In Defense Of Drinking In The Bathroom


I’ll admit it. I drink wine in the bathroom.

I do it while I give my son a bath.

In my defense:

There is a particular time of day in the summer in the south that simply requires a glass of wine. It is when the heat begins to show mercy and the mosquitoes have not yet mobilized. When the sun paints the world in a soft amber glow and the breeze becomes more than a figment of the imagination. At this time of day, everything that you accomplished leading up to it seems good enough, and the optimism that you feel for tomorrow assures you the rest will get done.  Finally, fleetingly, your mind is quiet.

I am convinced that the birds in our backyard have their own happy hour at this time of day, mimicking ours, flitting from branch to branch, soaring across the big open sky, swirling and diving and singing.

There is a grill on somewhere, and those burgers smell good.

There are children playing somewhere before their mother calls them in.

There is an old couple rocking somewhere, on a porch, hands intertwined.

And there is a baby who is ready for bed. Who can control that? In fact, perhaps it is orchestrated that way, feeding into the magic of the moment.

The pure joy of putting my son to bed gives me a buzzy warmth independent of the robust red beside me on the tile. I turn the handle on the tap — he hears the water and comes crawling. In the tub, he is a babbling, splashing mess, and I am left to sip and watch in wonder.

We towel off – “we” being the operative word, as I am almost as drenched as he is – and brush teeth. We get him diapered and clothed and turn the nursery lights low. We settle into the rocker under a canopy of Twilight Turtle stars, and with his bottle and my glass, we cheers. We are alive and happy, and our hearts (unlike said glass) could not be more full.

Let’s Get Restarted


Tap tap!Is this thing still on?!

It has been quite a while — no doubt some people are receiving an email update from a blog they forgot they subscribed to. I did receive a comment a while back from a “Cubicle Charlie” reminding me that I did, in fact, own a blog, and as such, I should probably post on it. (I have a sneaking suspicion that Cubicle Charlie is actually my husband, who neither works in a cubicle nor is named Charlie). And now… well… New Year resolutions and all… it’s time to do (almost) like the Black Eyed Peas say and get restarted.

Part of the trouble was the scope, which I am attempting to revisit. Blogging at a regular rate proved arduous within the structure I had originally defined. I am motivated to make this space more inclusive, more accepting (or possibly forgiving), encouraging me to post when and what I am inspired to. The fact that I am five months pregnant has brought this issue home for me, as still I feel the urge to express, if not imbibe.

Having said all this, the fundamentals have not changed: this is a blog about life and wine. Wine represents the beautiful — the fine — parts of life. I want this blog to have the effect of a bold red, a crisp white, a sentimental rosé or a brooding port. I pour myself a glass of life!

With that, let’s return to black eyed peas. Having moved from Chicago to Charlotte last spring, I consider myself a beginner student of Southern culture, and so far it has been an eye-opening education. I learned too late, for example, that it is customary to eat black eyed peas at the new year — the shelves had been cleared by the time I went around to the grocery stores last night. So to honor the tradition as best I can, I am serving some up with this first post, hoping they bring luck in all that lies ahead. Here’s to resolutions and ruminations in 2014!