Desperation is the stepmother of stubborness

Adventuring rule #6: Know your tools. 

     Inspired. Yes. Let's call it that. I was inspired to purchase a bottle of tasty Chardonnay and the fixings for homemade pizza after Friday's adventures, the ones that would fall quite neatly into the "not enjoyable" category. Everything I experienced from noon until 7 p.m. that day was highly educational and mind-opening. It was also stressful, emotionally draining and tense.

     Additionally, because these adventures sucked up my Friday afternoon like a dry sponge ingests the wine I was likely to spill in a matter of hours, I had a stack of articles following me around and begging for edits. It was raining, dark out, and I couldn't slow my mind enough to concentrate on anything.

     So I made a simple and logical decision: I called the boy.


     My cheerful and understanding boyfriend kindly accompanied me to the store. Justin was able to focus my attention on the task at hand in the way that only a man who hasn't yet had dinner can focus. Items flew magically from my list straight into the basket he insisted on carrying and we were through the checkout line before I knew it.

     Once at my apartment, I kind of lost my senses, dissolving into a scatter-minded stress basket. I think Justin realized that I was in no shape to be completing tasks, so he went to work. Ignoring my protests, he unloaded and put away the groceries and got started on the pizza while I wandered aimlessly, talking nonstop and rearranging various items around my house.

     I couldn't let this slide. There had to be one thing I could do by myself to be helpful. That's when I remembered the wine.

     A beautiful bottle of the same tasty vino that filled my glass during my first session of wine tasting was resting on my counter between a bag of flour and a container of extra virgin olive oil. I rummaged around in the silverware drawer and came up with the appropriate utensil: a silver corkscrew contraption with a hinge/bottle opener and a tiny blade.

     Under Justin's careful supervision while he kneaded the pizza dough and covered my kitchen in flour, I applied the edge of the small knife to the foil wrapping on the neck of the bottle. Nothing happened. I barely scored the foil. I tried again, applying more pressure, and a small cut appeared to reveal the glass beneath the wrapper.

     A quick tuck of the blade's tip was all it took to lift an edge, so I ditched the knife and jubilantly removed the foil with my hands. My pride was quickly smothered when I realized I still had to get the cork out.

The next few minutes went something like this.

"Okay, so how do I do this?"
"Put the hinge part over here."
"Like this?"
"No, like this. The edge rests here, then put your hand . . . not like that, hold it on this side."
"Okay, now pull?"
"Um, no. first you have to screw it in."
"Oh."
"Wait, no, not sideways like that, put it in straight, then twist it straight."
"From the center? Like this?"
"From wherever, just twist it in now."
"Okay! This is fun!"
"I think you twisted it too far."
"Oh."
"Now pull it out."
"It's stuck."
"That's why you have to pull."
"Oh. This is hard. You try it."
"I can't, my hands are covered in dough and flour. Just twist it again, then keep pulling. See? You got it."
"Thank goodness there's wine in this bottle. You need it after opening the damn thing."
"You're silly."
"Be quiet or I'm not sharing."

     And that was the extent of my contributions for the evening. Aside from spilling when I poured into my glass, of course. I was done.