it out. Hopefully, it will be just the thing to cure my craving.

Men, meet the telephone

I was having a bottle of wine with my girlfriends a few months ago and the conversation turned to men as it usually does. Of the four of us, one has a sexy boyfriend, one is sleeping with her single and very hot boss, one is on Match.com and I am playing the field with several men. Don’t get me wrong; we are all ok with our current situations to an extent. For example, Nina is dating a great guy that loves her, but he really never gives her what she wants. And her roomie is looking for love on Match but hasn’t found Mr. Right, or even Mr. Right now. I am dating several men, nothing too serious, and no one in particular. I refuse to settle for less than I want and none of these men have shown me that they have what it takes to be a great match for me. The one thing that all of these men have in common is that they DON’T CALL.
Some schools of thought say that they (the men) are just not that into us if they don’t call, but others say that Mars needs to be in control and Venus just needs to wait around for them and let them run the show. Modern women don’t like to sit around for any man to run the show, we just go after what we want and if they can’t handle that it is their problem! Men need to catch up and get in the new game. Or do they?
Personally, I have never been good at the dating game because; I am smart, educated, successful, and often impatient and don’t have time to sit around and wait for a man to get it together to pick up the phone and call me when it is convenient for them. What about that is convenient for me? I don’t like to play that game and if he doesn’t call there are other men lined up who may want to take me out to dinner or a show.
Now, granted, this tactic leads to a lot of first or second dates and nothing else…. but, I am also not waiting around pathetically for the phone to ring.
Why can’t guys get this message…Women hate waiting for your call…call us the next day if you are interested…because we are not going to wait around for long!!!!
We know you want to chase us and we know that you need the control but in a day and age when email takes less than a second and I can get my dry cleaning in 12 hours, I expect a guy to call me with in a few days. I am not going to wait for a telegram or the pony express to figure out if you are interested or not. It’s true, when you don’t call when you say you will, I do assume you are just not that into me and I say “well that was nice, but, NEXT!!!” So you lose and I may lose too. By the time you get around to figuring out if you are in to me I have moved on and we are both wondering what could have been.
So. Let me ask you all out there, why don’t men call and how long do women wait for a call?

Friday, April 17, 2009

Last night I went to Venice

One of my favorite restaurants in Denver is Venice on 17th and Wynkoop Street in LoDo. My friend, Mario is the GM. He always has a smile and a Limoncello for me at the end of my meal. In the summer, I frequent Venice for their amazing happy hour, which runs from 11:00 am until 6:00 pm weekdays. They have a roomy patio where I can have a glass of wine with a selection of small plates and watch the sunset as the bustling crowd rushes past. Their cuisine is classic northern Italian. It is always delicious and satisfying.

We started our meal with Champagne and Vongole “Canal Grande,” Manila clams with fresh tomatoes, baby arugula, roasted garlic, served with a marinara wine sauce. I enjoyed my favorite salad, Mozzarella Caprese, made from vine ripened tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, basil and Mediterranean dry oregano, drizzled with Tuscan olive oil. My friend decided on Insalata di Rucola e Pomodori with baby arugula, vine ripened tomatoes, Tropea onions, buffalo mozzarella, olives and Modena balsamic dressing.

We shared a bottle of the famed Castello Banfi Poggio all’Oro Brunello di Montalcino Riserva. The wine is produced only in excellent vintages. "Poggio all'Oro," translated as "Hill of Gold," is a single vineyard, 820 feet above sea level, particularly noted for its favorable microclimate, on the southern slopes of Montalcino. This wine has a gorgeous ruby red color with hints of violet. It has a lush bouquet, with black fruit and spice, complemented by tobacco, violet, and chocolate notes. On the palate, the wine is full bodied with a velvety mouthfeel and well structured with supple tannins and good acidity. It offers rich flavors of plums and cherries followed by a long finish with nuances of berries and spice. Delicious!

For my main course I decided on Anatra al Balsamico, a lovely dish of slowly roasted Petaluma duck breast stuffed with ricotta and fontina cheeses, glazed with a sweet Modena balsamic reduction sauce. It was amazingly rich and succulent. It was served with a side of creamy risotto. My friend selected the Scaloppine ai Capperi, which is veal scaloppine with capers, roasted artichokes and roasted garlic that is finished with a Pinot Grigio-lemon butter sauce.

For dessert we shared the incredibly decadent Mousse al Cioccolato with fresh raspberries and pistachio gelato. He sipped on Galliano and I finished with rich, earthy espresso.

Some of my other favorite dishes include the Risotto all’ Aragosta e Fragole made from
imported Italian rice, chunks of lobster, fresh strawberries and a creamy lobster sauce; the Pappardelle alla Veneziana made from wide pasta ribbons with prawns, clams, mussels, scallops, fresh tomatoes and finished with a light marinara sauce; and lastly, when I am looking for something light I choose Carpaccio dei “Sospiri” a thinly sliced filet mignon with baby artichokes, micro greens, capers, and shaved grana dressed with a light mustard-lemon dressing.


A few of the delectable entrées that appear as small plates on the extensive happy hour menu include Cappellacci di Zucca, a hat- shaped ravioli filled with butternut squash, walnuts & parmesan cheese with marinara sauce and sage& brown butter; Gnocchi alla Caprese, a dish of potato dumplings, fresh tomatoes, basil, fresh buffalo mozzarella and parmesan cheese; and Calamaretti Fritti al Pesto, which is flash-fried baby squid; served with a spicy marinara sauce and basil pesto.

Venice makes the most beautiful, traditional Italian desserts. I love Torta al Limone, a short paste dough filled with a lemon pastry cream, 
garnished with pine nuts and almonds and served with hazelnut gelato. The classic Tiramisu made with ladyfingers soaked in espresso and layered with 
mascarpone, cream and chocolate chips is fantastic. The Profiteroles al Cioccolato Bianco are filled with chantilly cream and covered with 
a white chocolate sauce and chocolate shavings.

A trip to Venice is always worth it, even if it is only for one evening!

Thursday, April 16, 2009

What’s New Pussycat

Is it possible to be in love with a song? I know it sounds silly, but I am smitten with a song. I first heard it when I watched Ocean’s 11 on the big screen. The movie pays homage to the glitzy Rat Pack days of Vegas when men wore tuxedos and ladies were ladies. The soundtrack for the film is peppered with Jazzy Bluesy instrumental pieces from a more sophisticated era. Naturally, I bought the movie and the soundtrack. In fact, I own all of the Ocean’s movies and their respective soundtracks. Each one is uniquely different yet they all have the same flavor. Thief movies are my favorite!

The song that has my heart, by Quincy Jones, is listed as “Blues in the Night” on the soundtrack. After doing a little bit of research on Quincy and the song, I found out that Quincy originally released the song in 1962 on an album called “Quincy Plays For Pussycats.” ITunes has the album, so I listened to each track. “Blues in the Night” is on the album but it is not the same song. The song I love is actually called, “What’s New Pussycat” which makes it even cooler in my book. Very glam, very early 60’s, very sexy.

From there, I looked for other, similar songs. There were several cool songs on “Quincy Plays For Pussycats” and a few other Quincy Jones albums from that era. I also looked into Henry Mancini who wrote many award winning soundtracks and theme songs for film and television. I stumbled on the original theme song for the Pink Panther Series. I love that song too.

I’ve put together a play list on my IPod that I labeled “Sexy.” It never fails to put a smile on my face. I walk to it, I dance to it, I clean to it, I relax to it; I love it. It makes me feel sexy, and mysterious, like I have a secret or a lover. I feel like I am a Cat Burglar or maybe a Showgirl. It’s a fun and scandalous little diversion from life.

What’s New Pussycat,
Blues in the Night,
The Stripper,
The Gentle Rain,
Edge of the World,
L’Appuntamento,
Crepuscolo Sul Mare,
Thé à la ménthe,
50 Ways to Leave Your Lover,
Hot Child in the City,
Brass in Pocket,
Hot in the City,
Call Me,
Message of Love,
Rebel Yell,
Are You Gonna Be My Girl,
Can’t Get You Out of My Head,

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Rant about College!

I am forty years old and a college senior and I can tell you from personal experience that college is a necessary joke. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE learning and I love school.

It is completely absurd the time and money I am spending on a degree to move myself beyond the glass ceiling. I am not really learning anything that I didn't already know and I have a 4.0/4.0 GPA.

Most of the students don't care at all because "D is for degree!" I feel extremely sorry for teachers and professors working at the college level. Young people can't even read and write...but...they can all text and they know every celebrity scandal.

I have taken classes in subjects that I will never use or think about again, but was forced to take because they were required.
I have taken several classes where I actually knew more about the topic than the instructor.

I have spent thousands of dollars on grossly overpriced text books, not to mention the ridiculous athletic fees, club fees, computer lab fees and fees for things I have never and will never use.

I constantly have instructors who use the term, "In the real world," which always leaves me thinking, "When have you ever been in the real world?" Academia is not preparing anyone for the rigors and realities of the real world. But, the only way to get ahead is to play the game…because, the bosses of the world have and they expect you to have gone through a similar experience. It shows you can commit to something just a foolish as they did, just to get ahead.

The American education system is severely outdated an ineffective. Nevertheless, I am happy and thankful to be nearly finished with my degree because I understand all too well that it is a necessity in this modern workforce if I ever want to move beyond the entry level or middle management levels of the service or any other industry!

Monday, March 23, 2009

Free from my recent past

Well, it seems it is time to reinvent myself, once again…

I suppose it is normal. I just had a birthday, and I am in a reflective mood. I feel like sorting out my life and getting rid of old clothes, shoes that don’t fit, friends that are not friends, and situations that are toxic to my growth and happiness. I guess it is spring-cleaning.

I am planning on sorting out my closet on Monday. I invited some very opinionated ladies over to help me. I know that they will give me their honest opinions about what should stay and what should go. Sometimes it is difficult to let go of clothes…they carry memories and monetary value…my plan is to pare my wardrobe down to a small selection of perfectly constructed, perfectly fitted, and perfectly versatile clothes….European girl style. Every piece will go with every piece and it will all flow. The clothes themselves will act as a canvas for me; showcasing my figure, personality, and style. And they will be a canvas for the cool accessories and jewelry I own.

I, like most American girls, simply have too many choices in my closet and it is overwhelming, so I end up wearing jeans and tee shirts or sweaters on most days. It is too complicated to pull something out and then find something to wear with it. For example; if I select an olive green pencil skirt I am limited on what top I can put with it…it usually ends up being one of a dozen black tee shirts. Why a dozen black tee shirts? Because they are simple!

I have beautiful shoes that don’t really go with any of my clothes. I have gorgeous scarves and accessories. I don’t have a really great handbag. I have a couple of cool handbags but not a really great, super functional bag.

Cleaning out my life of toxic situations may be trickier than cleaning out my closet. I am very disillusioned with my job at the Wine Loft. I was initially thrilled to win the job lottery so to speak and become the Wine Director but I quickly learned I was working for amateurs with no sense of style or taste. Every move I made was micro managed, second guessed, and diminished. The owner is an indecisive alcoholic and the GM may very well have ADD or just pot induced short-term memory issues. Time to extricate myself from that high drama situation. For the past 6 months it has been a battle of authority, ego, and indecision, a constant back and forth. I never knew if I was the Wine Director or not…I never knew where I stood. It’s funny how you never really know how unhealthy a situation is until you are out. Just like any other bad relationship.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Mon anniversaire et j’ai quarante ans

Sometimes such a small and thoughtful gesture means the world to me.
A few weeks ago, I celebrated my birthday. I hadn’t been really looking forward to it and just wanted to lay low. I didn’t feel the need to celebrate with a party, or a boozy night. I am too past that kind of thing…too old and it simply takes way too long to recover. I like clarity the next day, and energy!

My good friend Nina surprised me with a small gathering at one of my favorite restaurants the Saturday before the big day. I thought she and I were going to have dinner together but she surprised me by planning a surprise party for me…Michelle and Sophie couldn’t come and neither could my mom but Natasha was there and the three of us had a marvelous time drinking Rosé Champagne and dining very slowly over the course of several hours. French restaurant, French style.

My mother spent Sunday and most of Monday with me. Sunday night we watched the Oscars with take out Thai food and Riesling. On Monday, my birthday, we went shopping for my nephew and his birthday. We had lunch at whole foods. We ate birthday cake she had made for a surprise party she had planned for me that fell through with my niece and nephews…my lovely sister in law ruined it as she ruins nearly everything pertaining to me. The cake was from one of my all time favorite recipes. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s wedding cake. It is a dense, rich white cake flavored with rose water and almond. It is exquisite. It was a beautiful surprise. She gave me a funky business card holder and a pretty, little, stars and moon perfume bottle.

That evening I went to a fantastic women sommelier wine dinner at Rioja featuring Prosecco made by a family of women. The lady presenting was named Elvira and her wines were superb. She could barely speak English so her and I switched to French. It was easier than trying to understand two languages neither of us knew.

My father took me to dinner on Tuesday. We went to Café Brazil and had one of the best meals I have ever had in Denver. I had prawns and scallops with some wicked spicy sauce over fresh veggies and coconut scented rice. My dad had ahi tuna and shrimp with curry and rice. We drank caparhina, which is the Brazilian traditional drink. My dad can be sweet and we see eye to eye on moving to another country. After so many years of strained relations it turns out we have quite a bit in common.

This Saturday I am having yet another dinner with friends celebrating the occasion. I received thoughtful cards and tokens of affection from my friends. My roommate bought me the third season of SATC to replace my worn copy.

I received the most opulent, fussy, decadent bouquet of flowers from Yves….stargazer lilies, tulips, iris, gerbera daisies, and many other flowers. My entire house smells like a spring garden.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

The Wine of Ancient Rome

2,700 years ago, on the slopes of Mount Falerna near Campania and Latuim in Southern Italy, Aglianico grapes basked in the sun in three very special vineyards. The first vineyard was known as the Caucinian Falernian and was located on the highest slopes, the second vineyard was the Falerian found on the lowest slopes; and between the two vineyards rested the third the prized Faustian Falerian vineyard. These precious vineyards were owned by Roman aristocracy for millennia and are still under vine today. The Phoenecians cultivated the grape in Greece. During the 7th or 8th BCE the Greeks brought the grapes to Italy.

Falerian wine made from these ancient Aglianico grapes, from the Faustus vineyard were the world’s first Premier Cru, and were reserved for the extremely wealthy and important members of Roman society. It was a wine of legend and heritage, written about by famous poets, philosophers, scholars, and historians. The grapes were harvested late in the season and had tremendous levels of sugar resulting in a sweet wine with very high alcohol content. The wine was left to oxidize for up to twenty years in clay amphorae vessels. The potent sugar and alcohol content of the wine made it age worthy and suitable for travel. The Roman legions carried Falerian throughout Europe and as far north as Britian. Pliny the Elder commented, “It is the only wine that takes light when a flame is applied to it.” He also described a particular banquet honoring Julius Caesar in 60 BCE where the famed “Opimian vintage of 121 BCE” was served. That vintage was an exclusive Falerian and was one of the finest wines ever created.

Aglianico grapes are deep purple, hearty, and full of potent flavors. In Basilicata, they thrive in the volcanic soils of the extinct volcano, Mount Vulture, and on the hills near Taurasi in Campania. The commoners of Rome drank a crude red wine pressed from these grapes. The rustic, inky black wine was superior in tannins and in acidity. It had flavors of smoky ash from the volcanic soils and bright red fruit from the abundant sunshine. Legend claims this is the wine offered to Jesus before his crucifixion and the same wine that Mary Magdalene dabbed to his lips as he was dying. We will never know.

What we do know is that this lovely little grape is still growing in these same vineyards in the southern most regions of Italy. Eighty years ago two winemaking families began to produce modern wines from Aglianico grapes grown on Mount Vulture vineyards. The two most prominent regions for Aglianico in Italy are in Campania, where it is known as Taurasi DOCG, and Basilicata, where it is known as Aglianico del Vulture DOC. Until very recently, Donato D'Angelo and Paternoster were the only two producers of Aglianico del Vultures available in the U.S. Feudi is a new leader in the Aglianico game. Now, Aglianico is springing up on wine lists and in wine boutiques across Denver.


D’Angelo Aglianico del Vulture $35
D’Angelo Scaravite $16
Pasternoster Aglianico del Vulture Don Anselmo $41
Rubrato Aglianico dei Feudi di San Gregorio $22
Taurasi dei Feudi di San Gregorio $40
Feudi di San Gregorio Ros’Aura $15


Full body, tannic, acidic
Smoky, black plums, black cherries, dried cocoa, violets, and rose petals
Fantastic with rustic, wood fired pizza, or lean grilled meats

Saturday, February 14, 2009

What would it be like to move away to another city and become someone else?

What would it be like to move away to another city and become someone else?

Where would I go and what would I become? How would I look? How would I smell, and speak, and walk, and strut? What would I wear? What would I do? What would my home look like, my car, my kids? What would I take with me and what would I leave behind?

These are questions I ask myself quite often. Not because I want to run away from who I am but just because I am curious.

When I envision myself living my fantasy life it doesn’t look that different from my life now. My clothes are perfect, elegant, and classic. A look I have never been truly able to pull off without feeling like I am playing dress up. The black crepe sheath dress with pearls, black patent leather pumps, and a French twist. I wear it and I look great but I always end up looking a little bit messy rather than cool elegance. I will never be Grace Kelly. In my fantasy I am always just a little bit thinner. I have a great hourglass figure and that sheath dress looks better on a thinner girl.

My house always has giant, nearly floor to ceiling windows with an open floor plan and seems to be an apartment overlooking a magnificent skyline of some gorgeous city like Paris or New York. It’s a three story Brownstone because I always have a yard and a garden. The top floor is where my living area and my bed are and the middle floor is for entertaining and dining. I never see the first floor but it leads to my yard and my garage. My furniture is mine but I have reupholstered my love seat and refinished some of the worn and tattered pieces I own. My art and my books are everywhere but more orderly. I have a claw foot tub and the perfect bathroom near my bed and a very large walk in closet that may actually be an entire room. It’s not full of clothes but the one’s I have are beautifully displayed. Flowers are everywhere. It smells divine in my entire home. My kids have their own beds and the cat has a cool maze of walkways build just below the ceiling…the ultimate collection of pathways, platforms, and little caves to keep him entertained. The dog has the most cushy bed near mine and a large toy box full of his favorite things.

Everyone knows me in my neighborhood from the guy who sells me my coffee to the lady who picks the prettiest bouquets just for me. It is a community inside a city just the way I like it.
I spend my days reading and writing or wandering through my neighborhood with my dog and a coffee in my hand. I spend my evenings entertaining or talking to people about wine. I can see myself in a very cool little wine bar listening to music and talking to people about my latest fascination. I feel the love of a man and see myself in his arms but I can never see his face. I wonder if that part of the dream is real.

It’s funny as I write these words I have to admit that this is basically how my life is now. Except for the description of my home I am pretty much describing the way I live my life. I suppose that is a really good thing. Houses and dresses can be changed. Changing an entire life is much more difficult. I am pretty happy with mine and the things in my fantasy are not that far out of my reach.

Masters of wine

I spent the weekend learning at the feet of five Masters and my life is changed.
A few weeks ago I was nominated to take the Court of Master Sommeliers first level course. I didn’t have to pay the regular fees. The course was this weekend. When I arrived, I found my place front row and center. If I am going to learn I might as well be an active participant. I settled in with a cup of coffee and a light breakfast of fruit. I brought my World Atlas of Wine and a stack of pens. I take notes like crazy.
About 30 minutes later, I recognized Doug Krenik, a MS that I’ve met several times before. He was at a table with Bobby Stuckey MS and the owner of Frasca. I’ve met Bobby too. There were two other men with them. I learned shortly thereafter that they were Jay Fletcher and the much-esteemed Richard Betts. I’d met Richard before but he looked different…slim, content, and sparkling. The room was filed with charisma and a certain private hi-jinx. These men obviously know each other well and are used to joking around with each other.
The lectures were a mixture of review and further detail but the blind tastings were amazing. These men went through the technique in such a detailed manner that it simply becomes an exercise in deductive reasoning. I gave the first one a shot--in front of 100 people…and I got much of it right…the other three wines I attempted I got right. Honestly, I got most of the wines; climate, country, region, and varietals right and most of the vintages right. I feel pretty damned good about that.
I had conversations with these men and interacted in a very professional and educated manner. WOW. They treated me as a peer, as someone who may be an equal someday soon. Now, more than ever, I want to be.
I was professionally validated!!! Inspired to continue the sometimes thankless path of wine studies. It is endless, forever changing, and contradictory. But, I love it. I love the history, geography, geology, agriculture, cultural traditions, and even the dull economics of it all. There is so much in each bottle of wine and in each glass it is truly an amazing expression of each of these things.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Motorcycle Boy

Motorcycle Boy,

Did you take a nice long ride on your Triumph when you got home? I am jealous.
I went for a little ride on Sunday, it was a beautiful day in Denver. Cool, sunny, and quiet.

We learned some interesting things about each other and have some parallels in our lives. I am intrigued and would like to know more about you and your life.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine together
these are some of the questions I would ask you...

Did you grow up in Montreal? Tell me about your family. Do you have children?
Do you have a really cool dog?
My dog is really cool. We go everywhere together.
I will send you a picture of Oscar Wilde. I also have a cat. His name is VooDoo and he is a Norwegian Forest Cat--weighs 20 pounds and is skinny.
J'aime mes garcons...ils sont mes petits amis!

What brought you to your current job and what did you do before? I know you mentioned a British company and Rolls Royce...and rigging...tell me more about that.

What is your favorite book, music, and movie?
I checked out your poet by the way.

What is your favorite time of the day?
My favorite time is twilight, the light is the most beautiful then.

If I come to Montreal what would you show me? Where would you take me? What would you suggest I see and do alone?
What is your favorite thing to do or see there?
What will be my favorite thing?

Sunday, January 4, 2009

An entire year of Happiness

It snowed all night long and this morning my world is covered in a gloriously sparkly white blanket of fluffy snow. Oscar and I stopped off for a coffee and then wandered through the quite campus searching for snow fairies or squirrels. He loves the snow and pranced along through the drifts occasionally biting at the snow as he swiftly moved along. As we walked, I cleared my head of any random thoughts and simply allowed the experience of the emerging sun and the shimmering snow to wash over me. It was refreshing and cleansing in a way. It gave me a sense of clarity about my life.

It has been a particularly trying couple of weeks with the end of the semester, finals, and planning for next semester. At this level it is increasingly difficult to create a workable schedule as fewer classes are offered, if they are even offered, at fewer times. I have been waiting for two semesters for a required French class only to find out that it is not going to be offered again. Sometimes, I feel as though I am being held hostage by the college. Don’t get me wrong…I love going to school and learning but the bureaucracy is very difficult to navigate. I feel very fortunate to have this opportunity, especially since I am developing my own individualized degree, but it has been tricky.

I found out yesterday that my internship was approved. The internship guidelines and requirements are a lot more structured than I expected. I must submit a packet of 60 pages of details, goals, and objectives at the beginning along with weekly emails, a final report and a grading schematic from Aaron and from myself…Wow…I hope Aaron will do all of this, he said he would, but, things tend to fall along the wayside around the place. Now I have to negotiate with Aaron to ensure I am able to get enough hours and the kind of stability needed to successfully complete this obligation.

I know he will see it my way…I know I can make this happen. It seems I can make anything happen lately, I have to work at it, it always takes time, and it is always a test, but in the end it happens the way I want it to. I guess the biggest obstacle is knowing exactly what I want and what I need and then going after that and making that happen….so often it is easy to bring things in without really thinking it through. Focusing on a job or a man or a pair of shoes that turns out to be unfulfilling, painful, and just the wrong fit.

As I look at the sparkling snow and the glistening sun I know what I don’t want. I don’t want any unnecessary drama at work, with love, or at home. This is the year I will streamline my life, get exactly what I want, and be very, very happy. I can bring that in and make it happen just as easily as I can create more drama or unhappiness…I choose HAPPY.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Come quickly, I am drinking the stars…

New Year’s Eve holds a certain magic for me. It is one of my favorite occasions. It is a new beginning and a fresh start. The trials and tribulations of the previous year simply dissolve into the past. Everything is left behind and washed away with a glass of champagne and a kiss at midnight. I love the symbolism, but mostly, I love the champagne.

I rang in the New Year at the Wine Loft. Perrier Jouët sponsored our celebration. Fleur de Champagne is the cuvee de tête by Perrier Jouët and one of my personal favorites. It is actually the reason I got into the wine business in the beginning. I fell in love with the wine. Founded in 1811 by lovers Nicholas Perrier and Adèle Jouët, the wine has become a symbol for romance and love. The champagne house was an instant success exporting their wine to England, America, and Russia where the heads of State and Royalty enjoyed the champagne. It was ever present on the table of Napolean III. In 1854 Perrier Jouët was the first to make the now favored Brut style. The beautiful bottles with hand painted anemone flowers by famed Art Noveau artist Emile Gallé were first introduced in 1902. The first vintage of La Belle Epoque as the Fleur is known in France, a Brut style, was the 1964 vintage. It was released in 1969. Perrier Jouët Fleur de Champagne Brut is a classic blend of Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier. Perrier Jouët also makes Fleur de Champagne Rosé and the amazing Fleur de Champagne Blanc de Blancs which is pure Chardonnay.

I drank a few glasses of Fleur last night. The Fleur is the pinnacle of elegance and style in luxury champagnes. I love Dom Perignon and Tattinger but Fleur has my heart. The nose presents a very fine yet subtle perfume of freesia, gardenia, white rose petals, and ripe white peaches. On the palate the tiny, firm bubbles explode with luscious guava, pink grapefruit, lemon chiffon and a sprinkling of ginger. The acidity is well balanced with the body and flavor profile of the wine. It is truly exquisite.

My favorite wine salesman, Charles, brought a group of his friends in to drink champagne and celebrate. We drank a few glasses of the PJ Brut together. It was delicious. Perrier Jouët Brut is a lovely, feminine style champagne with fine, golden bubbles and a delicate nose of white flowers, spring blossoms, and peaches. The wine has a pronounced acidity that glides over your tongue with notes of crushed hazelnuts, apricots, green apples, and minerality. It pairs well with briny oysters, succulent mussels, caviar, and salty, golden, warm, french fries. Last night it paired really well with a champagne flute, a gorgeous man, and a kiss at midnight.