My hair (which is huge) is thick with the smell of cigar smoke. In the distance, I can barely make out the throb of "My Humps" (What you gon' do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk? If you have not seen the Alanis Morisette version, you must.) I've had a glass of wine, and a shot of tequila, but I'm home and on the computer. I'm not sure, but I think I might actually have become a grown-up.
Tonight was/is the winery's annual post-harvest party. I came home from work, had a little snack because I knew I'd be having wine, took my vitamins and drank a glass of water. I touched up my makeup, cajoled my hair into taking a less Roseanne Roseannadanna-like shape and went over to the party. I made a point of saying hello to nice people I remember from last year's party, and people I've been meaning to meet. I tasted thoughtfully through a "vertical" of ten years each of Petit Syrah (their spelling) and Cabernet Sauvignon. I ate dinner and listened to mariachis play La Bamba, and a bunch of other deafening traditional songs featuring many trumpets. In my ear. While I was eating a taco. Made by a German.
I watched the kids (and some adults) dance to a bad dj. The same bad dj they had last year. Crap segues from, for example, Brick House to Billie Jean, with a little classic TEQUILA! and Baby Got Back thrown in. (He has to play it, it's on the list.) Now and again something actually from this decade. I'm surprised there's no chicken dancing. The kids love it. They just dance and dance. The oldest one is 12, the youngest, an exceptionally tired-and-wired 3. My little ranch neighbor girls, Arnulfo's daughters, are pretty bad-ass dancers, by the way. I wish I had their cool style when I was 8. Rather than slamming back another couple of shots of tequila and showing my age by jumping up to boogie to KC and the Sunshine Band (not that I didn't bust out some Rollercoaster of Love on the i-pod today, which I did) I walked home. You Shook Me All Night Long serenaded my starry egress. (A starry egress, you say? Would that be a leggy bird painted swirly blue?)
Now I can hear "Shout" creeping in my open screen door from the darkness. Truly one of the most annoying songs in the whole world to dance to. But that's beside the point.
The point is, in spite of my grousing, I had a good time. It was a really nice party. Everyone had fun, but I didn't need to be a part of every nook and cranny of it. I didn't feel the need to keep up with the boys. (Nor to go home with them, except the one I came with.) I didn't nervously over-serve myself, or get myself into drunken conversations from which I couldn't extract myself, or from which someone else couldn't extract him or herself. And I didn't worry that anyone would think that I was this or that if I simply walked home. I'd like to take a shower and wash this smell out of my enormous hair. I would like to read in bed, clean and cozy in my flannel jammies, and most importantly, I'd like to wake up tomorrow feeling normal instead of having throbbing eyeballs and a sweatered gecko for a tongue.
I will probably stay up late if I can, just to make sure Mike gets home ok. He's got a short walk, but he looks after the boys to make sure anyone who overdoes it is in good hands. William, the Kiwi assistant winemaker, takes over when it gets down to the final few stalwarts still playing pool stonefaced, like old-time sharks, down in the smoking room. The company pays for free taxis for anyone who wants one, but you know it's about as easy to get a drunk in a taxi as it is to get a big baby in a small snowsuit. Still, they've put the taxi company number on little slips of paper in discreet little trays all over the place, next to every bar, and the taxi company knows that the company picks up the tab tonight. I actually overheard one guy telling another that it was a good deal, and he should think about it for later.
The dog just wanted out, so I danced a few funky steps with my shadow to the thumping beats still ringing out in the dark of our little valley. Over at the party, the youngsters (not the dancing children-- the older ones) are still drinking and smoking cigars, and apparently, they still need the funk. Gotta have that funk.
G'nite.
No comments:
Post a Comment