Hippocrates is a man after a woman’s heart. He recommended red wine as a diuretic, to purge fever, disinfect wounds, and as a great source for vitamins.
Subsequently I drink a glass of Merlot before I go to bed. I love the wine’s deep burgundy color, though I need to be careful where I sip because I have beige carpet running throughout my house. Wine stains are a bitch to clean-up, which is why I use burgundy throw rugs as an accent color. I am also very careful not to place the glass next to my computer. Particularly the week before I go to Goddard. A glass of Merlot can be really expensive. The last time I did this, one of my three cats knocked the glass over. I thought my computer had a virus. Hippocrates was wrong on purging a computer fever. The Geek Squad came to my rescue.
“Take my advice, never, ever set a wine glass down by your laptop.”
“There’s the culprit,” my personal Geek said after he had dismantled the machine and pointed to the red stains and still wet puddles. He sniffed, and sniffed again “Merlot — RayLen 2007 – a fruity red Carolinius wine. Notice how the wine gels on the keys?” I am impressed – he knows good wine and speaks the language of computers. Until he hands me the bill. I cried. Take my advice, never, ever set a wine glass down by your laptop. I had to take my daughter Kristen’s laptop with me to Goddard, and It did have viruses. She had surfed through YouTube, and downloaded LimeWire – the scourge of parents. (sigh) My book disappeared and when it re-appeared, the words looked to be in Greek, or was it Geek?
Still, I am a glutton for punishment. I love the coolness and slender neck of the bottle as I place the corkscrew in, twist and turn, twist and turn. The cork pops free with one last tug. I pour a small portion of wine into crystal stemware and savor the aroma the wine emits when swirled around the silver backed glass. I do this slowly, swirl and sniff, taste and sip, swirl and sniff.
I learned this ritual from great wine masters at vineyards in Napa and Sonoma when we lived in California. My company had moved us from Chicago to the west coast earlier in the summer. It was now Christmas and the smells of the season were everywhere. I could afford then, to fly my daughter Dana and her husband along with my one-year-old grandson, Mickey, to visit us. Oh how I hated being an empty nester. I missed her desperately.
That was 17 years ago and the last Christmas we spent together. I have a picture of Dana that sits on my desk and was taken on one of those foggy San Francisco days when we took a sojourn to the wharf. We are on a sight-seeing boat circling Alcatraz.
We had just finished touring the ghostly prison and were returning back to shore. The picture captures a shadow of the island in the distance. The sky and sea have joined as one. The air is heavy with a fine mist of salt spray. Dana’s face brings color and warmth to the dreary day.
She is twenty-one in the photograph. Her face sparkles though the sun is hidden behind fog. She is wearing turquoise earrings and a turquoise patterned scarf. Her hair and eyes are the same ebony. Her lips a pale rosy pink, cheeks luminescent; she is with child. I know this because I heard her puking in the bathroom the day this picture was taken. The luminescence of her skin confirms this as a fact to me. Besides, I would know the sounds of her puking and each musical note she made when she puked, anywhere . . . .
Today is March 15, 2008 and it is her thirty-eighth birthday.
It seems like yesterday I held her in my arms
kissed her soft baby lips
like rose petals
sweet tender eruptions
of the first flutters I felt
when she was inside my womb
an eternity of
days and nights wash over me
carrying me backward
into an ocean of time
through a sea of colors
I am miles away
in my mind
she is in my arms
I feel her, touch her
hold her tightly
sniff and taste her
Tiny hands and mouth root for a nipple
she sniffs and tastes me
we breathe as one
I rock her, rock her,
rock her to sleep . . . .
Her scent is imbedded in my skin
There are many scents I smell every day that remind me of Dana. Red wine is one of them which in turn reminds me of the first car I had that was not a “babymobile.”
Mine was a metallic blue Nissan 240SX with all the bells and whistles. I loved the scent of the black leather bucket seats, the fact that I could shift gears and the feel of the wheel in my hands. To me, it was orgasmic just to have this car in my control, like my life. I was a traveling saleswoman and — zoom — zoom — zoomed — back and forth each day throughout the city and suburbs of Chicago.
I bought the Nissan with my first commission check from a company that consisted of 120 or more salesmen. I was the only female. The next year they had to change the “Salesman of the Year” award to “Sales Person of the Year” award because of me. I was in the ladies room when the award was announced. I heard clapping as I opened the door. Everyone was standing up clapping, turning around and looking at me.
I was clueless. Why were they clapping? Hundreds of pairs of male eyes stared at me. Did I remember to pull my dress down? I looked behind me. Several men came rushing towards me and began pulling me down the aisle to the stage.
“Congratulations Bev, you won the award.”
“I liked being a strong woman, and wanted all my daughters to become strong women. They are. They had to be because I could be a bitch on wheels. I had to be.”
Later, one of my peers came up to me and asked to whom did I performed a blow job on in order to get this coveted award. I wanted to spit in his in eye. Instead I told him that I recently had my male dog neutered and saved his gonads. I put the rounded balls into a baby jar of formaldehyde and kept them as a reminder of my dog’s once aggressive male virility. I turned my back and walked away from him.
I liked being a strong woman, and wanted all my daughters to become strong women. They are. They had to be because I could be a bitch on wheels. I had to be.
This is why I loved my Nissan. The silver wheels had numerous spikes that created patterns as I sped along the highways and back roads of Illinois. Dana loved my car too and called it mom’s Babemobile, after her favorite perfume Babe.
It was her 15th birthday and we were in Villa Park at my sister-in-law Bernita’s wedding reception. Her back yard was the perfect setting for a late evening bash. Tents with tables of food, endless supply of white and red wines, John’s (Bernita’s new husband) band playing, a dancing platform, no wonder I lost track of my teenagers. I didn’t realize what was going on until Dana came up to me, put her head on my chest, giggled, then stumbled and fell into my arms.
“I wuv you mommy . . . hic.”
Mmm – seems to me she had been helping to empty the glasses left by the guests and perhaps doing a little wine tasting of her own.
“It’s time to leave,” I told my husband.
I was the designated driver. My husband carried Dana to the car. Danny, my other teenager walked. He was more into food and had not consumed any wine. Dana on the other hand, was more then tipsy, she was now comatose. There was an awful guttural sound coming from the back of my car.
“MOM__DANA IS GETTING SICK __OH NO__ SHE JUST THREW UP ALL OVER ME!” Danny did not sound very happy.
“MOM IT SMELLS AND IT’S KIND OF RED.” — (hmm – like mother like daughter I thought — she likes red wine.)
The sound and smell of one’s insides turning outside is not very pleasant. I looked into the rear view mirror. It was not a pretty sight. When wine combines with undigested food — you really have a mess on your hands. Another guttural sound erupted from the back seat.
Danny began to gag. I stopped the car so that he could puke his guts outside. We all got out of the car, except Dana. She kind of drooped her head against the side door. I lifted her arm to see if she was awake. Limp, sort of like wet noodles. I stood as sentry, guarding my family. My husband looked green in the headlights. It was 1:00 a.m. and at this time of the morning, it was not un-common to see cars pulled off the shoulder of major Chicago expressways. Seeing someone puke, the sound of someone puking and the ripe odor of vomit can create a chain re-action. Traffic was heavy.
I sniffed the wine scented night air. Not a very good vintage. Fruity and definitely resembled the scent of grapes that have over-ripened — then soured.
We drove the rest of the way home with all the windows down and the moon roof opened. Danny and his father would be fine. Both still looked a little green, but both would survive.
Dana on the other hand was not fine. Her dad carried her inside, up the stairs to the bathroom, put her in the shower (clothes and all), poured shampoo over her then turned the water on.
“Wait — her clothes.” I was not happy. The outfit she wore was expensive; a two-piece red and pink striped silk jacket and skirt. Of course vomit made its mark on the dress — still, silk fabric called for dry-cleaning, not wet cleaning.
The water didn’t waken her, but the shampoo made her smell a tad better. Her dad carried her into the bedroom and set her on the bed wet clothes an all. I sprayed some of he Babe perfume in the room and sniffed. Much better. I covered her with a blanket, kissed her, and softly told her “You are really going to be sorry in the morning.”
She was. The next morning, I woke her at 7 a.m., handed her a bucket, cleaning supplies, and a shovel — “Good morning sunshine. Time to get to work.”
Dana groaned, “I’m dying.”
“You’ll live,” I said.
She sat up and emitted another groan, “Why are my clothes damp?”
“You took a shower with your clothes on last night. Dad and I helped you.”
“I did? You did?”
“There are two aspirin, tea, and dry toast waiting for you downstairs.” I was a good mother, had learned this tip from my grandmother.
“URRRRRP,” She cupped her hand over mouth, jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom.
Good lord, I thought, that child can puke. I didn’t think there was anything left inside her to puke out.
She returned and looked even worse.
“It was very hard not to laugh at her. I remembered my first hangover.”
Her ebony irises blended with the blackness of her pupils and clashed with the red streaks that criss-crossed her eyes’ whiteness. Dana’s skin was this pale shade of orange and yellow. I knew the feeling. It was very hard not to laugh at her. I remembered my first hangover.
I was Dana’s age and lived with my grandparents. I remember feeling orange and yellow waking up from my first drinking experience. Colt 45 beer was the culprit along with eating peanuts, then throwing up in my date’s father’s car, who happened to be a doctor.
I don’t remember how I got home or let myself into the darkened Victorian house and then walk up two flights of stairs to my attic bedroom. My grandmother Sally, I think knew. There were two aspirins, tea, and dry toast next to my plate the next morning.
Dana returned, “What’s the shovel for?”
“The chunky leftovers and the remains of dried puke are difficult to remove unless you have a sturdy tool.”
“URRRRRP.” Off she went again to visit the porcelain goddess.
“Drink lots of water,” I said and left her alone. She would survive.
Dana came downstairs wearing her favorite green pants which were always kept on the floor by her bed (along with other piles of dirty clothes). Armed with the bucket, small camping shovel, and supplies, she looked like a trooper going off to war.
Dana was a trooper, very penitent, used her favorite Babe perfume after she had finished cleaning and scrubbing the interior of my car. Although my car stunk from vomit before she cleaned, afterward, it really stank. Babe perfume and puke doesn’t mix. Still the scent of puke and Babe perfume saved my life a year later when the Babemobile was demolished by a huge semi that was barreling down the Stevenson Expressway.
The driver was oblivious and didn’t care that I was in his way. One of my angels was with me. The scent of vomit and Babe perfume lifted my car up then settled it in the grass medium, inches away from concrete abutments. I walked away, shaken, full of glass, but alive.
I’ve smelled a lot of puke in my day. I was a WAC and in nursing school during Viet Nam. Emesis (a more refined name for vomit) basins became my friend. I was always ready to come to the aid of a vomiter. There was my mother and the sound of her vomiting in the bathroom after bouts of chemotherapy, her chest a scarred mass of blackened tissue. Then there was the vomit I was told she was found in when she died, the chemotherapy failed to prevent the cancer from metastasizing throughout her body.
But my favorite smell of vomit is baby regurgitation, a natural process that occurs when you feed an infant strained peas or red beets. Or, the smell of the white milky fluid that erupts from one of those deep resounding satisfying burps after nursing.
I hold up my wine glass, swirl and sniff, taste and sip, swirl and sniff. The scent of Merlot wine is a healing ritual.
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