I should start by saying that I’m hoping to create a new writing habit, where I write every day. I should also say that I usually fail one thousand percent at them when I state goals like that. I thought about just writing and not even talking about writing, but here I am. And, if you want to be the next David Sedaris, well, you can’t do that by sitting on the couch watching ’90 Day Fiance’ and the million iterations that are of it. You have to write, right?
Yesterday, my husband, our niece, and my sisters-in-law went to Temecula. If you’re not from the LA area, you probably don’t even know what that is; I sure didn’t before I moved here. It’s like Napa but without the drive, and probably without the amazing wine. I’ve never been to Napa, so I can’t honestly say. Since I spoke about anxiety yesterday, let me tell you, this trip has made me anxious all week. The truth is, I think I may have been the person that initiated it. It’s always a good idea in my head, and then when I start thinking about it, I think about the sugar count in grapes, how I’m going to want to stop off and get the sourdough brie bowl that is pure heaven but also would put me in heaven, if you catch my drift.
The night before our trip, my sister-in-law sent out a menu to our Facebook messenger group for an Italian restaurant. I almost lost it, although I hopefully didn’t let on too much. But, at that moment I wanted to cancel the trip. I took a deep breath and wrote that the menu didn’t work for me. They were respectful, and we kept searching. We finally did land on a place that I thought could work. The truth is I can make any restaurant work with a keto diet, but it’s the fact that pasta is so close that gives me a panic attack.
Our niece lives in the building next to ours, at least for the next month, she just turned 21, and although her Aunties had experienced Temecula with her, her G’uncles had not. I love the term G’uncles. Everyone needs a G’uncle in their lives, don’t they?
A few things happen when you get closer to Temecula, the traffic backs up on the highway, and you see people parachuting; I imagine out of planes, but I’m not sure where they came from. All I know is that we looked up, and there twenty or so parachutes. I have a few reactions when I see people parachuting. The first is, why do they want to die? Second, is there a weight limit? Cause I’m not sure I’d pass it, and I’d have to have someone steer it for me. I am the guy that tried one of those Bird things out and immediately hit a car. I’m not trusting myself with a parachute. Knowing my luck, I’d steer right into oncoming traffic, and that would be the end of, well, me. This reminds me of when I was a child, we went skiing, and I let go of the tow rope and proceeded to get battered by the people behind me. I never skied again. At least I’m wiser now and know that I should never start parachuting.
We stopped to eat at a place called ‘The Broken Yolk Cafe.’ It’s always reliable, and when you get older, you realize the importance of reliability. I got an omelet with bacon, tomato, mushroom, cheese, and a side of fruit. Phew, one meal down.
We went to the wineries, drank, and then drank some more. The wine was delicious, the weather hot. Then we went to a new winery called Akash. I should say new to us. It had a young, hip vibe, like someplace that you want to be seen. Let’s be clear; I always want to be seen but not spoken to. My husband was at the bar, and this woman, whose sexual preferences were clear, looked over at him and said, ‘are you all a couple?’ They talked and learned that she was engaged to her fiance, and they were getting married in 2024 in Italy. And, well, as I said before, I wouldn’t say I like to talk too much; we did decide to go over to them and chat. I’ve never been to Italy, and I wanted an invite. Quickly, we learned that the lesbian couple next to them, whom they’d been friends with for years, was not even invited to their wedding. We did get their phone number, so I still have hope of an invite, and we have three years to work on it.
The night ended with our dinner reservations at a place called ‘Blackbird.’ Their menu was decent, and at this point, I’d imbibed too much, so I was starving, even after buying the tiny thirty-dollar cheese tray from Akash. We ordered the Brussel sprouts, Korean potstickers, and short rib fries. The sprouts took the prize with the appetizers. And, even though I let myself go, I ordered a burger with a side salad and wrapped in lettuce. I wish I had taken a picture of this disaster. No attempt was made to wrap the burger, they served fries with my burger, and I had to ask for a side salad. I distributed my fries to my other table mates. The salad dressing was bitter, and I was frustrated by the time the night was done. Here is the thing, I don’t ask for a side salad because I actually would prefer to eat a side salad. I ask for it because I shouldn’t eat the fries. When you bring it out with the fries on the plate, you may not think it’s a big deal, but I do.
We sobered up, drove home, and I took my blood sugar, and it was one hundred and sixty-five. On other trips to Temecula, where I’ve indulged, it’s been over two hundred, so I consider this a win.