Sonoma Wine Country - Chapter 1

"Make sure you drunk dial me from the road!" I yelled from a busy corner in Manhattan sometime in late August. I could hear my mom's excitement through the phone. She, my dad and two of their closest friends from living in Tokyo, where they stayed out dancing and singing Beatles karaoke until three in the morning, were headed to Napa Valley.

As a born and quasi-raised California girl, it's an embarrassment I have never been.

"Where was 'Sideways' filmed again?"

"I think somewhere south. Maybe Paso Robles?"

"Aaaaah. Where's that?" Asks the girl who thought Los Angeles was a mere hop, skip and jump from Carmel when, in fact, it's about seven hours (hat tip MaineMan).

Mom and dad didn't drunk dial me from their wine-venture, which was probably for the best. Instead I drunk dialed them from a cab in New York to hear how the party was going. They had such a grand time with their friends, my dad organized a family road trip over the Christmas holidays. Only we were headed to Sonoma.

I had recently gone to a wine event with my friend and co-worker SirDatesaLot and I'd met with a few of Sonoma's proudest. I bragged of my upcoming trip, but as none of them were from wineries -- they were more on the marketing side -- I knew their business cards would only help me so much.

"So...when should we go, Mona?" Dad asked me on the phone. He knew we were having a dinner with my boyfriends' parents, and that they were staying in Monterey County for a few days, so the last thing we wanted was to tell them, "Oh, sorry! Wine calls. We'll have to do it another time."

"How about Christmas? Christmas night is always sort of anti-climactic. Why don't we head out of town later in the afternoon after opening presents?" I suggested.

"Great idea," said Dad.

The holidays at 93921 made the families in "Home Alone" look organized and put together. Let's just say we ate my dad's wonderful Christmas Eve dinner at eight o'clock (about five hours behind the rest of Christian America), we didn't convene as a family on Christmas until one-ish (my brother, per routine, had to work at the Carmel Drug Store that morning) and we opened the last present sometime around 4:45 p.m.

"MAWWW-UMMM!!! OPEN YOUR PRESENTS!"

"T-, what's that over there? Give that to Dad."

"Mom, SIT DOWN and open YOUR presents!"

"Mona, go grab that big green one. It's for T-."

"Mom. I'm serious. Stop getting up!"

"I can't seem to find..."

"MOM!"

It's like you're telling an unruly puppy in puppy school what to do. You say stay, they go. You say go, they stay. Don't even attempt to say "heal."

Mom has this thing on Christmas where she can't physically open presents. The unofficial mayor of both Carmel and the Monterey Sports Center, who has more energy to socialize than a flutter of butterflies, can't stand sitting on the couch and opening presents from first piece of tape to last piece of bubble. The process takes about an hour per gift. It's a test of character and patience to sit and watch the ordeal. Next year I'm ordering seatbelts or, better yet, handcuffs.

"Honey, what time is it?" She asked my dad, mid-opening one of her last gifts.

"It's almost five o'clock, HUH-NEE," said my dad.

"OH mah-yeeee GAHW-uhd! I had no idea it was this LAY-eeet!"

"Umm, yeah. Let's get a move on it!"

My brother and I, rolling our eyes, just kept looking around for all of our presents and opened them at a good clip. Paper, tape and ribbons flew everywhere. Razors and scissors were at the ready for any unruly or stubborn packaging.

I have never been so prepared for Christmas in my life. I had presents piling up in Carmel weeks before I got there. My only concern was that my overzealous, giddy dad, who loves receiving presents (and shaking them and trying to guess what they are) as much as he did as a kid I'm sure, would open them early. I bought cards more than a week ahead of time and actually filled them out two days prior to Christmas Eve. It was my own Christmas miracle. And what did I get for it? The same hysteria I'd grown accustomed to over the past 10 years. My brother and I exchanged cards, but my parents would open the ones I'd written for them days later (it's a mystery if they've even opened them today). I still haven't seen any from my parents. Que sera... At least I have more of an argument going into this year if I fall behind on a Father's Day, anniversary or birthday card.

After my mom opened her (and the family's) final present, a hurricane blew threw the house worse than Ida. At one point, even laidback Tucker left his perch on the microwave and hid under my brother's bed upstairs to escape the calamity.

Plastic bags filled with wrapping and tissue paper floated around the room like helium, boxes were stacked haphazardly in and around our sofas and chairs for my mom's recycling (or reusing), one of us tripped over said boxes at least twice, each corner had a pile of gifts and if you reached around to touch someone else's gift you got a big fly swat to the hand.

"Don't touch that!"

PITTER PATTER! on the staircase.

THUD! on the wooden floors.

CLANG! went the Champagne glasses on the kitchen counter.

CLAP! in the doorway.

RING DING DING! of bells as Tucker leaped up and down the stairs, on and around the microwave, in and out of torn ribbons and paper in the living room.

No amount of mimosas prepared me for that afternoon of CHA-OS.

"Don't let Tucker eat that piece of - !!!!"

"Does this go in the car?"

"Who spilled this orange juice on the counter?"

"Are you bringing this bag of shoes?"

"Who took my sneaker box?"

"Is this hat yours? Is it coming with us?"

"Who messed up the carpet?"

"Where's Tucker?"

"Whose luggage is this?"

We were only going away for two nights and it was as if we were flying to Africa for two months.

When we'd finally gotten about five minutes up Highway 1 in the car, my mom realized we hadn't put the garbage out.

"Keep going!" yelled my brother.

"We're not seriously stopping, are we?" I said, meanwhile all sorts of expletives were ringing in my head.

"Honey," my mom looked at my dad, "If we don't put the garbage bins on the street we'll have animals..."

My dad made an abrupt U-turn and back to Carmel we went.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. "Anti-climactic" indeed...