Your sun bonnet makes me horny
Went up north of Healdsberg to the Russian River wine region with my brother and my rowing coach and another friend from the boat house. I knew Andrew wanted to go wine tasting, and I invited the rowing social circuit to include them and to give Andrew a chance to meet them.
I drove, so I didn't drink much. Tried a few things, for sure, but kept it under control.
Most tasting rooms close around 4 or 4:30 PM.
Our last stop of the day closed at 4, and we pulled in at 3:50. It was a short drive from our previous stop, and the AC didn't have enough time to bring the car's internal temperature below 95 before we arrived. So I told the other three to head in while I sat with the car and let it cool a bit. It would have been a shame to let our nice wine languish in the sweltering car.
When I entered, my coach handed me a glass and I took my place at the end of the bar. Walking in, I noticed a group of several young women, attractively dressed. My first impression was "bachelorette party". A few of them ended up next to me at the bar. I checked them out.
One was cute, but trying hard. Lots of make-up, and small black purse with a single gold bar on the side quietly declaring "Prada". She explained to her wine buying girlfriend that she was only using her debit card now so she could get out of debt.
I watched one of her friends, a slender East Indian girl in a lovely white cotton dress with an A-line skirt walk across the room. Lovely.
Suddenly, at my elbow, appeared a decisively voiced question:
"Are you at the end of your day, or the beginning of your day?"
It's 4PM, this would be a stupid time to start. That's a pretty dumb, and hence obviously contrived conversation starting question. This chick is chatting me up.
"The end of our day."
"Where all did you go today?"
The woman standing on my right is perhaps five feet five or five six. Her age is hard to place. She could be 25; she could be 42. She wears rather modern glasses, the kind you might find on a hot librarian. Her eyes are green and her skin is light olive, though she's been out of the sun so it's light. Her hair is dark, but hard to see because it's obscured by a hat which is the illicit love child of a three-way between a pith helmet, a sun bonnet, and the floppy corduroy hat belonging to Paddington bear. It's dusty yellow with a sage green ribbon around the brim. It's clearly intended to keep the sun off her face, while being "fashionable" either on some planet where matronly is the new sexy, or within some Terran socio-economic strata whose sensibilities are far more sophisticated than mine.
"We started of at Trentadue to try their ports, and then we went to White Oak because they have a great chardonnay. And now we're here." I answer.
Aw fuck, I suppose I should make some conversation here.
"Where did you go today?"
"We went..."
I tune out as I try to size up the situation. She's totally macking on me, and I need to make an assessment. Do I want her to have my number or not? I study her face. How old are you? Are you pretty, and just in a bad outfit? Or should I judge your unconventional tastes in clothes to mean that you're a total fruitcake? I need more data. I look down. She's got an entire color-coordinate ensemble, all matching the hat. This must be her "going outside when it's hot" outfit. She's such an indoor cat that "outdoors" and "warm weather" are strange, foreign lands for her. For her, dressing for today would be like me trying to figure out what to wear on the surface of Venus. Mostly right, yet, somehow, starkly and tragically wrong.
I tune back in...
"...Napa. My co-workers were kind enough to invite me along."
They're not friends, and she's not usually socially included at work... Good to know.
I tell her I'm not as big a fan of Napa. It seems a bit contrived to be what the tourists expect, and it's a bit pretentious. Some wine snobbery. I tell her that here, it's a lot less snooty, though it's definitely been more developed over the last few years.
She agrees with a flourish of language that cries out "I smoked the SAT verbal". Asks where I'm from, I tell her SF area, and give more precise coordinates. She indicates she's from the Bay Area as well. I don't ask for details.
She's intense and cerebral in her replies. She's leading with her brain. Which is fine. I like clever women. They understand my sense of humor and are less likely to think I'm totally weird. But it's clear she lives in her head. And with no detectable sensuality or carnality to her, she's not showing up on my radar, which is being jammed by her hat.
On her feet are canvas-y sneaker-lettes with a ruggedized sole, a rubber toe cap a-la-Chuck Taylors, with gauzey ribbon in lieu of laces. The intersection of high fashion with home crafting. Practical, yet frilly.
She's now got me talking about my family and where they live.
I get distracted, drop my keys and they clang off the bar rail on their way to the terra cotta tiles. My companions pick them up, notice the oar on my key ring is not a port oar.
"When did you start rowing starboard?"
They didn't have any ports, they only make starboard.
Stuck between two conversations, and still trying to assess the significance of her epic chapeaux, I loose my train of thought, and awkwardness ensues. I should probably ask her something to keep the conversation going. But I just don't care. I feel bad for her, because she isn't reading me well at all. She really wants to land me, but it's not happening.
I admit I'm drawn to odd characters. Pretty yet strange girls turn me on. She was strange. Was she pretty?
She was an exotic brunette.
But was she attractive, under that hat?
Who could tell?
Not me.
I focused on her eyes. Yes, pretty. But that damn hat is something a Florida retiree would wear to be classy yet melanoma free.
And she who would wear such a thing is clearly odd. I keep the conversation from heading down the path to revealing contact information.
My friends finish and are ready to leave.
I tell her it was nice chatting. She asks my name, I tell her. She's Leela. She gives me a very formal handshake.
On the way to the car, the ribbing begins.
My coach is more of the "any port in a storm" mentality. He's confused about why I would turn down the interest of an obvious woman. She was, after all, clearly in possession of a vagina.
My teammate (women's team) calls me shallow for shooting Leela down over her look. I explain that the sunbonnet made me both not attracted to her and think she might be strange. My teammate remains mad at me for shooting down a girl who "put herself out there". I explain that I'm a big fan of women being forward. I just didn't dig her.
My brother points out, more profoundly, that I won't get what I want by only selecting from what comes to me.
True, that. Especially if what comes to me is adorned in spectacularly tragic fashion choices.
Leela is a great candidate for "what not to wear" on TLC. Trapped under that sunbonnet truly is an exotic hottie struggling to be free and tempt men. But for now, the sunbonnet is winning.
I drove, so I didn't drink much. Tried a few things, for sure, but kept it under control.
Most tasting rooms close around 4 or 4:30 PM.
Our last stop of the day closed at 4, and we pulled in at 3:50. It was a short drive from our previous stop, and the AC didn't have enough time to bring the car's internal temperature below 95 before we arrived. So I told the other three to head in while I sat with the car and let it cool a bit. It would have been a shame to let our nice wine languish in the sweltering car.
When I entered, my coach handed me a glass and I took my place at the end of the bar. Walking in, I noticed a group of several young women, attractively dressed. My first impression was "bachelorette party". A few of them ended up next to me at the bar. I checked them out.
One was cute, but trying hard. Lots of make-up, and small black purse with a single gold bar on the side quietly declaring "Prada". She explained to her wine buying girlfriend that she was only using her debit card now so she could get out of debt.
I watched one of her friends, a slender East Indian girl in a lovely white cotton dress with an A-line skirt walk across the room. Lovely.
Suddenly, at my elbow, appeared a decisively voiced question:
"Are you at the end of your day, or the beginning of your day?"
It's 4PM, this would be a stupid time to start. That's a pretty dumb, and hence obviously contrived conversation starting question. This chick is chatting me up.
"The end of our day."
"Where all did you go today?"
The woman standing on my right is perhaps five feet five or five six. Her age is hard to place. She could be 25; she could be 42. She wears rather modern glasses, the kind you might find on a hot librarian. Her eyes are green and her skin is light olive, though she's been out of the sun so it's light. Her hair is dark, but hard to see because it's obscured by a hat which is the illicit love child of a three-way between a pith helmet, a sun bonnet, and the floppy corduroy hat belonging to Paddington bear. It's dusty yellow with a sage green ribbon around the brim. It's clearly intended to keep the sun off her face, while being "fashionable" either on some planet where matronly is the new sexy, or within some Terran socio-economic strata whose sensibilities are far more sophisticated than mine.
"We started of at Trentadue to try their ports, and then we went to White Oak because they have a great chardonnay. And now we're here." I answer.
Aw fuck, I suppose I should make some conversation here.
"Where did you go today?"
"We went..."
I tune out as I try to size up the situation. She's totally macking on me, and I need to make an assessment. Do I want her to have my number or not? I study her face. How old are you? Are you pretty, and just in a bad outfit? Or should I judge your unconventional tastes in clothes to mean that you're a total fruitcake? I need more data. I look down. She's got an entire color-coordinate ensemble, all matching the hat. This must be her "going outside when it's hot" outfit. She's such an indoor cat that "outdoors" and "warm weather" are strange, foreign lands for her. For her, dressing for today would be like me trying to figure out what to wear on the surface of Venus. Mostly right, yet, somehow, starkly and tragically wrong.
I tune back in...
"...Napa. My co-workers were kind enough to invite me along."
They're not friends, and she's not usually socially included at work... Good to know.
I tell her I'm not as big a fan of Napa. It seems a bit contrived to be what the tourists expect, and it's a bit pretentious. Some wine snobbery. I tell her that here, it's a lot less snooty, though it's definitely been more developed over the last few years.
She agrees with a flourish of language that cries out "I smoked the SAT verbal". Asks where I'm from, I tell her SF area, and give more precise coordinates. She indicates she's from the Bay Area as well. I don't ask for details.
She's intense and cerebral in her replies. She's leading with her brain. Which is fine. I like clever women. They understand my sense of humor and are less likely to think I'm totally weird. But it's clear she lives in her head. And with no detectable sensuality or carnality to her, she's not showing up on my radar, which is being jammed by her hat.
On her feet are canvas-y sneaker-lettes with a ruggedized sole, a rubber toe cap a-la-Chuck Taylors, with gauzey ribbon in lieu of laces. The intersection of high fashion with home crafting. Practical, yet frilly.
She's now got me talking about my family and where they live.
I get distracted, drop my keys and they clang off the bar rail on their way to the terra cotta tiles. My companions pick them up, notice the oar on my key ring is not a port oar.
"When did you start rowing starboard?"
They didn't have any ports, they only make starboard.
Stuck between two conversations, and still trying to assess the significance of her epic chapeaux, I loose my train of thought, and awkwardness ensues. I should probably ask her something to keep the conversation going. But I just don't care. I feel bad for her, because she isn't reading me well at all. She really wants to land me, but it's not happening.
I admit I'm drawn to odd characters. Pretty yet strange girls turn me on. She was strange. Was she pretty?
She was an exotic brunette.
But was she attractive, under that hat?
Who could tell?
Not me.
I focused on her eyes. Yes, pretty. But that damn hat is something a Florida retiree would wear to be classy yet melanoma free.
And she who would wear such a thing is clearly odd. I keep the conversation from heading down the path to revealing contact information.
My friends finish and are ready to leave.
I tell her it was nice chatting. She asks my name, I tell her. She's Leela. She gives me a very formal handshake.
On the way to the car, the ribbing begins.
My coach is more of the "any port in a storm" mentality. He's confused about why I would turn down the interest of an obvious woman. She was, after all, clearly in possession of a vagina.
My teammate (women's team) calls me shallow for shooting Leela down over her look. I explain that the sunbonnet made me both not attracted to her and think she might be strange. My teammate remains mad at me for shooting down a girl who "put herself out there". I explain that I'm a big fan of women being forward. I just didn't dig her.
My brother points out, more profoundly, that I won't get what I want by only selecting from what comes to me.
True, that. Especially if what comes to me is adorned in spectacularly tragic fashion choices.
Leela is a great candidate for "what not to wear" on TLC. Trapped under that sunbonnet truly is an exotic hottie struggling to be free and tempt men. But for now, the sunbonnet is winning.
posted by Kenneth at 11:08 AM
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