Napa, day 2

Our second day in Napa was as good as the first. At the risk of sounding like an ad for the Napa Valley tourism board, this is a kick-ass place to visit. Beautiful scenery, super pleasant weather, delightful flowers everywhere, and of course lots of wine.

Trevor declared at breakfast that he was going to have a no-alcohol-til-we-get-to-the-first-winery policy, and I thought that sounded like a good idea. Maybe we should pace ourselves for the long day of drinking, and the big blowout dinner at Bottega.

Then I saw the bloody marys. Best looking bloody mary I’ve ever seen. But still, I resisted.

But when Yvonne & Thad joined us, I quickly realized we were whacked for thinking we could skip the mimosas–it’s her birthday! While drinking our mimosas, I was still eyeballing the bloody marys that passed by. Yes, I am that inconsiderate a drinker as to be looking at other drinks while slogging down whatever’s in my hand. Never one to follow the “love the one you’re with” rule. Yvonne mentioned that she’s never had a bloody mary, so I had to fetch her one. And share it with her. Oh my. It was as tasty as it looked. Turns out the secret is Absolute Peppar (sic) and celery salt on the rim of the glass. Good to know.

Our driver arrived as the hotel bartender, Vivianna, was whipping up a few bloody mary to-go cups. First stop today was Quixote winery, which was a huge hit with everyone and my personal favorite. From the quirky architecture to the super cool wine guy Robert, to the hillside setting to the funky artwork to the wine, yes the wine. Quixote was fabulous on every level. More details to come when I am not at the mercy of the cranky iPad.

The only thing that could be better was champagne, so it was off to Mumm to “get numb,” as Trevor said. A glass of bubbly in Mumm’s beautiful garden overlooking a view of Napa at its best made me very, very happy. A trip to the ladies’ room yielded this quote by Betty Davis: “There comes a time in every woman’s life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne,” and this from John Maynard Keynes, “My only regret in life is that I did not drink more champagne.”

Well, I sure don’t want to have any regrets.

We left Napa and hit V Sattui again for picnic supplies and ate a quick but yummy lunch before trekking over to Stag’s Leap for our appointment in the tasting room. I and made it my mission to keep pace with Keith & Jill, the champion drinkers so far. I was right in there, maybe even ahead if you count the mimosa, but I wasn’t crazy about any of the 8 wines we tasted, plus they got a distress call from home with a possible broken arm for Evan, age 6, who took a tumble off a trampoline. That kind of call ramps up the drinking significantly, so I ceded advantage to Team Cremer.

We all decided to call it a day after Stag’s Leap, mainly because the 2 wineries we tried to visit after SL were already closed. We consoled ourselves with a bottle of champagne in the limo and made it back to the Villagio in time for happy hour. Some quality time on the patio with The Birthday Girl and our menfolk with a sassy Sauvignon Blanc, and I think I took the lead from Team Cremer. We have a little downtime before dinner to gain a second wind, and I predict victory tonight.

Not that it’s a competition, of course.

If you’re wondering how I’m feeling, besides slightly buzzed, and whether I’m keeping up with the pack, the answers are: really good, and just fine. I admit, before the trip I was prepared to have to duck out early, maybe take a rest in the limo, and was for sure thinking a little toes-up would be necessary each day. Trevor mentioned that I could take it easy if needed today, to which I said, I’ll take it easy when I’m dead.

I’ll be back tomorrow with a full report on dinner at Bottega. We’re at the chef’s table, so I hope Michael Chiarello brings his A game.

My apologies

…for the typos and redundant use of “amazing” in the last post. No, I’m not drunk (yet); the edit function on the cranky iPad is terrible. I’ll try and commandeer someone’s laptop for future posts from the road.

I <3 SF

Howdy from the Bay City. We arrived safe & sound and in fine shape after our First Class upgrade & Vueve Cliquot in the lounge. The flight was blessedly uneventful, even with a bloody Mary. Grabbed a cab to the hotel in Fisherman’s Wharf, expecting to dump our bags but were able to check in. After a quick pit stop we hit the streets for a brick 1.5-mile walk in the 50-degree, breezy weather to the best lunch ever. Or at least in a really long time.

Major shout-out to Jill & Keith for recommending Tadich Grill, home of the best cioppino (tomato-laden fish stew). I make a version of cioppino that’s pretty darn delish, but NOTHING compared to the bowl of underwater delights served up at Tadich. Huge shrimp, tiny shrimp, crab meat, crab claws, clams, mussels, and chunks of whitefish in the most amazing broth ever. A hunk of amazing sourdough and some outstanding brewed iced tea (the tea was worthy of you, Amy Hoover, and your discerning palate) added to the culinary heaven. I have photos but am having trouble getting the cranky iPad to upload them, and I’ve got wine to drink so can’t waste any more time fooling with it. I’ll get back to it, though.

Retail therapy

The addition of a third antibiotic is taking its toll. I feel icky, really icky. Just 3 more days of Cubicin via IV, and I am seriously counting the days. Swallowing my old friends bactrim & minocycline twice a day every day for the foreseeable future is easy compared to the Cubicin. It’s not as bad as the Biaxin was; holy Toledo that stuff was wicked bad. Not only did my tummy suffer its wrath, it messed with my mind, too, and I’m halfway submerged in the crazy pond as it is.  Pretty sad when I rank antibiotics the way most people rank the Sweet 16 teams. Wonder what an abx bracket would look like. I don’t even want to know.

I’m finding solace in things like homemade chicken & dumplings, sans chicken (thank you, Staci!) and a gigantic foil pan of homemade macaroni & cheese (thank you, Leanne!). Between the abdominal swelling from the Big Dig and the constant influx of simple carbs, I don’t have a thing to wear. But given the choice between barfing and shopping, I went shopping.

Urban dictionary defines “retail therapy” as the act of shopping as an outlet (pun intended?) for frustration and a reliever of stress. It’s also crucial when you have nothing that fits, despite your own mistaken impression that the ridiculously complicated surgery would actually improve your shape. Retail therapy is scientifically proven to cure what ails you. Imelda Marcos said it best: “Win or lose, we go shopping after the election.” Marcos’s kryptonite was new shoes. It’s estimated that she left behind 2,700 pairs of shoes when she fled Malacanang Palace in the mid-80s and felt the combined judgement of the world coming down on her. That’s a lotta shoes.

Well, I like shoes too, and while I certainly don’t have 2,700 pairs, I did need one more pair of cute but comfy shoes for strolling the wineries in Napa this weekend. Enter TOMS Shoes, and their awesome “One for One” campaign. You’ve heard about it: for every pair of TOMS shoes sold, TOMS donates a pair of shoes to a needy child. It all started 5 years ago when a big-hearted and entrepreneurial guy named Blake Mycoskie noticed that kids in Argentina didn’t have shoes. Blake started the TOMS company, and quickly returned to Argentina with 10,000 pairs of shoes. As of last September, the company has donated more than 1 million pairs to kids all over the world. As you can see from the pics on TOMS website, there are now lots of happy kids looking quite stylish in their TOMS shoes. A million pairs of shoes. That makes Mrs. Marcos look like a bit of an amateur.

My question, of course, was why did a guy named Blake name his company TOMS? Who is Tom?

Here’s your trivia lesson for the day: there is no Tom. Blake is Tom. But not in an alias way; TOMS stands for the Shoes for Tomorrow Project. No, it’s not an acronym, that would be the STP, which I think is a motor oil. And sounds way too close to STD. Not a good marketing idea.

So Blake came up with the Shoes for Tomorrow Project, but discovered that the name was too long to fit on the label and the shoeboxes. He shortened it to Shoes for Tomorrow, but still had too many letters, so he went with the derivative TOMS. The end.

Disclaimer: this is not a paid endorsement for TOMS. I wish. But then that would negate the feel-good effect of getting a pair of shoes I love while also helping out a child who has no shoes. I bought my TOMS fair & square, and while I have no intention of turning this blog into the Home Shopping Network, it’s nice to have something to talk about besides cancer for a change.  

30-day shred

There are lots of subjects packaged under the guise of “change your life in 30 days.” Think about it: you can train your dog in 30 days, tighten your tush in 30 days, reclaim your financial well-being in 30 days, clean up your unhealthy diet in 30 days. You can even lay off drinking alcohol for 30 days, although I don’t recommend it. Some days, that’s all I have to look forward to (the drinking, not the laying off of it).

It’s been 30 days since my reconstruction surgery, aka the Big Dig. I’ve had some inquiries regarding my health, happiness, and healing at this stage, and here’s the deal: I’m certainly a lot better than I was at say, 2 weeks post-op, but sadly, am not completely healed yet.

I know, I know, what kind of eejit would expect to be healed from such a major excavation after a mere 30 days? Uh, that would be me.

To me, the impatient patient, 30 days is a long time. I really thought that at this point, I’d be back to normal and if not scaling the heights I am used to, getting close. Instead, I’m still creeping along, more clunker than speed racer. 

Can you tell I have yet to master the art of enjoying the journey and not the destination? I’m working on it.

After a month of convalescing, I can stand up straight most of the time, instead of walking hunched over. The incision on my belly is still pretty tight, which is normal since the Drs S gutted me.

The skin glue used to close the incisions is mostly off the belly but still stubbornly hanging on the newly formed breasts. That glue really works. I give it a 10 out of 10 for stickiness. I’m at the stage now where I can start gently removing it with baby oil but have to resist the urge to peel it off like a bad sunburn; don’t want to peel off the healthy skin cells in the process, as tempting as it may be.

The beauty of the skin glue, in addition to holding everything together and helping negate the need for external stitches, is that while it’s on, it’s thick and crusted with blood.

snowowl.etsy.com

How is this a positive thing, you may ask? Because at first glance, it looks awful and gives the impression that the scars will be thick as railroad tracks, raised and purple. But once it sloughs off, the scar underneath is actually thin and pink, with the potential for fading away into near non-existence at some distant date, instead of looking like Frankenstein’s forehead for all eternity. There’s hope after all.

I’m still pretty sore, especially around my sternum. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Dr S stood on my sternum to get the best angle for reconstructing. I still get insanely tired from minimal effort. About 3:00 every afternoon, I’m ready for a little rest, much like an overstimulated toddler. But instead of having played in the sandbox and thrown Goldfish crackers on the floor all day, I’ve been concentrating on healing.

My tummy is still quite swollen, and it’s numb, too, but not the good kind of numb as in can’t feel anything unpleasant (hello, novocaine!) but more the strangely unpleasant phantom numbness, in which I can feel stuff but it doesn’t feel normal. I imagine it’s similar to the feeling after having had a c-section. Since my babies came out the other way (or, I “barfed them out,” according to Macy), I don’t know but am guessing. It distresses me to no end to know that this won’t go away for months. Here I am, finally ready to reclaim my body, yet my clothes still don’t fit because I’m swollen and puffy. Not complaining, just sayin’.

Bathing is still a bit of a hassle since my port-a-cath is accessed. That means the needle stays in, through my skin and into the port, so I can administer the IV antibiotics for a few more days (4 more days, but who’s counting?).  The needle needs to exist in a sterile field, and getting it wet is a no-no. The needle is covered with a dressing that is not watertight. I’ve gotten pretty good at the spit bath, and can see a day in the near future in which getting in the shower means just that: getting in, without worrying about anything other than getting clean. It’s the little things, people.

I don’t have full range of motion back, so reaching for a coffee mug on the 2nd shelf or a shirt from the top rod in the closet still smarts a little. Getting better all the time, but respecting the need to not push it. I have no trouble moving my glass from table to mouth, though, so I’m good. I plan to be moving my glass like that a lot next week in Napa. A lot.

"Lots of Wine Bottles" by Leslie Saeta