Kids and I tried driving out to coast but they were in a heated dispute surrounding territory and possession, refusing to eat lunch, and we got in the car only getting as far as Occidental then turning around.  Watching some more Scooby-Doo then deep into Lego creative.

Jack and I in office now.  Not sure what he’s playing on his screen.  I need time to write and get to 3000 words, however I can.  Just because you have kids and are perceptively domesticated does not mean you can’t have what you want. 

Sipping a Roussanne from Westwood.  Much better than I remember.  That is, more engaging and conversational, demonstrative of whim and creative.  When I have the shop, open, ready to move bottles, this and all of its Westwood bottle-cousins will be there.  Have a list going, what bottles are in inventory, vendor partners, what be…

An even 100 now.  Jackie watches baseball highlights now, and I take out my camera to look for old vineyard and pictures associated with anything inferring wine…..  Wine journalism, essay, all wine writing.. nothing else.  With three kids I will have to be more even more singularist and stationed than ever.  I decided that I write wine, that’s it.  And people.  Looking back at Jack like I did this morning while he was on the couch I admire his simplistic steps.  There’s nothing excessively complex or layered about his way.  Direction, direction, simplicity, About Everything.

Pretzel Goldfish, paired with the white.  Haven’t had these in a while, and as you might know already I’m not superbly emphatic about wine-food pairings.  Some are but me, well….  I don’t know, this is perfect.  Heard the announcers in the clips my son watches, some snacks I bought for them, paired with this white one of my closest wine amis brought to the house.

Jack asks me if there’s a baseball game on now.  Tell him I don’t know.  He civilly demands I check.  I do, he comes over then attacks his sister as she comes in