Tampon Woman

Remember, if you don’t laugh, we can’t be friends. It's a HausFrau Rule.

So, one day last summer, quite by accident, I ended up crossing paths with some rather disturbing criminal evidence. And, darn if it wasn’t but a week later that I was officially summoned to the Military Police & Criminal Investigations Division to voluntarily hand over my fingerprints for their investigation as they searched for an international felon.

Uh, noooo. The felon was not me at least not this time. The goal was to rule out my fingerprints and put me in the free & clear. At least that was my goal, I’m not really sure about the official objective.

Let this be a lesson to you. Pay special attention to Kindergarten Rule #2:

Keep hands, feet and other objects to yourself.

Had I kept my hands to myself, I could have saved everyone time, money and grief. Especially the grief part, I could have really spared myself in that department.

Anyway, once the MP’s had my number, so to speak, they were all over me to give an official statement & submit my fingerprints for further analysis. Pronto! Like right now!

It turned out that pronto & right now meant that I would be making my official appearance with MiniMe in tow.

Yep, this is where my story makes an obvious turn from CSI-style drama to My Name is Earl-type of situational comedy.

Where was I? That’s right. At the MP Station bribing MiniMe to be good long enough for Mommy to talk to the very nice policeman & do a little fingerprint craft. That’s right, Sunshine. You be princess-perfect and I’ll give you a stick of Daddy’s gum when we are finished. Deal?

Of course it was a deal, Howie. Daddy’s gum is definitely worth being good for a mere half-hour.

And, all was good (in a calm before the storm kind of way) while I talked to the CID Investigator and gave the facts, just the facts, ma’am & signed my life away as I swore that I told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Incidentally, it was then that God sat back in amusement - afterall, He knew what was coming.

MiniMe and I then followed CID Invesitgator into the back room and this was where I sat down my purse, rolled up my sleeves and got down to business. With the stickiest ink known to mankind, I made an offering of my finger pad prints, karate chop prints, full-on palm prints, tip-top of the fingers prints, rolling full-finger prints. I was just about up to my elbows in the black goo when MiniMe piped up:

Hey, Mommy. What’s this?

Both CID Guy and I turned around. MiniMe had been exploring every nook and cranny of my purse (most likely searching for the gum) and this was actually a tampon. I didn’t get all honest and specific on her at this particular moment in time. Instead, I pulled the “do as I say” Mommy card and told her:

Put that back in my purse or no gum.

Hey, it’s not like I could have just put it back myself and rescued my purse from her clutches – remember, I was a little slimed with oil-based fingerprinting ink at this point.

CID Guy pretended he didn't know anything about this.

We adults directed our attention back to my hands while MiniMe continued on her purse expedition. CID Guy was all business ignoring the white elephant tampon in the room & I was wondering if MiniMe was done or was that just the opening act?

There God sat, smiling down on us.

And, 5 minutes later, that question was answered.

Hey, do you know us or what? Yep, that was just the warm-up routine.

CID Guy finished up with me and escorted us down the hall and to the loo so I could scrub up.

Here we all went marching down the hallway single file. Official CID Guy lead the way. Followed by me, inked up the wazoo & vowing never to touch anything ever again, ever. MiniMe was bringing up the rear. Hot pink Barbie back-pack swung over one shoulder, my purse over the other, carrying the pristinely wrapped tampon in a bridal bouquet manner.

It was all very Diana walking down the aisle of Westminster Abbey, in a totally parallel universe kind of way.

We made it to the one restroom at the MP Station. Being all modern & politically correct, the Army didn’t actually put up a sign calling it the Men’s room, but we all know that's what WC meant. CID Guy pointed me to a vat of Goop & then noticed that there are no paper towels around. He left to hunt down some Brawny, promising to return shortly.

The Men’s room was tiny, so I left the door open & MiniMe waited in the hallway while I scrub-a-dub-dubbed, vigorously washed and scraped off the ink. In the midst of all this frantic cleaning & with bubbles flying, CID Guy returned, but sans papertowels.

I turned around and was greeted with CID Guy offering me a roll of toilet paper. What?! And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I looked 6 inches to the right & 18 inches down and happened to notice that MiniMe had been very busy.

Right next to dude with the toilet paper, my little darling was standing there with her hot pink Barbie back pack swung over one shoulder & my purse over the other. In one hand she was holding both the tampon wrapper and the plastic applicator (yes, I'm a Playtex kind of gal). In the other hand, she was swinging the cotton stringy thing like a dead mouse puffy pendulum. I could see the excitement on her face. This was like the coolest thing ever to be discovered in the depths of my purse. Let’s face it, it was even better than Daddy’s gum.

It was about then that I suspect God did the whole belly laugh bit.

I gathered my composure, told CID Guy thankyouverymuch, wiped my hands on my jeans, threw the disassembled tampon into the Men’s room trashcan, grabbed MiniMe’s hand

And, quickly got the hell outta there. Vowing the whole way to my car that my hands were staying in my pockets forever & ever. Amen.

Once safe and sound in the Accord, I tossed the whole pack of gum MiniMe’s way and whipped out a pen and piece of paper. And started my commissary list:

• big box of disposable gloves
• tampons
• Trident
• teuquila

Twisted Knickers

Recently, my Memaw was telling me a story about one of her shopping trips into town. Memaw was on a mission to find a new pair of shoes. Pink, because that's her favorite color. When Memaw couldn't find was she was looking for, she asked CutieTeen Salesclerk for assistance.

Memaw: Excuse me. I'm looking to buy some hot pink thongs.

CutieTeen Salesclerk:

This is total speculation on my part, but I'm guessing that horror-movie, slasher-flick screaming had to be deafening inside that pretty little head of hers.

Flip Flops, Memaw. We call them Flip Flops now.

Not. Thongs.

Certainly, not thongs.

So, I have spent a good chunk of this week slowly working my way through a mountain of laundry, most of it courtesy of Laze-E’s floor, damn floor. I’ve washed & dried & fluffed her towels, t-shirts & shorts. And, I have folded to perfection most of what came my way with the exception of a stray quarter, a leftover Princess Band-Aid (ewwww), 2 hair clippies & 2 ponytail elastics.

Uh, wait one minute here. Those aren't ponytail holders, are those . . .

2 pairs of thong underwear? In my laundry?

Being of the hipster, full-bum coverage persuasion myself, I’m not really sure exactly how to fold a thong.

OK, so folding a thong is not really the issue. And, neither is the thought of Laze-E walking around with a piece of elastic shoved up her butt riding her crack all day - provided that said piece of elastic is attached to practical & functional underpants. But, how did they end up in my dryer?

My mind has wandered to some pretty dark places. And,

I suspect that the middle school teens have been trading, sharing & borrowing more than just t-shirts and jeans. This thought is particularly disturbing because:

The idea of undie swapping is about as appealing as sucking on ABC gum.

The exact origin of these itty, bitty bloomers is a bit ambiguous.

And, who buys thongs for their 13 year old, anyway?

To date, I've bought My Little Pony briefs, fairly skimpy teen bikinis & everything in between, but never a thong for any hiney that I've diapered. Apparently, I'm not alone. Even The Limited, Too stores pulled the tweeny-teeny thongs off the market after a very brief (ha ha) run -- because it's just wrong & they eventually figured that out (probably with the help of lots of savvy moms out there who threatened to take their business & daughters elsewhere). Yes, I know there are various & legimate reasons for wearing thongs - none of which apply to Laze-E.

So, what do I do? Take the offending knickers out of circulation without mentioning it? Recycle them and let MiniMe use them for ponytail holders for her Barbies? Do I restrict Laze-E to white, 100% cotton grannie-panties until graduation? Do I attempt to return them to their rightful owner?

Hello, Mrs. ThongMom. I believe these belong to ThongGirl. Yes, these. I know they are difficult to see, being all x-small and all. Look closer. Yes, reading glasses are a good idea. See now? Yes. It is actually two pairs. ThongGirl must have left them at our house when we had that sleepover last weekend.

So, here I am, once again, flying by the seat of my underpants with this whole parenting thong thing. And yet again, I have to make up new rules in response to extremely dumbass scenarios & events that actually happen without prior warning.

New Haus Rule: Panties and bras must be roughly the same size until you are old enough to drive yourself to the Planned Parenthood Clinic vote.

Toodles for now. I'm off to buy a new pair of flip flops.

Food for Thought

A while back, Man was taking up residence on the recliner relaxing in front of the TV totally enthralled in a rerun episode of Beauty & The Geek. I was watching too I passed by the living room to attend to a few HausFrau tasks, namely, I fluffed the pillows and swiped a Swiffer across the furniture & overheard one of the prisspots talking about shoes.

There I was in the shoe department of Nordstrom’s & they were, like, totally having a sale. I just about had a shoe-gasm, right then and there.

A what?

Really?

Over shoes?

It occurred to me, right then and there, that there are two kinds of people in this world.

Those who have shoe-gasms.

And,

Those of us who have food-gasms.

Oh, Emer-il! Those chili cheese fries are sooooo good! Give it them to me, Big Boy!

Oooooh . . . Aaaaaaah . . . That triple layer, double butter, Death By Chocolate cake is to! die! for! Mmmmmmm-umh!

Aaaaaah . . . Mmmmm . . . Yes! I’ll have another piece of raspberry, white chocolate cheesecake. Yes! Yes! Yes!

I’m convinced that Meg Ryan’s soliloquy at the diner was courtesy of the apple pie ala mode. Not simply a lesson for Billy in the finer details of faking it.

So there are Foodies and then there are Shoe-ies.

A Foodie, like me, will ask for restaurant recommendations based solely on the menu and the taste of the food. I know it’s a fantastic eating establishment when it’s recommended with food-gasm flair.

Oh, my Gawd! You have try the schnitzel - it's huge! THIS BIG & smothered in the most awesome cream sauce ever. Oh, it's soooo good. The absolute best ever! Ooooh! Aaaaaah! Mmmmm-mmumh!

This dialogue is usually accompanied by exciting hand gestures, expressive eyes, verbal excitement and increased saliva production and wet panties. You hard-core, drama queen Foodies out there know who you are. Don't make me name names.

A Shoe-ie, on the other hand, will ask for a restaurant recommendation based solely on how her Manolos are going to compliment the décor.

What-ev-ah!

I’m also thinking this difference goes well beyond shoes vs. food. It just might be a fundamental difference between those who are covered with fluff & those of us who are covered with margarita salt.

So do you love your Jimmy Choos?

Or, are you more of the 7-Layer Taco Dip with a bag of Doritos and margarita kind of gal?

Seriously, you can finish chewing before you answer.

A Fluffy Afternoon

For this blog entry, I must introduce two new players:

First up is MovieMan. MovieMan and Man are both retired from the Bluest branch of the military and are roughly the same age, give or take 8 years. MovieMan works for Man & they both seem to like the arrangement. MovieMan is a very jeans and tennis shoes kind of regular guy. Hobbies include his recliner, his laptop and his really big TV screen. We like MovieMan.

Next player, MovieMan’s wife, who we’ll just call FluffyFlorence. Now, FluffyFlo doesn’t actually live with MovieMan. She is not exactly a stand-by-your-TV-Man kind of woman. And, I don't know for a fact, but I suspect there are numerous reasons why a likeable guy like MovieMan found a job 4000 miles away from her job that she refuses to give up.

Hey, the offer was on the table for her to quit her job & come live in Europe while MovieMan foots the bill for a few years. She said, No. Thank. You.

I certainly don't get it - We all know that I couldn’t quit my job & get the house packed-out fast enough when Man afforded me that same deal. I guess that’s why we call me HausFrau and she gets strapped with FluffyFlo.

Anyway, FluffyFlo has been here visiting MovieMan & hanging out in his guest bedroom for the past couple of weeks. I didn't ask or assume anything about sleeping arrangements, that gem was offered to me unsolicited. As of yesterday, MovieMan had had enough of her ostentation ran out of leave time and was back at work. This left FluffyFlo at his house without transportation or any big plans.

Momentarily lacking clairvoyance on my part, I offered to take her TROCing. With visions of shopping in upscale European antique shops in her head, she accepted my offer & we headed out in search of mega-bargains on used furniture & knick-knacks. Or at least I did.

Me: I show up looking all cute in my denim capris & t-shirt wearing my comfy Birk sandals.
Fluff: She is clad in designer jeans, high-heels and a long-sleeved shirt with ruffles and buttons and glittery doo-dads.

Me: I pack cereal bars to take along so that there’s time to hit more TROCS.
Fluff: She plans to “do lunch”.

Me: I “oooh & aaah” at her attempts to fluffily decorate MovieMan’s house.
Fluff: She tells me that our house itself - the actual architecture part - is nice.

Me: I laugh that MovieMan has a room devoted to recliners and screens.
Fluff: She turns her nose up in disgust.

This was all before we actually began our trip. Since this was my incredibly asinine idea & our Pilot, by default I was the DD. Crikey! I didn't even have the luxury of slipping a little Long Island into my go-cup of iced tea . Being that it was virgin tea, it didn't take me but a New York minute to categorically decide that I really didn’t like her at all she's definitely not BFF material. The best I could hope for would be a few hours of tolerance – me tolerating her.

I made the decision to take the high road and be the poster child for elegance, charm and grace in this quite awkward social situation. I resolved to limit my commentary to weather and Belgian landmarks and German wines.

Ok, not really.

Do you know me, or what?

I chose to have a little fun and told her all about my adventures as Tampon Woman. She didn’t laugh, didn’t giggle, didn’t pee her pants or roll around on the floor, LOLing. She only responded with head-shaking tsk-tsking you just never know what kids will do.

Ouch. Tampon Woman is one of my better stories for getting at least a smile, if not a well deserved belly laugh. Anyway, for those of you who aren't familiar with Tampon Woman, if might be worth checking out.

So, here I am trying to be all nice & my good deed gets punished with a pretentious bitch highfaluting snob riding shotgun.

Eventually, we made it to a TROC & I quickly get down to business. Let's face it, with Man at the wheel, we just never know how long we'll be in one location. And, at this particular location I can refurnish the Haus for cheap. Carpe Diem.

It took about a nanosecond for me to spy some really cool outdoor CocaCola tables. Complete with, you guessed it, CocaCola umbrellas! They totally reminded me of various festive events in Germany & I’m really liking them. Dumbass me asks FluffyFlo what she thinks of them.

FluffyFlo’s cool response: I don’t know. I guess it depends on the look you are going for.

Me: Uh, I was going for the CocaCola look. It would be fun for the kids and sure beats the heck out of a SpongeBob table with the Patrick umbrella.

While driving from the first TROC to the second TROC, I mentioned that I was looking for a babysitter for Thursday night so that I could play Bunco (Man TDY to Germany, Laze-E TDY to Italy, Me looking to be TDY to the Bunco game at the 3-Star Lounge).

Fluffy Flo: Oh, if I wasn’t flying out on Thursday . . .

Me: Oh, you could go play Bunco, too! (I just suggested that thinking she might meet another fluffy there.)

FluffyFlo: Oh, I don’t even know what Bunco is. I was going to say that I could babysit for you.

FluffyFlo Thinking: Heck, I’d rather babysit MiniMe than hang out with this nutcase. And, what is Bunco anyway, some kind of Spouse’s Club strip poker?

Me: Oh.

Me Thinking: Wow. She's not a fan.

Not thinking that she totally hates me, I try again.

Me: Hey, if we hurry, we might have time to hit that other really good TROC on the other side of town.

FluffyFlo: Oh, if we get home sooner, rather than later, that would be better for me.

FluffyFlo Thinking: Nutcase has kidnapped me & I think there’s something really important about those first 24 hours . . .

Me: Oh.

Me Thinking: Aw, come on. I’m not that bad. I didn’t even bring up the book I’m writing titled “Twat You Need To Know – The Girlfriend’s Guide To Passing Along Useful Information To Our Daughters”

While at TROC #2:

FluffyFlo: Oh, my sister and her friend go to places similar to this in the States. They look for antiques. We call it antiquing.

Me: Oh. Well, I shop at Walmart & call it Walmartin'.

Me Thinking: Does she think I'm a complete idiot? Seriously, I get the connection. You shop for antiques and call it antiquing. I spend time with a fluffy & call it fluffing.

Me: Oh, score. I love this piece of furniture!

FluffyFlo: Well, hmmm. It’s scratched a bit here & I’m not sure about the finish here.

Me: Hello! It’s only 39 Euros.

FluffyFlo: Oh, I guess it’s okay if you are going for the cheap & scratched look.

Still at TROC #2:

Me: Hey Mr. TROC Owner Dude, can you measure inside my Pilot to see if both pieces will fit? (Because I found another great piece for 35 Euros.)

Mr. TROC Owner Dude: But, of course, my dear. We just love all you NATO-wifey TROCers. Anything for you!

Me: Score & score again! Both pieces will fit!

Me to FluffyFlo: Sorry about that. I had to push your seat all the way up and tilt it forward just an itty bit so that second piece would fit.

FluffyFlo: Oh.

FluffyFlo Thinking: I’m crushing my fluff & for what? So HausFrau can Trailer Park up that nice Haus of hers?

Me: It’s kind of an unwritten TROCing rule – physical discomfort will be endured without bitching complaining if you are bringing home the bargains. Hello. Everyone knows that. Even the general’s wife.

FluffyFlo Thinking: I prefer antiquing.

The afternoon drug on & I reminded myself again and again that I am way too old to hang out with people who I don't like, especially if I'm not getting paid to do so. I also worked out the details for HausFrau Rule #2. If you don't laugh at Tampon Woman, we can't be friends.

We only made it to two TROCs before it was time to call it quits. I figured that if I didn't quickly excuse myself from this trainwreck of a day that I would inadvertantly start babbling about duct tape and gorilla sex. My guess is that FluffyFlo couldn't properly hold up her end of that conservation, which definitely includes laughing at crude humor. I skeedaddled on back to the Brussels ‘burbs & was all zippity-quick about getting FluffyFlo out of my life and back to the confines of MovieMan’s house.

You remember MovieMan don’t you?

He’s the one who graciously accepted our hideously ugly particle board furniture. For his guest bedroom.

Does Karma rock, or what?!

The Consequence is .. . .

I had a few days to mull this over & I've decided what to do about that embarrassment of a grade in Physical Education, courtesy of Laze-E. I'm aiming to drive two points home:

1. Should you chose to blow of your academic career & morph into a completely apathetic blob of a student, you will almost certainly be forced into a less than desirable "profession" with unbelievably low & totally not-worth-it pay. And,

2. Should you chose to blantantly ignore physical activity & pretend that you inherited the "good genes" when it comes to thigh and tush size, you will most likely notice that none of your clothes fit. And,

Combining Points 1 and 2: It's going to be incredibly difficult to replace said wardrobe on an hourly wage that is roughly equal to the purchase price of 1/2 gallon of gas.

So, being the teacher of life lessons that I am:

Laze-E will babysit MiniMe for Me so that I can go to the gym. Crapola job with equally pathetic pay & living with one hot-mama of a HausFrau who can wear the clothes that you just outgrew.

How's that for parental justice?

Laze-E & PE

Once upon a time there was an apple who succumbed to gravity & fell off the tree, hit the ground with extreme force & velocity, rolled way down a very long hill and landed next to a cow patty somewhere in Bauer Fritz’s pasture. This particular apple fell very, very far from the mama apple tree.

Yep, Laze-E’s report card showed up in the mail yesterday.

Man comes bee-bopping in the door after another day of being the colonel’s PowerPoint slide bitch a long, hard day's work & announces that there’s an F (yes, the 6th letter of the alphabet & 5th letter of the conventional grading system) on Laze-E’s report card.

I looked at him and awaited the expected punch line. The one that goes something like, “Nah, it’s all wonderful. All A’s and one B. Great Job, E.”

Seriously, I thought he was joking because she’s my A/B student. OK, mostly B’s, but that has more to do with enthusiasm than ability. Man hands over the offending piece of paper, and there it is.

A big, fat, flippin’ F.

On her PE final exam.

Admittedly, she’s a little clutsy & if we are going to be brutally honest, athletic aptitude is not one of her God-given gifts. And, granted, we aren’t exactly the family whose schedule is chocked full of sports practice and games. We Rockin'Bauers are more the kind of people to participate in non-competitive walking and reward ourselves with bratwurst and bier afterwards. Prost!

But, come on. Even the SpEd kids who ride the short bus (yeah, I know, she does ride the short bus) don’t get F’s in physical education. It’s really just a participation grade, n’est-ce pas?

When asked about this monstrosity of a grade, Laze-E lies like a rug innocently responds that she has no idea why the grade looks like it might have belonged on one of Man's report cards is so low. There were a few questions on the exam and to her knowledge she answered most of them correctly. Yeah, I believed that about as much as I believe that skinny chicks are genetically programed for bodacious ta-tas.

Did she forget that HausFrau knows a bit about how middle school works? This ain’t mommy’s first rodeo, cupcake, so start talking. I know that you know why there’s an F on your permanent record.

Shockingly, the truth is that Laze-E and her friend, MotorMouth, were talking to each other during the exam. Apparently, the PE teacher didn’t like that much & took their tests away. Ok, I totally understand getting all pissy allowing negative consequences when students don’t take their dumbass junior high electives academic careers seriously. I’ve even been known to play the My-Class-is-Ūber-Importante-and-Thou-Shalt-Not-Talk-During-a-Test hardball, but I never got away with slapping an F on a report without first getting approval from school administrators and congress notifying the parents.

So, this most offensive report card shows up yesterday and the little darling is upstairs packing right now because the bus to Italy Beach Week leaves in 3 hours. Yeah, I know. F in PE and I fork over the moola for her to tan on the beach in Italy for 6 days. I’m probably raising a criminal defense attorney truck stop waitress here.

On the bright side, this gives me a week to determine how to appropriately handle and F in PE.

(Hey, if you have any brilliant suggestions, just hit the comment button. It’s easy & I’d love to hear from you! Note: we are talking about an F on the exam, she ended up with a B for the semester & the teacher never said boo to me about it. And, in Laze-E's defense, she did fess up. Oh, and Beach Week is technically church camp. Does that matter?!)

Since, I’m all over torturing the offenders making the punishment fit the crime, I’m leaning toward signing her up for both the community softball AND soccer teams. If they can’t use her as a ball fetcher, outfielder, goalie or quarterback, maybe, just maybe, they are in need of a sports announcer with a forte for teen gossip & melodrama.

Friday Night in Brussels

You know what? I just realized that there are people who shell out thousands of dollars to fly across the Atlantic & pony up hundreds of dollars for hotel rooms just to spend a few summer days in the capital of Europe. They travel all around the beautiful city of Brussels taking in the grandeur of the Grand Place, they walk in search of the little boy taking a whiz Mannekin Pis & marvel at the Atomium. They dine on mussels and frites & tantalize taste buds with to-die-for, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate and make thigh fat cells scream with delight as authentic sugar waffles fill them up with happiness that only butter, and lots of it, can deliver. Yes, folks all over Brussels are experiencing the best that this city has to offer.

Except for me. Here I am living in an enviable, primo-European location & I spent my evening enduring the most mundane of HausFrau tasks. I reinvented leftovers for dinner and called it chicken quesadillas. I loaded the dishwasher and handwashed the leftover dishes. (You don't? I guess that's why I get to non-competitively be the HausFrau.) I lovingly encouraged my children to pick up after themselves. OK, not really, I actually yelled raised my voice at Laze-E to clean up the popcicle wrappers off my office floor & growled at MiniMe to bring in My (Her) Little Ponies from the threatening rain. I even thought about doing a load of laundry. Briefly. But I didn't make a big enough deal about it to actually walk downstairs and start a load.

And, I just finished watching a song and dance routine by MiniMe dressed in her tu-year-old tu-tu that is about tu sizes tu small. Man was supposed to be watching too. I know he wasn't, but he actually lied and said that he was when specifically questioned by MiniMe. Yes, sweetheart, I'm watching both the TV and the computer screen you.

Yes, that is America's Most Wanted in the background. It's on AFN so if fairly safe to say that James Gonzalez was probably apprehended 6 months ago and is back out on bail.

Yes, that is a glass of powerful antioxidants. OK, so it's red wine & you would know, wouldn't you? It's Merlot to be specific & watered down with sparkling water so I can drink twice as much without a hangover to make it last longer.

Criminals, tu-tu's and booze. I really need to have a talk with her.

As I finish up this blog entry, I'm being serenaded by my children. It goes something like this:

Laze-E: Moooo-om, tell her to get her feet out of my butt.

(OK, I know that sounds wrong on many levels, but does it help if I say that are both laying on the couch watching Season 1 of Beverly Hills 90201?)

MiniMe: But(t), I can't!

Laze-E: Mooo-om!

MiniMe: Mooo-ommy! She's making me poke myself in my boobies.

Me: You. Get your feet out of her butt. And, you, quit making your sister poke her boobies.

Yeah, I know. Clearly, I shouldn't have watered down the wine.