Shock in Charlotte.

I found myself unable to concentrate on anything while I was waiting for Michael to get the reaction of the Big Bank to the unusual “Napa lifestyle preservation” request. (I prefer DEMAND to request, but I’m not there.) He said he’d call me right away, but hours went by without a call. Kerin and I actually had a great brainstorming session on creative and cost-effective ways to keep clients happy and thinking about us. We came up with lots of new ideas to remind them of our commitment to quality and service. I might send individual postcards from my next trip to China, like, “Wish you were here – to see the fabulous silk piqué I just found!” And how about wine tasting or blending parties? Maybe have a local chef come and teach us to prepare a famous dish. Again, we will be doing follow up calls to see how well received our product was. And we are going to try to get clients to send us group shots of their employees, fellow committee members and families wearing their Red House shirts, sweaters, etc. Or, we’d volunteer to take pictures ourselves, for an album in our reception room. Testimonials would be nice to have also. And after last year’s harried but successful delivery of shirts with changed cork-like buttons (plus a light breakfast to each wine grower-recipient’s hotel room!) we want to do more along the lines of memorable deliveries. (But maybe less stressful than that night’s efforts!) We also talked strategy for seeking new business. We can always do more of that. Wine country events, country clubs, organizations – there’s lots of untapped work out there for Red House. Too bad Michael wasn’t there to participate in our meeting!

Finally, my cell phone buzzed with news from Charlotte. Apparently, he shocked the bank, which had no idea that Michael had any intention of less than a fulltime-and-forever commitment. As Michael is not big on expressing conflict, it does not surprise me that they had no clue. In fact, they had just presented him with a big envelope of relocation info, including real estate listings and glossy private school brochures when he brought up the caveats. So now, Human Resources needs to have a sit-down with the captains and figure out how (or if) they can utilize Michael in their organization. I have to hand it to him though, he had completely thought through his negotiation strategy before meeting with them today. (And I thought he was lame with details!) He specified a three-day workweek, flying east every Sunday and back to Napa Wednesday nights. It may not have been what I had wanted him to counter with, but it could work. And he made sure that what he could do for them, even with less of a time commitment, was emphasized very carefully. We await their next move. Me, from the edge of my seat on needles and pins. Michael, from his perpetual state of calm. Where does that come from?! Sigh.

A Dose of D&D

There’s another tasting room you must have on your list – Eric Ross Winery on the Sonoma side in Glen Ellen. Check it out: www.ericross.com. Michael and I discovered it one sunny Sunday when we were just tourists and we’ve been going back for the wine – and the conversation - ever since.

The winery was started by John Ross Storey and Eric Luse, two San Francisco newspaper photographers who probably met while jockeying for position to get the best shot of something interesting. (And believe me, there’s always something interesting in SF!) Or maybe love of wine brought them together, I’ll have to find out. Either way, they became successful winemakers, and that does not usually happen for a couple of regular folks. Curiously, the winery website offers sparse details about the two. Sounds kind of like they found themselves on a hill overlooking scenic vineyards and declared themselves winemakers. They combined their names and rest is awards history. As a business owner I’d say there’s more to the story, and I wish Red House had had such an easy birth. There’s a photo of the smiling pair on the website, and all that’s missing are Red House shirts. (Well, I had to say that!)

Dennis and Diane are the tasting room managers. They are the real deal. They know their wines and each other. How do they survive working together like that?! I mean, I work with my husband too - but not THAT close. And even though Michael and I are usually in agreement on business decisions, there are times the travel aspect of my job is a welcome escape. (Sorry for wanting to throttle you sometimes, Michael.) Let’s just say that like all couples, we prefer to handle life’s little details in vastly different ways.

And so do D&D, as they call themselves. They’ve been married a lonnnng time, and fortunately, each copes with the other's quirks with humor - at least while we’ve been watching (!!) I wonder how they’d handle the arrival of a limousine full of tipsy tourists right at closing time after a busy summer day… Would one of them run to the back room and hide? That’s what I’d do! (And this is why D&D haven’t asked Michael and me to fill in so they could have a weekend away.)

Our favorite Eric Ross wine is the Poulet D’Or Pinot Noir. The Russian River Valley pinots are something Michael and I do agree on, and the photographers know how to make this wine. Do a side-by-side comparison of the Eric Ross pinots from the different vineyards – see if you can taste the influences of the soil and climate. Another delight is the Marsane-Rousanne, a lovely summer-drinking white wine with a minerality that reminds me of France. I also enjoy their 2007 viognier. I’d compare it the 2006 and 2007, if only I had saved any. Sigh. Even if you don’t live nearby, their wine club is a good one - offering 20% off, and as Rooster Club members we also get to attend winery events pairing the wines we love with foods we wish we could make. D&D have a knack for the complex recipes, but so far, they’ve not attempted anything with rooster meat.

Out of gas and out of mind.

Michael. Wonderful husband and father, Type B banking guy, good with numbers except ZERO, as in no gas, no fumes, no luck - start walking! That was my man last week. And why?! I’ve been thinking about this for days. A fluke? A brain focused on the Charlotte job? Must be that, as the gauge works fine and it had been pointing to “E” for a while.

We were on our way to the San Francisco Symphony (www.sfsymphony.org) for an evening that promised to take us away from thoughts of a fragmented life in Charlotte. Plus, it’s winter, even here, and as mild as it is I’m ready for spring - and music is nothing if not transcendental. We dressed up, as about half the people do at the symphony. The other half, well…anything goes in SF. At one chamber music concert there was a guy in a delicate ladies’ slip accessorized with rustic (!) turquoise jewelry.... (???!)Anyway, we had reservations at Farallon (farallonrestaurant.com), one of my favorite seafood restaurants and with décor inspired by Nautilus himself. This was going to be an incredible evening!

Except for a pesky gap between expectation and reality. We were maybe five miles from the house. I was using my BlackBerry to email myself reminders for the next day when the car suddenly sputtered and died. There wasn’t a warning, a few coasting miles of realization that the end was near, it simply was. I may have used some colorful language as we slowed to a dead stop, however unusual that might be for me. Now what? It was dark, and we were obviously not anywhere near a gas station. We were in my car so I knew there was a gas can in back, but no, not any more, it turns out, Michael had removed it to get gas for the lawn mower months ago and did not replace it – ahhhh! Just like my toolbox, good scissors and my dental floss! I was madder than ever and stepped out of the car to think, and as I did, my feet made a thwook sound – I realized to my horror that I had stepped into about 6” of mud in my Jimmy Choo pumps! Yes, I got them on sale, but Jimmy Choos!!! At this point I yelped (or screamed, according to Michael). He got out to help me and the submerged shoes back into the car. I had adopted a childish “don’t touch me” posture and I’m sure my face was a rictus of fury. He retrieved the roll of paper towels I keep in the back seat. Funny, he hadn’t removed that also. As I was occupied, angrily cleaning off the muddy suede, Michael wisely decided to seek help for our predicament and/or seek safe distance from Mad Maddie.

One thing about Michael that has always irked me is his luck. He just has this ability to turn lemons into lemonade. (I hate that expression.) And so, not ten minutes later he was back, smiling. He had flagged down a truck of farm workers, and without speaking a word of Spanish he managed to communicate his dilemma and gave them money for a can of gas. I knew he believed we’d be off in a few minutes. Sure enough, the Saviors of Chevron returned with fuel, and Michael gave them a nice tip. But we weren’t off in a few minutes, as it proved nearly impossible to open the new can’s nozzle. Michael wrestled with it, using some colorful language of his own, even (gross!) attempting to bite off the cap, then digging at it with the corkscrew from the glove box. (Had we had a flashlight he would have seen the “squeeze and turn” instructions I noticed the next day.) He finally succeeded and we were off. No time for dinner, but drinks were what mattered at that point – after a stop at Saks for shoes. (I walked in wearing the damaged shoes, not trusting Michael to choose a replacement pair for me.)

The concert was great, a real treat. And afterward, we shared a late-night seafood platter at Farallon’s stylish bar. What I’ll remember most about this evening though was the aftermath of hanging up 22 button-down shirts, after midnight, in various spots in and outside the house to air out noxious gas fumes. (The neighbors must have thought I was nuts, but it wouldn’t be the first time.) The shirts had been in the trunk that evening because they were ready to be delivered to a client. The gas can, thanks to an abused nozzle, had leaked its last pungent drops into the trunk. (Grrrr, Michael!)

What fun to clean up.

Ugh. I have taken the opportunity of a few rainy days with not too much going on at work to try to get both workspace and home organized. There are few chores I despise more as it pains me to get rid of things. Any things. But when I lived in New York, hoarding wasn’t an option; there simply wasn’t space to stash 12 extra rolls of paper towels or a cool table spotted at the Chelsea flea market. Ski gear? We always rented. Here, I am ashamed to admit, it didn’t take long to change entirely. We even rented a small storage unit to hold holiday décor and some of the overflow, which is to say I’m no longer saying no to great flea market finds, two chandeliers (so far!) that I might use one day and classic books I might read. Furnishings for the Red House boutique taking shape in my imagination are also accumulating. I know it’s wrong. And I can’t seem to say goodbye to any samples I’ve collected at work. Whether it’s a zipper style, fabric, thread color or button size not currently in use, it MAY be ideal next year or ten years from now and I’ll be glad I saved it, right? And what about Andrew and Delia’s artistic endeavors – can I really throw out their heartfelt smears of poster paint on kraft paper?! Not yet, I’m afraid.

So what did I accomplish? Well, a couple of things. After reading Getting Organized (another airport find!) I began to take action on each piece of paper as soon as I got it so the paperwork wouldn’t accumulate. School schedules, invitations – all get entered in my master calendar hasta pronto. And I made a visible dent in clutter by going room to room with an eye on elimination. Not the clean sweep the experts advised, but hey, it was a three-day effort when three weeks might have been warranted. I do feel good about donating some winter clothes I was hanging onto. Who knows, some local family might move some place where down coats are actually necessary. By giving them up I feel even more a part of life in Napa. Like when I gave up Andrew’s high chair, I knew I was done with babies. And with all the travel I do for Red House I’ve accumulated quite the stash of tiny toiletries. From now on these are going to a shelter for women and children, who could use a little luxury in their lives. In the kitchen I asked myself, “How many spatulas is enough?” Turns out to be three: one in each size. Now the drawer closes much easier. These are only baby steps towards an organized life yet I feel better. But don’t ask why I’m collecting corks, as I don’t have a good answer. How about – I’m going to build a raft someday and sail to Tahiti? Ok, not likely.

Charlotte drives a wedge.

He got it!……! The news I’ve been waiting for and the answer I had hoped would not come: The bank in Charlotte, North Carolina has just offered Michael the prestigious job he just can’t refuse. Now it’s his turn to say, “Thanks, I‘ll take it, I can’t wait to start my job on a provisional basis and lead your company into glorious hegemony before lesser banking giants in the grand New South, but my wife and two children will come only if California falls into the sea, and by the way, I am co-owner and Chief Financial Officer of a dynamic and growing clothing company located in said state and have no intention of making a clean break from hearth, home or preexisting employment.” I was hoping he could just memorize that line and repeat it verbatim when he meets with his Human Resources representative today. And I reminded him of this a few times on the way to the airport. He said he’d take it under advisement. I’m not sure, but I think he might have been snickering a little bit when he was pretending to clear his throat. Ok Michael, go ahead and mock Maddie, but just wait until you catch the look on their faces when you tell them you’re thinking part-time and three time zones away for your new career.

I could spend more time worrying about his day in Charlotte and replaying in my mind what I what him to say, that he attach so many conditions that their heads start to spin, but I know he’s got to do it his own way and there may be some concessions that I’m not going to be comfortable with. BUT MOVING TO CHARLOTTE IS NOT AN OPTION! NEVER! EVER! (I just won’t go.)

I decided that I wouldn’t wait any longer to let Kerin know what’s going on, that Michael doesn’t have a sick aunt (or was it uncle? Cousin?) he’s been flying back and forth to visit. I was going to shock her with the Charlotte news while at the same time giving her a much-deserved promotion, but I do need to work on a few more details with Michael before making that part official.

I decided to tell Kerin of Michael’s plans over lunch at Santé, the restaurant at the Fairmont Mission Inn Sonoma (www.fairmont.com/sonoma) and said we’d finish with a manicure at the beautiful spa. Well, we were barely seated before Kerin told me that she knew that things have been strained between Michael and me, and that if we were getting a divorce (!!) we didn’t have to worry about her – she was loyal to both of us and wouldn’t choose sides. She said she believes in Red House and wants to stay on - regardless of our marital status. Whoa! She seemed relieved, but also a bit embarrassed when I told her what was really going on, like she should no longer trust her perceptions. I disagreed; she’s spot-on except for this instance. And anyway, I can imagine how the Charlotte trips must appear to the only other person in the office. Kerin hopes the bank job does work out for Michael. I tried to agree. Meanwhile, we enjoyed our lunch and subsequent paraffin dips. We both chose vibrant shades of red for our fingernails, as if to signal that we too are changing things up.

Science Fiction?

I want to make perfume! My hero of lifestyle design, Ralph Lauren, has multiple, successful lines. Every celeb of the moment has his/her 15 minutes of fragrance fame, so why shouldn’t Red House have a scent that reflects the good life in Napa? This is a thought I’ve had for months and want to explore further – starting in my garage. Stranger things have happened, right? The problem is that while I have the right instincts and artistic flair, I have no skills in hard science whatsoever. I know that an acid differs from a base and that’s about it. And despite a love of wine and its components, I haven’t had the best of luck at wine blending parties, tending to go through the motions and deferring to whoever knows what they are doing. If I am going to create a scent that represents the wine country elegance of Red House and not the contents of a backyard compost I need to gather a team of biophysicists and chemical engineers to carefully consider every detail, and to make sure that I don’t give in to my inclinations and make the dominant note Cabernet (!). But now is not the time for assembling a research laboratory full of experts so I’ll start with a little low budget experimentation and at least learn what I like.

This much I know. Napa is a place of many inspirations, a multi-sensorial experience. The food and wine come to mind first of course, the enjoyment enhanced by a mis-en-scène of glorious vineyards, mountains and valleys. The textures and colors combine with climate of abundant sunlight and cool nights to create the terroir. All I have to do is distill this down (!). Oh, but I won’t be done yet - I must then add a bit of European attitude – the casual but refined approach to life that led to the creation of Red House itself. What IS this attitude? A whiff of champagne and suntan lotion? Sea spray and citrus? As soon as I figure that out I’ll have my scent. Then I guess it’s sourcing, production, packaging and marketing. An army of lawyers to add to the scientists – yikes! I have no idea what I’m doing! At least I’m not wasting money. Yet.

My exploration has already started with hunting and gathering of essences. Rose is one of the most predominant and intensely scented flowers here and I know I want to include it. I’ve got dried petals and oils of multiple varieties, most of which smell exactly the same to my under-trained nose. My other must-include element is the woodsy and aromatic eucalyptus. I’ve collected bags of bark and leaves. It’s heavenly – I should make it into a mattress! Lavender has to be involved. Bay leaf, maybe? And mustard is beautiful in the spring – a sea of yellow everywhere. To me it represents the ” joie de vivre” of Red House, though I’m not sure any form of mustard belongs in cologne. I’ll need something earthy for the terroir – maybe some wild mushroom? Right now, my collection is piling up on Michael’s workbench. Soon, I’ll zip myself into an asbestos suit, gloves and goggles with my tongs and beakers and hot plates and start cooking! How can fine art fail to follow?

Free Samples!

Let me tell you a little tale about Oakland, a city I tend to avoid after dark. That said, a potential client, a referral, had called to schedule an evening appointment to see everything Red House had to offer. I was trying to find a daytime appointment that would work and wasn’t getting anywhere. This guy was even busier than I! We settled on an evening when I was sure Michael would be available to ride shotgun. (Well, that’s not quite the right image, particularly for Oakland.) Unfortunately, at the last minute he came down with the flu. That’s what happens when you fly a lot – first, you get run down from the hassle of coming and going. It’s the reality of ultra-stressed air travel today. Then, in a weakened state, you provide the perfect milieu for incubating your fellow-travelers germs, each of which has been constantly recirculated throughout the plane for five-plus hours at a time. Yuck. Nice wife that I am, I left him some chicken soup from Dean & DeLuca. This stuff is so good; it almost makes it worthwhile to be sick.

So it would be Kerin and I going to meet with the owner of a bike messenger agency. We discussed our presentation on the way. It seemed pretty straightforward. He’d probably want polo shirts that would give his fleet a consistent look, refined enough for the genteel office environments where the mysterious pouches of divorce papers, liens and private investigators’ photos would be signed for. Kerin had a good point though, these kamikaze bikers had such an alternative mien about them with their multiple facial piercings and Technicolor spiked hair that the shirts would not be what people noticed. Their jobs are dangerous and they like to look the part. In addition, they often entered elevators sweaty and out of breath, noses running… (We won’t recommend a long sleeve style lest it stand in for a Kleenex!) And were any of our colors going to be visible enough to keep the riders seen as they darted between lanes and parked cars?

We parked on the street, as close as possible to the building where we’d be meeting. There was one homeless guy pushing a cart full of what appeared to be recyclables - good for him. No sounds of gunfire or shady characters hanging out - a good sign. We lugged the sample cases, which were plenty heavy - especially by the end of the block. As I was about to press the intercom button to get us in, I couldn’t remember if I locked the car. Locking the car is important, that I knew. I didn’t want one of us to go alone to check and we sure were not going to drag the cases back to the car, so we stashed them in the alley around the corner and together walked back to the car, which did turn out to be locked. (Note to myself: try to use memory more effectively.) We walked back to the building, turned into the alley and…a sense of panic hit us. Where were the cases?! They were GONE! It only took five minutes for an opportunist to strike. I was furious! Now what? I called the client, who buzzed us in. I explained the situation and he tried to make me feel better by telling me of things he’s found at the entrance to the building. It didn’t help. I called to make a police report and was told I would need to come in, which added to my anger and frustration. Kerin and I did our best to present our “samples” via laptop, but the color registration is never ideal and I was so distracted anyway. And, found myself angry at Michael for no reason at all. Kerin kept her calm and did most of the talking. In the end, she convinced the client that the Double-Mercerized Polo (RH04) in Turquoise was the right choice for his crew.

We returned to the car, which was fortunately still where I parked it (and with all its wheels!) and headed over to the P.D. for paperwork. (Not a place I’d want to linger…) We returned home not expecting to hear anything. I was able to replace all my samples within days so no real hardship. Then, a few weeks later came the call - from the ALAMEDA COUNTY BOMB SQUAD!! I gasped audibly. They were going through some stolen property records and the matter of my two purloined cases had caught their eye in an “uh-oh moment.” It was they who had been alerted to the cases in the alley, by a homeless man who keeps an eye on things. They were a suspicious sight, partially hidden in the alley next to a building containing a law firm that has recently represented some ecoterrorism suspects. The unit had quietly removed the cases and EXPLODED THEM (!!!) at an undisclosed location with their handy robotic remote control vehicle. Apparently, things don’t need to tick to be trouble. And this sort of event is not as uncommon as I might have thought. I pictured colorful fragments of silk herringbone and pinpoint cotton raining down over the city. Well, I guess Red House has made its own small contribution to the war on terror. Whoa.

Skip the boardwalk.

Early this morning, Michael and I headed back to Napa by ourselves. Monique and John kindly offered to keep the kids for more Monterey exploring and a bit of beach and boardwalk time in Santa Cruz, blustery though it was. Natalie would come back with them too. I appreciated the time alone, as we needed to have some time to talk. We started our itinerary with the dazzlingly beautiful 17 Mile Drive through Pebble Beach. Oh, I could live here! Golf has never looked better.

We stopped for breakfast at the Stillwater Bar & Grill in The Lodge at Pebble Beach (www.pebblebeach.com). First though, we walked around the resort. It felt very gentrified, not at all like golf courses in Napa, but then this is one of the most amazing looking courses on earth. Good thing we were wearing resort-appropriate Red House pieces, the ivory cardigan for me (RH17) and black Silk Cavalry Twill Jacket for Michael (RH28) - instead of our new Monterey Bay Aquarium sweatshirts! Starchy though the atmosphere might be, you sure can’t beat the setting. This morning was foggy and serenely magical. I could spend all day on the terrace here sipping Bloody Marys and gazing out at Carmel Bay.

We didn’t talk as much about the job in Charlotte as I thought we would. The jist is that Michael wants the job and they want him – or they want the other candidate. He learned when he got there that there is another person they are also closely considering, but not to worry: the other’s qualifications are very different. That’s all they wanted to tell him. Hmmm…. And did Michael mention his geographical, family and preexisting career and transitional conditions? No. He reminded me that the right time to negotiate is when the offer is on the table. Sigh. So not only is he still in the running but I have to wait even longer to FIND OUT. I hate that.

The rest of the family got in pretty late. Apparently, the junk food and rides (bad combination!) of the Santa Cruz boardwalk were a real hit with the kids, especially the old wooden coaster. Monique said it was old and rickety and she ended up with a few bruises after multiple jerky rides. She was surprised it hasn’t been scrapped in favor of one of those smooth magnetic coasters as used by Disneyworld. (Thanks for taking a few hits for the team, sister! So sorry I missed it!) She said Santa Cruz reminded her of our childhood trips to Coney Island. Ah yes, the sad and creepy carnival atmosphere. And at dusk the Santa Cruz gangs sort of drift in and take over the boardwalk so Monique and Jon decided they’d leave rather abruptly. This didn’t go over well with Andrew, who, unbeknownst to them, stormed off onto the beach. For about eight scary minutes (that seemed much longer), Monique, Natalie, Jon and Delia looked for him, finally finding him pouting and kicking sand. This was probably due as much to a saltwater taffy and churros-meltdown than unhappiness to be leaving the unsavory boardwalk. Anyway, she didn’t want to call and scare us while they were looking. Yikes.

The one thing Michael and I agreed on today was to promise ourselves that no matter what, we’d be back to Pebble Beach next summer to see more of this incredible place. It would be The Concours d’Elegance for him, with its sparkling fleet of classic luxury and racing cars, and the Lodge spa and galleries in Carmel for me. We both want to see the Mission Carmel, built in 1771. And how about wineries?! We missed them all! Oh, happy thoughts, please supplant those I don’t want to think about!