Counting Down

My apologies, again, it's been a while; my head just has not been clear enough or relaxed enough to get an idea down on virtual paper. Between the swampitude at work (haven't been this busy in some time) and the NBC-sponsored, Phelpsian fog of worship that has clouded my at-home hours for the past ten days or so, my fingers haven't exactly been on speaking terms with the keyboard lately.

Hopefully, that is all about to change. Realizing I am in desperate need of a perspective shift, some calmness that is neither vicodin-induced nor pedicure-inspired, and just a general need to get the hell out of Dodge before the annual September 11th Memorial Week to Ten Days of Severe Panic Attacks sets in, I am headed to California, (aching in heart, optional.)

Six more days, and I'll be off to San Francisco for a few days of relaxation, and hopefully some wine, since my dear friend Ellen lives in Marin, not far from a whole slew of wineries, vineyards, etc. I'd be happy with plain ol' grapes, (p'ri hagafen, baby!) but I could also be very happy bringing back a bottle (or case) given all the blessing we're going to be doing in late September and October.

My rheumatologist says that I shouldn't have any wine, but also acknowledges that I probably won't listen to her. Normally I am quite cheerful and obedient in these sorts of situations, then again, I was a very happy beaujolais drinker during my four days in Paris last year, so she's right: I'll probably do some damage out there.

I have only two requests, and those are 1) to go see Copia, the museum of food, wine and the arts and 2) to see the Pacific Ocean. If you've ever sailed in the Pacific, you already know it is totally misnamed. Eight years ago, I spent vacation on a 35 foot Catalina named Moonshadow, off the coast of Washington State tooling around the San Juan Islands.

My first day out showed that the Pacific is, shall we say, kind of demanding.

Imagine this: 40 foot swells leaving port, water coming up on deck, trying to raise the sails in gale force winds, and a mentally unbalanced, somewhat masculine sailing instructor yelling "Sailing is not for the WEAK!" over the wail of the wind and my fellow sailing students doing our best not to barf up a lung or two. Thus, I'd like to leave this time with a different take on my darling Atlantic's westerly sister. Like, not throwing up, or coming home more agitated and shaken up than I'd been before I left.

Hence the need for a more relaxing vacation, this time around.

I'll try to post again before I go.