ONE
I know precisely when things went whackadoodle again. Eartha did not show up on my doorstep offering perfect margaritas. No fake robbers burst into the restaurant where I was breakfasting with my blackmailing daughter. Nope. It was a perfect February day in the canyon at my old house. They were all sitting outside enjoying the sun, and I was cleaning up after the dinner party. I picked up a wine glass on the counter that had a splash or two of white wine sloshing in the bottom of it. Instead of tossing the wine into the sink and putting the glass in the dishwasher, I brought the glass up to my lips, breathed deeply the scent of fermenting grapes, leaned my head back, then drained the wine into my mouth.
I didn’t swallow right away. I waited a beat. A nanosecond. An eon.
Then I swall
