Fruit of vine, or why my feet are thankful that I am married
One of the unusual traits about me, besides the fact that I secretly like Hooters hot wings, is that I sometimes have to work on Sunday. Believe me, it is not my favorite thing to do, but it is a sacrifice I have to make to afford our mortgage in California. For those of your worried about the condition of my soul, I usually attend The Rev.'s church, and then leave right after the sermon. Which I am sure confuses some people who might be thinking, "Wow, I wonder what he said to tick her off." Other Sundays I attend another church in close proximity to where I work. If you are still worried that I am neglecting my spiritual growth, I live with a pastor, remember? I grow everyday, believe me.
Last Sunday was my day off, so after services, Sunday School, meet and greet, locking up, and lunch, we drove up to wine country to pick up an order of wine. We felt like it was Christmas as we drove into one of our favorites wineries to pick up a few bottles of newly released wine that were being held for us. Yes, we are special, and we keep a standing order with a local winery. For all you teetotalers out there, Jesus drank wine. There were no Frigidaires in the first century, so don't give me the line about grape juice. If the dear Lord didn't want us to have the fermented fruit of the vine, he would have turned water into Welch's.
We planned to stop at more than one winery (shocking, isn't it?), and I was immediately reminded why I hate going to the wineries on the weekend. The crowds at the tasting bars were about 3-5 people deep, and everyone was enjoying their Cabernet shooters. It's called a tasting room for reason, people. Taste the wine, do not gulp like you are getting up enough courage to enter the wet t-shirt contest. For some reason I was suddenly thankful that I was married. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was dressed like it was a Sunday afternoon: sweater, boots, and jeans that allowed me to breathe. I was relaxed and happy to be spending time with my husband. There were other married couples there, and you could tell that they were married, also. How? They were all wearing comfortable clothes and sensible shoes. The single women were wearing one hour shoes. Meaning you could wear them for one hour, because if you wore them any longer, a visit to the podiatrist would be needed. Pointy toed with a high heel, they may elongate your leg, but they are hard to wear. I know, because I own a few pairs. And I wear them for one hour on Sunday morning, or when I know a lot of sitting will be in the forecast. I don't know if they come equipped with their own pheronomes, but it was obvious that they were shod on the feet of women who were in the market for the sensitive type who could talk about art and how the '96 merlot should be drinkable now.
I don't miss those days.
Last Sunday was my day off, so after services, Sunday School, meet and greet, locking up, and lunch, we drove up to wine country to pick up an order of wine. We felt like it was Christmas as we drove into one of our favorites wineries to pick up a few bottles of newly released wine that were being held for us. Yes, we are special, and we keep a standing order with a local winery. For all you teetotalers out there, Jesus drank wine. There were no Frigidaires in the first century, so don't give me the line about grape juice. If the dear Lord didn't want us to have the fermented fruit of the vine, he would have turned water into Welch's.
We planned to stop at more than one winery (shocking, isn't it?), and I was immediately reminded why I hate going to the wineries on the weekend. The crowds at the tasting bars were about 3-5 people deep, and everyone was enjoying their Cabernet shooters. It's called a tasting room for reason, people. Taste the wine, do not gulp like you are getting up enough courage to enter the wet t-shirt contest. For some reason I was suddenly thankful that I was married. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was dressed like it was a Sunday afternoon: sweater, boots, and jeans that allowed me to breathe. I was relaxed and happy to be spending time with my husband. There were other married couples there, and you could tell that they were married, also. How? They were all wearing comfortable clothes and sensible shoes. The single women were wearing one hour shoes. Meaning you could wear them for one hour, because if you wore them any longer, a visit to the podiatrist would be needed. Pointy toed with a high heel, they may elongate your leg, but they are hard to wear. I know, because I own a few pairs. And I wear them for one hour on Sunday morning, or when I know a lot of sitting will be in the forecast. I don't know if they come equipped with their own pheronomes, but it was obvious that they were shod on the feet of women who were in the market for the sensitive type who could talk about art and how the '96 merlot should be drinkable now.
I don't miss those days.
posted by pastorschick at
4:34 PM
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