Read the Fine Print

I should have read the fine print on our marriage contract. Was there a clause that included explosions, picking berries with thorns in the hot sun and an amendment that demanded enthusiasm while shivering in wine cooling cellars on Napa Valley wine tours?

Of course, I never had any negative feelings about my husband's hobby of wine making during our courtship. In fact, when he escorted me to fine restaurants, I felt proud that he often knew more than the wine steward. Relatives and friends clamored for his neatly labeled bottles; "Chris' Private Reserve." We attended wine festivals where he chatted with local vintners and I happily perused the craft booths and ate cheese and smoked salmon plates.

Alas, my honeymoon with wine ended one morning not long after the nuptials. The perfect summer day before, we had ridden our bikes into the country. Alongside the road an orchard of cherry trees made me think of pie and Chris of wine. The farm owner allowed us to fill our knapsacks and bike baskets with cherries and we labored home under the extra load. Soon our kitchen filled with the aroma of pie baking mixed with the yeasty smell of wine beginning to ferment. I went to bed blissfully unaware that this peaceful domestic scene would turn into a war zone.

At 5:30 am, Chris hauled himself out of bed to get ready for his truck driving job. Two five gallon car bouys of wine of cherry wine complete with pits sat lined up on our padded window seat. He saw that the wine had worked its way up through the air lock, so he loosened the cork at the top of the bottle. Blam! The wine blew up, bombing the kitchen, pits peppering the ceiling like shrapnel. I leapt out of bed thinking we were under attack by a madman. I ran to the kitchen yelling. "What was that?"

The handsome bridegroom had turned into a ghoul from a horror film. Red liquid dripped from his head and down his chest. Thankfully his glasses had sheilded his eyes. Shucking his clothes, he walked across the sticky floor to the bathroom for a second shower.

Meanwhile, I assessed the damage. My curtains looked like an abstract painting, a white lace background with bold burgundy strokes splashed across them. The window seat cover had an additional pattern of polka dots spread over the flowered cotton. Pits plopped on my head. The cabinets, counter and stove were covered with goo. I didn't know the half of it until I started cleaning.

My formerly considerate husband ran out the door in clean clothes claiming he had to get to work.

"Sorry, Hon," he said, sheepishly.

"He'll be sorry for some time to come," I thought, as I used a toothbrush to clean the louvered doors to my pantry. I mopped the floor twice, washed the walls, ceiling, counters and stove. I poured bleach into my washer over the curtains. I shampooed the cushions, but the fabric was permanently stained.

It was nearing one o'clock by the time I glanced in the mirror on my way to the bathroom to get cleaned up. The bride of yesterday didn't look too ravishing either. My uncombed hair was streaked with red strands, my rumbled nightgown and ratty robe flapped around my kness rouged with cherry wine. I laughed.

I stopped laughing the minute I stepped into the bathroom. A scene from "Pyscho" greeted me. The shower walls and tub appeared to have witnessed a grisly crime. I scrubbed and the debonair wine enthusiast I dated fell from his pedestal.

After restoring my former splendid appearance, I sat down to a well deserved glass of backberry wine minus the thorns. I'd compromised on some things already in this marriage, like allowing a wine cabinet to take up a whole corner of the living room, but from now on I've firmly decided all wine making will be relocated. If it bombs in his shed, far from the house and its furnishings, so be it.

"Actually, this disaster might be a good thing," I mused. "Anytime I make a mistake like losing my car keys, running out of gas, forgetting my cell phone or buying that dress that was on sale, I'll just mention the wine incident.

After all, I doubt he read the fine pint either.