By: Ann Brown
We decided to spend an afternoon in Napa on our way up from LA.
Robin’s vision: lazily wending our way in and out of wineries, tasting delicious wine and food, sitting under the shade of an oak tree and having sex under a picnic blanket. Preferably with me, but he stressed that the who wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker. Marriage is all about compromise. We learned that in therapy.
The reality: me getting drunk by the time we left the second winery and sleeping all the way to Arcata.
Poor Robin. He tried to rouse me but the harmonic conversion within me of alcohol, sunshine, Prozac, and lack of sleep the night before was no match for him. At one point, he just parked the car and left me there to snore while he enjoyed the Malbecs and the company of people who were, well, awake. He later told me that when he got back to the car, it was baking in full sun and I looked slightly dead in there. He said my hair was plastered to my sweaty face and I was clutching my cell phone. He also said that my pants were unzipped and that really freaked him out but I kinda remember trying to take them off myself when I dropped a tangerine section in my underpants. By accident. I presume.
I really need to lay off the hooch in 100 degree weather.
Actually, I was a little bit more fun than just that. For one thing, when we got to the first winery I had to pee really badly, and when the waaay-fucking-too-earnest sommelier asked me if I am most interested in red or white, I answered, “honestly, I just have to use the bathroom. So I have to say I’m most interested in yellow.”
And oh, how I laughed merrily at my joke. My laughed echoed in the silence around me. Yeah, well fuck Napa and their paucity of humor, you know?
“Most interested in yellow.” Fuck me. That joke kicks ass.
Next time, I am trying my act out in Sonoma. I hear the wineries there are much more open to new comics.