Workin 9 to 5

I am about to get ready for day two of my first official job here, and, more interesting, my first non-teaching job in nine years! As you can see from the late-morning time, this is surely nothing to do with teaching. I am working part-time at a winery tasting room in Paso Robles. And let me tell you, going wine tasting is a hell of a lot more fun than standing on the work side of the bar. And I mean STANDING. There are no places to sit in the entire place, so we stand for eight hours at a time, pretty much (I mean, there is a toilet). But this is the hardest part of the job (especially for a woman who is still healing from two knee surgeries) and I am extremely happy to be hired. The manager said he gets anywhere from 3-8 applications a day, and had about 100 piled on his desk when I walked in. Even cooler is that this was the very first tasting room I went to regarding a job. So it must have been meant to be. Oh, and the coolest of all, I signed up five people to the wine club, which is every tasting room's bread and butter, and was told that five in one day is like unheard of, especially for a first day. And I am seriously the suckiest sales person I've ever met. I couldn't sell water to a Bedouin. Well, maybe if he was drunk...
P.S.
I'm feeling quite worried for our free birds, so we are going back tomorrow to check in on them. I mean, we freed them in a real avian paradise, not like the ghetto one I tried to fool myself in to thinking was awesome, so they should be frolicking with glee now in the massive amount of water they have at their disposal. I just hope they stopped trying to run away from it, because a few more feet and they will waddle into the road that surrounds the lake. Man, that would suck bad.

If You Love Them, Set Them Free

It is with bittersweetness that I write this. Tonight, at 6:42 p.m., Jack and I set our two ducks-that-we-thought-were-geese-but-discovered-that-they-really-are-ducks free at Atascadero Lake Park. Just like the bible and that one pop song by Sting advise, if you love somebody, set them free. And so we did. They are now old enough to fly with impressive force into our dogs' faces, so we figured they can hold their own against a few disgruntled geese or the lake's local gang of Mallards (just because they are better looking than the our red wort-faced ducks doesn't give them the right to be a bunch of jerks). We tricked them into a cardboard box, which was surprisingly difficult given our combined strength, intelligence and agility, threw some food pellets in, taped it up, and drove them to their new home.
It was like dropping your kid off at kindergarten for the first time. Jack prepared to rip open the box mere feet away from the lake shore, and I was all nervous and giddy with camera ready in hand. He said, "Are you ready?" and I nodded excitedly from behind the lens. He torn off the tape, threw open the doors and stepped back like a proud papa as I readied to capture their first enraptured reactions to their new waterfront home (up to this point in their lives, the only lake they have ever known is the 3x5 hole I personally dug in the ground, and which they have refused to swim in even once, the ingrates). Three seconds passed, then five, then ten, and still no one came out of the box. At first I was scared that the taped in ride over gave them both heart attacks, until Jack, as any good father would, kicked the box. Slowly the little female walked out, followed (after another swift kick) by her brother/lover/partner/only friend on the lake. And let me tell you, they were not enraptured in the least. We had to chase them towards the lake, and then Jack picked up the female and literally set her in the water, which she flew out of the second he let her go. This was not the "setting free" photo op I was hoping for. We sat down and watched over them for about 15 minutes, but in that whole time all they did was stand there and stare at the water suspiciously. And to top it all off, when we wished them luck, said goodbye and gave them our sage advice to not be sitting ducks (since that was all they were doing), they didn't even look at us! Not even a sideways glance as they waddled away.

In the end, even though they were totally thankless, we bear no hard feelings. Are we disappointed in them? Certainly. Did we expect more from those we raised since they were the size of yellow rubber duckies? You betcha. But do we hold it against them? Not for one second. After all, as every parent knows, "you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."    

P.S. As I write this, the fermentation fumes are making their way into our trailer. Effing bastards.

This was my sorry excuse for a pond. They never got in past their ankles. I'm not kidding.

As soon as they were out, they ran away from the water. What the hell?

Making sure the wings are up and running in case of a geese attack.

They are just now beginning to sport their red facial warts. I hope they don't get picked on too badly.

The Smell of Harvest in Wine Country

One is hard pressed to find a more romantic land than wine country in the fall. When the vines pull heavy with ripe, inky purple shades of merlot, cabernet, syrah, and zinfandel, it is a time of celebration for humans and animals alike (some say the best way to know when to harvest is when the birds come to feast). Wine lovers come from all over to the central coast for "crush" time and all the wonderful, drunken harvest parties. It's a glorious time had by all.
Unless, of course, you live near Wildhorse Vineyards, which we do. There is one thing slightly less romantic than the rest of wine country during harvest time, and we are on the front line of this one thing. It's called the fermentation process. Don't get me wrong, fermentation is a thing of pure beauty because it eventually leads to the nectar of life, and I would never, ever insult it. HOWEVER, I will boldly issue the following warning: It is never a good idea to live in a trailer that is old, and therefore requires all windows to be open at night for ventilation, within one mile of a large winery. Around 9:45 each night for a little over a week now we have been the recipients of a southerly wind pregnant with the pungent scent of rotting grapes. The first few nights, being neophytes to harvest time, we assumed it was our trash collection (we have to take our own trash to the dump, so you can imagine how large the tower grows before we are forced to take it). It was that gnarly. But once we disposed of the trash and the smell continued to join us for aperitifs each night, we were at a loss. We busted out all the incense we could dig up out of our as-of-yet unpacked boxes and set it aflame next to our arsenal of candles. I am sorry to report that all our thick musky smoke did was cohabitate with the fermentation stench and drive us from our humble abode. This wouldn't normally bother us, except that fall nights (as of literally three days ago - before that nights were still like 75 degrees) up here are a bit chillier than in Newport Beach, and being driven from our trailer, even with the open windows, feels a bit like lying naked on cold concrete. And that is not romantic, not matter how you cut it. So with that my friends, I am off to try to cuddle our two dogs who may just be more pissed off about our harvest situation than we are.