how to make my weekend

It's a well-known fact that I like wine. And I tend to like people who like wine, who can recognize the difference between a Chardonnay strong on oak and another on butter, those who know that a bottle is corked at the outset. It might not surprise you that this is one of my favorite weekends of the year, second only to the Swingers' Convention. Or that I had tickets for for both days. Two different sparkly wristbands = hours of middle-of-the-night fun for both cats. Apparently, I am not the only one who enjoys the wine. Which is sad, because I don't take pride in shiving Reidel-wielding old folk who stand between me and a Riesling.
I laughed even while sober and enjoyed cabs and merlots more than a self-respecting Pinot Noir junkie should. The hot sauce I bought made my eyelids tingle, just as a spice junkie in me wanted it to. I signed up for Indian cooking classes, watched as a DC pro and his amazingly cute sous chefs served up fennel-crusted salmon, and savored one fantastic Pinot Gris and liqueur after another. Let's not forget the women's numbers with which I walked away, as the Kris is prone to do. Because apparently my 11th commandment states that I shall never meet men at such events; I just add to my women's fellowship cup that already runneth over. (Said statements shall now result in at least 50 Google searches for girl-on-girl action.)

In a semi-tipsy state, I did what any blogger might do: while in the one decent bathroom in the joint, I attempted to take a picture of my new hair cut, as meeting the needs of my blog family is always on my mind, even moreso than a distracting visit to the booth for a LONG ISLAND winery. I mean, really? The Island? And while taking said photo, naturally I worried more about the crucial details, like getting back to the marketing genius that is selling silver jewelry and CHOCOLATE under the same roof, than ensuring that my flash was turned off. My apologies, because somehow the ceiling tile is much larger and my hair much longer than they appear in real life.

The lack of anything below the shoulders has nothing to do with my shutterbug abilities but instead a modesty ingrained in me after my first viewing of Witness. Moving on.

In short, I drank more vino and ate more than my share of wonderful dry Irish cheeses and met more women than my dance card can presently hold. And when I got off of Metro, and wasn't quite ready to go home, I did what any self-respecting Kris would do: I walked right into my local fire house and spent an hour and a half meeting and greeting the poor, unsuspecting men as they shared a corned beef and cabbage Sunday dinner. Because making friends, even while asking if they use Jergen's prior to sliding down the brass pole, is my way.

We're exhausted. Hope your weekend was as good.