by Laurelin

I am almost thirty. Thirty. Three- mother-fucking-zero. This age to me seems….crazy. Crazy like, “this could never happen to me” crazy. Think back. No matter what age you are, think back. When I was younger, I looked at thirty and I thought: married with children, steady job, steady paycheck, pets, house – I thought anything but what I have now. I thought that everything, EVERYTHING would be different.

The worst thing is that I watched it happen. I watched my best friends grow up. I saw every girl who was made fun of, every girl who was left behind, every girl who was too chubby, too silly, too crazy… I watched them all grow up, and eventually, I was left behind. I was always in their weddings and always, I was the one who never grew up. The girl voted “most likely to marry a frat boy” all four years of college was in the end, the one who no one wanted to marry.

And now, thirty. My friends have all been married for years, some with children, and all the while I feel so free and yet so alone…

I ran into an older man at a bar I frequent about a month ago.

“What do you do, “ he asked me, and I wondered if he really cared or if he was just hitting on me.

“Um…” I said, “Well, I went to school for archaeology, but I guess I’m a bartender… or a writer.”

“Well which is it?” he said.

“Honestly?” I replied, “Well, I like bartending. I love writing, and I love archaeology. I make money doing only one.”

“I loved playing the guitar,” he said, looking over at the cover band playing in the corner. “I never stuck with it, and I always wished I had. It just… got away from me, and now I feel it’s too late.” He looked so sad then, and I suddenly didn’t feel so old.

“You’re never too old to learn something,” I said. “Take Beck Weathers for example; the man learned to climb mountains when he was thirty years old- he wanted to make something of himself, and at thirty he changed the path of his whole life and he eventually climbed Everest—fucking Everest, the highest mountain in the world. And he started climbing at thirty,” I said, talking to the man but thinking about myself. The man looked at me with such wonder, and every time I see him now I am reminded of that, although every time I see him he is no closer to the guitar, and I am no closer to climbing anything besides into bed at night.

Looking at that, I am aware that things can seem so lost and yet, I am aware that I can still accomplish so much and that now, even at thirty, I shouldn’t be afraid to simply try.

I am almost thirty. I have always hated my body. Now, I am on week five of belonging to Rugged Crossfit, and I can honestly say that I am conscious of what goes into my body and what effort I put into making it look the way it does. I have always complained about the way I look, and I am suddenly acutely aware that if I want a change in my body I can only make it look the way I want through hard work. I am almost thirty, and I am sick of being unhappy with the way I look.

My heart for the past year has been selfishly locked away, kept only for someone who didn’t deserve it, and held only for someone who never knew me. I held onto something for a little while; something that for some reason festered in me like a disease, something that grew in me like mold until I could do nothing but crumble.

Now I look at that girl and I can’t help but laugh. She is so close but yet so far… if I reach my hand out, I can touch her; that scared girl still comparing herself to all those she left behind. If I reach my other hand out I see another girl; one who knows what she wants. One who is in control of her mind and her body. When I reach my other hand out I see a girl who is finally, finally… almost thirty.

[..]

by The Wine Guy

There is a phenomenon in the wine world, which I refer to as the Moby Dick wine. It was that one wine you had at that one restaurant in 1997 that you’ve been chasing ever since. I am going to tell you right now, just stop it. Do you have any idea how many amazing wines there are out there? There is more great wine out there then you will ever get to try in your whole life. So instead of spending all your time and effort trying to find that wine, try something new! You want to buy a wine from your birth year to have in your showcase, that is fine. You want to buy the wine from your first date with your true love, well that is fine too. We all have favorite wines and wineries, but lets hope that we can add a new one tomorrow. Don’t lose sight of that the fact that if you had been chasing another wine on the night you had that one, you would’ve never had it in the first place! How did any of us find our favorite wines except trying a bunch of wines?

This brings me to the second key part of the Moby Dick phenomenon, the loyal dodo. When you are not being captain Ahab and demanding that your local wine shop carry the wine that you had ten years ago, you are arriving with a preset checklist. I want Mondavi, Mer Soleil, or Cakebread and that is it. This behavior is somehow condoned when buying wine but imagine it in another setting. You arrive at the Chinese restaurant and want sushi. You arrive at the sushi restaurant but will only eat white tuna. I am not telling you that you have to settle. Do not settle, drink better! The reason you like your pre-selected wines will be the same reason why you will like a substitute. You might like the new wine even more. Yes, we all hate to get burned by a bad wine. No one hates that more than me. But without risk there is less reward. Simply explain to the wine guy or girl what you like about the wines your normally buy and then let them suggest a replacement for you. The more trust you give them the bigger the pay off.

The third aspect of the Moby Dick chase is that when we set sail to find the great lost wine, we are willing to capture others, but we will not under any circumstances try a wine we have not heard of. Again there was a time when you had not heard of Rombauer chardonnay. There was a time when you did not know about Silver Oak. When you have heard of a wine, or for that mater when everyone has heard of a wine, it is either because it is famous, in which case it is overpriced, or because it is ubiquitous, in which case it’s a factory wine that should be avoided. Discover the unheard of winery, and enjoy a wine that has been priced based on its quality and not on its name. Impress your friends by introducing them to this exotic new wine. Worried about your wine snob friends? As long as you inspire a little confidence and exude excitement for you selection, rather than making excuses for it, your wine snob friend will likely be happy to try something new. Everyone wins when you approach wine with a more adventurous attitude.

Wine is a living thing. Wineries are functioning places. Winemakers are human beings. Wineries get bought, winemakers change houses, and wines change in the bottle. There is no reason to be absolute about any of these three. The winemaker leaves your favorite winery and the new winemaker changes the style on you. The winery sells to a bigger company and they start mass-producing the wines you once loved and the quality falls dramatically. The new vintage of your old favorite needs an extra year or so to open up and become the wine you like. These things will happen. That is a fact. So stop chasing that wine, stop pledging undying allegiance to a winery, and stop drinking the same stuff over and over again.

The Wine Guy sells wine for a living, and lives to drink it. It’s his first and foremost passion. He avoids factory wines, loves to seek out bottles that are interesting and unique, and gets excited when he finds a grape he’s have never heard of.

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The Wine Guy: Real Men Drink Rose
Drink Better: One Man’s Plea To Raise The Bar On Booze For Every Occasion

by Laurelin

“Those guys, they just want to fuck you,” Jason had said, his finger jabbing into my shoulder again and again. I was so mad I could have broken it clean off.

“You don’t even know them,” I hissed back, making him even angrier. He scared me when he was angry, but he never hit me, although as the years went by I would come to find out that he would hit others that came after me. But even standing my ground he scared me; he had this power over me and for some strange reason, I couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. He kept me close, like a dog chained in a dirt yard on a run, allowed to run sometimes but ultimately, never allowed to leave the yard.

He made me feel like the luckiest girl in the world, and I remember thinking that I could die right there in his arms and be happy with everything I never did. But there was always the issue of my friends. While I was in college I became closer with all the men in the fraternity up the street, some even more so than my own sorority sisters. In the beginning of my relationship they were happy for me – I talked about Jason and I glowed, and they were shocked that someone had finally tamed me. Jason didn’t feel the same way about the guys I called my brothers. He knew how wild we all were, and he was convinced they all had ulterior motives.

“Those guys are NOT your friends, Laurelin. They want to have sex with you. Get it through your head, you are NOT spending anymore time with them,” he had said, and while I always fought back I eventually quieted, and instead of driving back home I always stayed with Jason. Soon my friends started calling, each call or text making Jason angry. They missed me, was I ever coming home? Why was I ignoring their calls? When could they meet Jason? But he wouldn’t meet them; a firm believer that guys and girls could never be just friends.

In the end, Jason didn’t last, thank god. When I finally broke away from him my friends were so glad, and I saw what it was like when a relationship takes over and a girl turns a blind eye to friendships in favor of a man. All these years later these boys are still my brothers, platonic, the best friends I have ever had through thick and thin, and Jason’s name hardly ever crosses my lips.

One of my closest friends in Boston is also a guy; he’s usually the first person I talk to in the morning and the last person I talk to at night before I fall asleep around 5 AM. We go to dinner, get drinks, go to movies, he thinks my last boyfriend was the dumbest guy on the face of the planet and when I was having trouble getting over it no one helped like he did:

“Laurelin, the kid is a loser. Do you really want people meeting your guys to be like, ‘Man, that chick is the coolest girl ever, but her boyfriend is a fucking tool.’ Stop crying, Jesus, pull it together.”

My friends and co-workers seem to think otherwise.

“You’re going to marry him,” they tease, and I think of Jason, his mouth set in a line, always so angry at the preposterous idea that not every guy just wants to bang me. I’ve quit trying to explain to everyone that sometimes, just sometimes…we really are just friends.

[..]

by The Wine Guy

Real men drink Rose (pronounced rowzay). Why is that? A real man is not afraid to have his sexuality questioned because of what he drinks. Gay, straight, bi, good wine is good wine. And what the average person may not know is that most of the best ones are not sweet. In fact, the vast majority are dry to bone dry. We are not talking about White Zin here, and if that’s what you are drinking, please stop, immediately.

Rose is made from 100 percent red grapes most of the time, but there are some that have white grapes blended in. So why is the Rose pink instead of red? Because the maceration period is reduced, meaning the skin is left in contact with the pressed grape juice for a much shorter period. A rule of thumb being, the lighter the color, the shorter the maceration.

Maceration gives the wine both its color and tannins. The grape used also plays a huge part in the wine’s hue. A Rose made from Cabernet Sauvignon will tend to be darker and have a fuller body than one made from Pinot Noir, just like the red wines themselves. While I personally like my Rose to be made from Pinot or Syrah, I have found Roses made from many different grapes that I have truly enjoyed.

When a Rose is made correctly, the result is a wine that is neither red nor white, and that is what makes Rose so special. There’s just nothing like them, and they come in a surprising amount of styles. If you have never had the pleasure of sitting outside on a warm summer day, drinking a crisp, elegant Rose, then you should make that happen as soon as possible. While France remains the unquestioned King of Rose, there are plenty of good domestic ones, with more being made daily as the wine’s popularity increases.

As a wine seller, if I had a dollar for every time I suggested a Rose to a man, and he looked at me like I was from outer space before saying something like, “I don’t think so,” then I would be rich. Are you really so insecure that you can’t drink pink? Or do you feel uneasy already just by virtue of the fact you’re drinking wine to begin with?

A bone dry Rose Bandol (an AOC or Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée wine from Provence) on a hot summer afternoon can taste like fucking magic. We’re talking about a crisp, lean, and very refreshing wine. A Rose can take the best qualities of white and red and combine them to perfection. When learning about wine, the first thing you have to learn often is that your assumptions are wrong. Thus Rose is commonly and unquestioningly assumed to be sweet, but, as I mentioned, they can be some of the driest wines made in fact.

The other spectacular thing about Rose is that because so many people are so resistant to them, they are undervalued. You can get a high quality Rose for $15 dollars, and if you spend double that you should get something spectacular. For example, a Montrachet Rose made from some of the finest Pinot Noir grapes in the world can cost you less than $25, whereas its red equivalent will be at least double that. It’s even more of a good deal when you take into account that Rose, for the most part, is meant to be drunk young, so it’s easy to buy and enjoy the wine at its peak, which is always a huge plus.

However, the best Rose comes in the sparkling fashion, both from Champagne and other bubbly producing areas. These are some of the most delicate, balanced, and exquisite wines you will ever encounter. There is a reason that the Dom Perignon Rose is four times the price of its brut counterpart.

Last year the best wine I had all year long, (and I had a shit ton of wine) was the Charles Heidseck Brut Reserve Rose. It was absolutely incredible. This baby was light on the palette, but explosive in flavor and incredibly long with new twists and turns with each sip. The bubbles were tiny, and shot up the glass as if coming from a fish tank treasure chest – all for around $70, which in Champagne terms is an absolute steal. That said, you could find a sparkling Cremant for around $20 (or less!) that will make you rethink all your future sparkling choices because of how good it is.

Now that I have you ready and raring to go Rose, lets talk about what you should look for. As mentioned earlier, France is a great place to start. Want to save some money, buy some from the Languedoc, France’s largest wine producing region. Many bargain Roses hail from that area. Want to get a fancier bottle? Provence is almost always a safe bet. Want to go for the gold? Then Bandol is the way to go. I’ve never had a bad Bandol, not even once. Spain is a lovely place for Rose as well. You can find some very affordable Rioja Roses for under $20.

Want a reasonably priced sparkling Rose? Try one from Alsace, or Bourgone, as they tend to be cheaper than their Champagne counterparts. When buying a domestic Rose, I always try to go local. There are some bigger wineries that make decent Rose but a lot of times they will be sweet or mediocre. The local winery typically makes the Rose for the season, and it is a labor of love so you get a higher quality. Look for the case production on the back of the bottle or on the internet. If it is under a thousand give it a shot, if it is over ten thousand give it a pass. The bottom line is, next time you are wine shopping and you can’t decide between red or white because it’s too hot outside or because the food you’re going to be eating your wine selection with is too light for a red but a little too strong for most whites, buy a Rose!

The Wine Guy sells wine for a living, and lives to drink it. It’s his first and foremost passion. He avoids factory wines, loves to seek out bottles that are interesting and unique, and gets excited when he finds a grape he’s have never heard of.

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Drink Better: One Man’s Plea To Raise The Bar On Booze For Every Occasion

by The Wine Guy

When you are a kid, unless you’re a fussy little twit, you will eat almost anything. You have very little understanding of the highs and lows of food. You may know that your mom’s meatloaf is yucky and that her pot roast is yummy, but that’s about it. When you first start drinking it is the same way. PBR, on sale! What luck!!!! Well you’re a purported adult now, so it is time to lay the crap down and drink better.

But how do I do it? There are so many choices! The most important thing to do is to find a good store with a wide selection – and inside of that store find a knowledgeable employee who can guide you. At this point in your life you may have some inklings as to what you like and do not like. You might be holding on to them tightly like someone adrift in the Pacific with a life preserver. These can either be a tool or an impediment to your success. Tell the employee that you like this wine and want to try something similar. If there is too much hesitation on their part, and they are not at the very least happy with what they finally choose, then they are probably not going to be a good guide. Take their recommendation home and try it. Did you like it? Did you hate it? Was it an interesting miss? When you report back, a good guide should be able to use that information to improve their selection, and you should learn something important about your taste.

However, there are now two possible problems: One, the employee does not know what they’re doing. Or two, when you return they are not there. Now you are faced with a giant wall of wine and have no guide. Arghhh! Fear not, there are some tricks you can use to make your gambling odds improve.

Wines to avoid include domestic wines labeled by state only. This means that they probably grabbed grapes from wherever they could find them from and it’s going to have a generic bland quality. Wines with the word “reserve” on them should also be avoided. The term has no official meaning and can be slapped onto to the world’s worst wine. Personally, I love it when there is no regular version, just the reserve; they must have thrown away the regular version as it was toxic, or they put those special grapes into their California blend!

Good things to find on the label include verbiage that indicates the case production is under a thousand. That means the winemaker touched every grape and every bottle. “Estate grown” is another great phrase. Unlike reserve, it is highly regulated and is usually a sign of quality. If you buy estate wine and it sucks, cross that winery off your list.

I know that there are internet reviews and phone apps that can look up wines, and in a pinch these things can be solid tools. What those things lack though is a personal relationship, flesh, blood, and interactive communication. Over time I know what my customers like and do not like, and as we move forward the wine choices get better and better. Plus, their pallets get broader and broader – and I don’t mean more and more expensive.

Almost without fail, the most expensive wine in your wine shop is not ready to be consumed and would be a great disappointment if you bought it for immediate consumption. These are the kind of wines that are designed to be aged, and just do not perform well when they’re young. That said, the myth of the $10 bottle that drinks like a $50 one is total bullshit. While there are plenty of overpriced wines and an almost equal amount of hidden gems, the fact remains that it costs money to make great wine. There are so many factors that go into the making of the wine: grapes, climate, time, facilities, barrels, equipment, and more.

But Keith, I do not want to drop everything that I am doing and become a big wino like you. Still, there’s is no need for you to join wine clubs, attend wine tastings, and buy every bottle of Cabernet Franc you can get your hand on. What you need to do is stop buying plonk. Whenever you decide that you want some wine – whether it be for a special occasion or for a Tuesday night dinner – take a little bit of time and buy a better bottle.

It could be that Spanish Garnacha for ten bucks instead of the Coppola, it might be the 347 case production instead of the Robert Mondavi, but please make an effort. You are an adult now and should care about what you are putting into your body. You gave up Twinkies and orange soda, now it’s time to give up lousy wine.

Demand that your store purchase local wines. Support real winemakers. It’s a win/win – these guys make wine for the love of it. You are purchasing their dreams, and in return you are getting a handcrafted wine. All you get when you buy a factory wine is the name on the label. Worse than that, you send a message to the people that run the shop you bought it from that they should buy more factory wines. And you tell the whole industry that factory is the way to go. Drink better folks. Spend a little, save a little, but either way put that crap down and enjoy a well made bottle of wine.

The Wine Guy sells wine for a living, and lives to drink it. It’s his first and foremost passion. He avoids factory wines, loves to seek out bottles that are interesting and unique, and gets excited when he finds a grape he’s have never heard of.

by Laurelin

I promised I would never write about him again, and it’s amazing how easy that promise has been to keep. (This totally doesn’t count.) I haven’t wanted to, needed to. I’ve had nothing to say worth even remotely remembering. I remember this feeling before, just like all the others. That slow creeping suspicion that you feel fine, that he’s on your mind but not as close to the surface as he was the day before. With it comes this really stupid lost feeling: like, what am I going to DO now that I’m not thinking about it all the time? The answer is very simple: anything I fucking want.

I find myself smiling for no reason throughout the day because all of a sudden I’m no longer trapped in my own mind. I’m acutely aware of the sunlight shining off the top of the Prudential Center and how my city is so beautifully illuminated in the summer even in the midst of concrete. The Charles River glistens as I listen to the sound of my own feet slapping against the sidewalk and I’m running for me, not because he’ll only like me if I’m thin like all the other girls. I feel almost like this was a test, to see if I could pull myself out of the quicksand and be all the better for it.

Granted I haven’t been tested yet. I’m dreading the moment I run into him somewhere. I can imagine my blood turning to ice and my stomach turning. That’s one thing that never changed, feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut every time I see him. One can only hope that whatever dreams he chooses to chase take him far away from where I’ve already found mine.

It’s cloudy in Boston today, and I’m shivering writing this on my porch on my day off. I’m planning my usual Tuesday night city waterfront sangria crawl and I have a new phone number in my phone and the memory of smiling last night at my bar, my heart pounding as I’m pouring this guy a drink and inviting him to come out –– someone new. I’ll go to the same spots and do the same things, but it will be different. Maybe tonight’s the night I’ll stop looking for him every time the door opens.

“What do you guys think?” I ask the waitresses once he finishes his drink and walks out.

“So. Hot,” they say, and I smile.

Outside on my porch, the clouds roll in as the wind picks up. It’s getting colder but I don’t care. For once it’s beautiful, not gray to match my mood. I could sit out here all day.

[..]

by Laurelin

I had this post written over a week ago. I had just walked home from his house for what I knew would be the last time. I was so sad that I could have cried, but I didn’t. I sat down and I wrote about it. When I woke up later and re-read what I had written, I knew it could never see the light of day. He didn’t deserve those words, like he didn’t deserve me. Words help me remember, and I desperately need to forget.

I had written something like it before: ten years ago sitting in an ex-boyfriend’s house in Providence. He was going to leave me, I knew it, so while he slept I would look around. I memorized the way the black curtains fell across the dirty cracked window pane, the way I could see the black bars of the fire escape over the setting sun and Providence skyline. I memorized every poster: Marilyn Manson, The Crow, the black and white kissing girls. I memorized the way it smelled, like Yankee Candle’s Moonlight Path mixed with the shavings from the snake and iguana cages. But most of all I would look at him.

The way his two metal gauged hoop earrings clinked together when I touched his face. (Years later I would buy the same earrings just to hear that sound.) My fingers had traced every outline of his body and just watching him sleep was enough to make me want to cry. Because I knew he was going to leave me, and I wanted to remember. I didn’t want to ever forget a single thing.

And when he did leave me, I wrote it all down. I said that the sky would never be as beautiful as it looked though his window. I was foolish; that that one didn’t deserve those words either. But I always treasured them. I remember being caught scribbling by one of my sorority sisters, and when she asked me to read her something I had written I hesitated before deciding to read her that essay. I got about halfway though when I noticed she had tears streaming down her face. When I was done she grabbed my hand and told me that I should never stop writing. We cried, but I was happy to have finally shared him with someone.

Last Friday after creeping in from his apartment I decided that enough was enough. I would never again notice how leaving the bar drunk my hand slides so easily into his. I would never again get so drunk that I would try to not feel ashamed for winding up in his arms, knowing he was only holding me because he had no one better. Last Friday I wrote my final piece about loving him, and I said goodbye.

I had traced his every outline, but his feeling will fade, and in time so will this sharp feeling of total loss. I might run into him again down the line, and hopefully by then I will be able to genuinely smile. Hopefully by then I won’t have to turn away so he won’t see my lower lip trembling. I write to remember, but some things need to be forgotten, erased. Hopefully one day I can come back to this and remember how last Friday was the start of something worth remembering.

[..]