Ode to a Wine Glass

I pride myself on not being attached to stuff.  If there was a fire, I've always assumed that once my family and dog are out of the house, I would be torn between grabbing my jewelry box and tossing a few handfuls of fiction literature out the window.  The other stuff?  Not so much.

I mean, we are about to move, and I hate that there is so much stuff.  I pack box after box of weighty tomes, clothes, dishes, theatre props, desk supplies, computer equipment... you name it.  And I keep thinking, wow, I have hardly even touched the stuff I use on a daily basis.  I am purging, trust me.  I have filled the dumpster a dozen times so far, and have sold stuff, and plan to have a huge moving sale.  I expect the movers (the same local company we used four years ago) to marvel at the empty(ish) house...

But, apparently, I am a liar.

I have this bad habit of not washing my wine glasses.  I let the counter get crowded with three or four well rinsed but unwashed glasses.  I don't want to have anything else in the drainboard when I wash them--I've broken a glass or two that way, and hate cleaning up the broken glass.  So, I had five glasses waiting to be cleaned, and finally had an empty drainboard.

Two were white wine glasses with twisty stems that I purchased at a yard sale.  The other three were part of a set of four purchased by Wine Friend, as a gift for my birthday.  They are lovely Shiraz glasses by Riedel.  Three years ago, I would have just loved that someone bought me elegant wine glasses (and from Williams Sonoma!), but being a little more educated now, I recognize the care with which these glasses were chosen.  He's been bringing wine out for almost two years now, and knows not only on what I like, but what kinds of wine I tend to  purchase for myself.  He also knew that I'd been drinking wine out of glasses that don't do justice to them.  (You don't have to be a wine snob to recognize that the shape of a glass can enhance or distract.)  It probably wasn't a difficult purchase, but it showed that he knew what I liked and would appreciate, and chose to purchase it for me.

I love these glasses, I am sure you can tell.  But I didn't know I loved them until I broke one last night while washing it.  For a shocked moment, I looked at the soapy broken glass.  And then I began to weep.  Not just cry a little.  Weep.  The Husband helped me gather the broken pieces, and offered to finish up for me.  I went upstairs, sat on the floor by my bed, and just wept.

It's just stuff, right?  I still have three, right?  It's just a fucking wine glass, right?

I pride myself on being practical.  Why buy nice clothes if they are just going to be out of fashion in two years? (investment or quirky pieces, it all comes from Target or is on sale.)  Why buy a new car if my Honda Civic is still working and likely to continue working as long as I maintain it (mileage over 165K!)?  Why buy a new book if I can just check it out at the library or borrow it from a friend to see if I like the author enough to spend money on it? (Sookie Stackhouse novels, yes.  "Shades of Grey", god no...)

But I like wine.  I don't buy rotgut because I don't like it.  Not being independently wealthy, I won't buy bottles of wine that are over $20 unless there is a sale, and when I find something I like and is reasonably priced, I may buy several bottles more.  I am no oenophile, but I am semi-literate.  Those glasses were a gift from someone vastly more educated in wine than I am, selected to help me enjoy what I do drink at home.

Wine Friend visited Saturday night, and the three of us were sitting around discussing life, the universe, and everything.  And I said that this world is pretty terrible, and that even though I recognized the misery in the world, I felt like I was just a spoiled housewife who contributed nothing to make it better.  And Wine Friend shot me down, saying that Husband and the Boy would argue, and that I bring joy to those around me, and to the arts community, and to him.

Sober, I can agree with that assessment.  I do bring joy to many people around me.  I cannot save the world perhaps, but I do what I can to bring light to the world around me.  I spend countless hours helping to organize a tour of artists studios, which helps the local economy, brings artists and the community together, and educates the public about the arts in general.  The visual arts produce material objects that please people, and serve a purpose.  Every morning I drink my coffee from mugs produced by local potters.  My walls are covered in visual art that pleases me.

Appreciating a few material objects is not embracing materialism--there is a middle ground that I have never really recognized.  Yes, I absolutely object to the endless consumerism of modern life-- and am frustrated with the amount of stuff that we all seem driven to acquire.  I still have no desire to continue to upgrade just because I can.

But I do have a few items in my possession that genuinely make me happy.  My hardcover edition of "The Sun Also Rises" was bound with the cover on upside down.  When I was fifteen, I took it to Mexico and read while imagining myself as a glamorous ex-pat in another country.  My engagement ring is lovely and was designed especially for me by the Husband, who was instructed to get a ring that I couldn't hurt myself with.  He did that AND recycled diamonds-- very cool ring, and cool of him to do it.  I like the story almost as much as the ring.  So surely I can recognize that joy can come from an object that holds special meaning to me.

Even a wine glass given to me by a good friend.

A Weird Week, With Vampires

I think I hate winter weather- three snow days this week! It interrupts my writing. I must also hate company... it also interrupts my writing. Life interrupts my writing.

But, I am reading. I have checked out several books from the library. You may wonder, if I have the time to read, why can I not write? Well, I can pick up a book and put it down. I don't have the be in the mood to read. I don't have to have silence, or a computer, no boy jumping on me. You get the picture.

The Enchantment of Lily Dahl blew big time. I kept wondering why I kept reading. I kept hoping it would get better. I kept being irritated at the writing. "Oh, I mention a burp, and a tampon! Oh, I am a serious writer! Let me add an amateurish detail about someone's past! Oh, wow, I am writing." It did make me feel better about my own chances of getting published, lemme tell ya.

I Am Legend was a revelation. This is a good writer and a good storyteller. I love a good story. This book was a collection of short stories, and the title novella. (Will Smith movie, you might remember it.) I can totally see how Stephen King (a darn good storyteller) learned from this writer. Richard Matheson. I will be reading more of his work, and have A Stir of Echoes in my bag right now. I love finding new authors... (not like that Suri Hustvedt who wrote that POS I mentioned. Gees, that author pissed me off with crappy writing... I am ranting.)

Dead Until Dark is the first of the Sookie Stackhouse series-- the books that True Blood is based upon. Nice vampire world storytelling, and not bogged down in the sex (unlike Laurel K. Hamilton, the woman who brought us a 90 paged sex scene that kinda sorta had something to do with the plot? Gawd, really, 90 pages. Cuz, we need to know each and every... sorry, ranting again, and I have learned how to skim her novels anyway.) So, the writing is light, and funny without overdoing it, and the plot skips along without feeling like you are bouncing from Important Scene to Important Scene. I like her characters so far....

The Passage is what I am reading right now. Wow. More of a vampire sci-fi tale so far, but man, can you get caught up in this. He is like a slightly more literary King. By that I mean, he tells a good story, and gets you caught up in the characters and the plot, but he also has a kind of Serious Author feel to him. This books reminds me somewhat of The Stand. I just wish he had a good editor.

Which brings me to my next rant. I come across so many fucking typos in novels!! It makes me a little insane. Now, the translations I read: Carlos Ruis Zafon, Isabel Allende, Arturo Perez Reverte... nary a typo. It makes me crazy to see typos. Laurel K. Hamilton? Typos all over the place. She even changes the spelling of character names in her series! Makes me insane!

Okay. Wow. Quite a bit of ranting going on. Lots of insanity. Maybe I need to put down the vampire books. Cuz, I just realized that the three books I mention... all have vampires. Gonna go suck down an iron pill.

Oh, and I don't recommend The Enchantment of Lily Dahl. No vampires.