So you know that moment when you wake Monday morning with Cheetos cemented and caked in your grill, one eye plastered shut, with makeup, you hope, your head a fuzzy mess of, “Is it still Saturday?” in your bra, with one sock on and a string of bright green Guinness beads around your neck? Dontcha hate that?! Ugh gawd, me too, and yet…Monday. Goddamn it. Saturday morning I was feeling feisty. Like all vibrant and saucy, feeling my inner wine nerd and so ready to get my three day weekend on, that was before remembering I was going to be visited by a south county “nearly eighty year old” that sort of scares the shit out of me because he is a friend of my beloved Michael Sullivan’s….dad, (an author and wine historian) and because he has already once been in the store and was able to pull my strings like fucking Geppetto the last time he was in. I’m rarely intimidated but I can add that cat to the short list of names like Washam, Sullivan, Olken and the like in that is confounds me, flatters but baffles me, how I was fortunate enough to land in their good graces….
Source: Samantha Sans Dosage