Does my OCD make me look like I have OCD?

     When I first landed my full-time job in Wall Street Sales & Trading, I remember one day particularly clearly.  I was watching my bosses, Suzie and Steve: both were leaning back in their chairs, feet propped on the trading desk, laughing hysterically while on the phone with their respective clients.  I realized with wonder, "this is really my job?  Talking all day to clients who have become my friends?"  I knew I had found my job trifecta: an intellectually challenging role; inspiring bosses, peers, and clients; and more than decent pay.  By the time I had left BofA, however, I was 0 for 3 on my trifecta.  The bank was choking on the Countrywide albatross, and the Merrill Lynch merger left me with a miserable political quagmire of two bosses in San Francisco and three in New York.   I dreaded going in to work each morning and finally quit.  

     While I haven't necessarily dreaded going in to the winery, I have lately been racked by fear.  I have developed OCD or paranoia or newbie wine internitis.  I am hallucinating, seeing my winemaker in anything that moves and fearing that he's about to pop out from behind a tank or barrel to point out my screwups, even if I'm not making any.  Just the other day, I was about to rinse out a bucket with water, but I was too afraid to pull the trigger on the nozzle, fearing I would be yelled at for spraying water too near the grapes, or too near some barrels, or too near a pumpover.  Worse still, Guru P had the day off, so I had no reminder to channel my inner Michael Jordan and instead succumbed to my inner Pavlovian dog.  The stress was even starting to affect my so-called life outside the winery: when my friends, Jamie and David, came to Napa from LA for the weekend, I spazzed out on them as we tried to coordinate our schedules.  

     I realized I had to put a stop to allowing my fears and anxieties to paralyze me.  I was exhausted from my OCD around the winery and determined that, if I just acted with plain old common sense, I'd probably be just fine.  I thankfully was able to snap out of being a headcase.  Good thing, as I was about to face a whole new set of issues when I was introduced to rotos shortly thereafter.  

     "Rotos" is our short name for rotating barrels full of grapes and juice, as you can't pumpover barrels.  The barrels all sit on portable spinning wheels, and you have to squat like a sumo wrestler and pull the sides of the barrel toward you in order to set them in motion.  Prior to spinning the barrel, you have to replace the airlock bung with a hard bung, as airlocks allow anything within the barrel to flow out, but nothing to flow in.  This is necessary when wine is fermenting, as copious amounts of CO2 gets released through the airlock, but no oxygen gets in.  

The dreaded roto room: a hard bung is in the forefront

The wheels which help (or hinder) us to rotate the barrels

     The first time I did rotos on my own, I forgot to replace the airlock bung with a hard bung.  I spun the barrel upside down, and wine flew out of the airlock holes, causing rivulets of blood-red Cabernet to stream down the winery floors.  Zoinks!  The first rule of winery internship?  Get rid of the evidence.  I hosed that mess up quickly and replaced the airlock with the hard bung.  I continued on bravely with the rotos, until the hard bung got stuck on my vest and ripped out, causing wine and berries to spew out like grape vomit.  Shitfritters!  I hosed down that mess again, took off my vest, took a deep breath, and continued spinning barrels.  Somewhere down the line, a barrel was not balanced properly on its wheels, and the bung got caught, causing it to rip off and spew wine and berries all over again.  I am getting good at the first rule of winery internship.

     During another roto session, I was spinning a barrel and the hard bung shot out like a cannon from all the CO2 pressure, nearly making me a cyclops.  Forget worrying about getting yelled at, I may become a bung casualty!  After rotoing a few times with Aussie intern, N -- a strapping young lad who works full-time at an Australian winery and is here doing a brief stage -- I felt much better about my own roto difficulties.  I'm not sure if it's N's brute strength or just some crazy Australian technique, but N's managed to rip out a few hard bungs while rotoing.  Even worse, N was rotoing barrels this morning and didn't realize a frog was underneath the wheels until he saw its squashed body as the barrel made its full rotation.  I think I'll take grape vomit over squashed toad.  

Our strapping Aussie intern, N.

Guru P's congo drum technique

My sumo wrestler technique

    

     Since losing my OCD, life at the winery has been much more enjoyable.  I've even realized that I am good at a few necessary tasks, such as tank cleaning.  While I've been in awe of Aussie N's ease at handling pumpover machinery and rotating barrels, I saw the concerned look on his face when our assistant winemaker asked him to clean a tank.  I'm not sure Aussie N would fit comfortably in most of our tanks; also, if you're not flexible or small enough to fit through the top door, you have to slide face-first in through the bottom door, making you feel like Shamu the Killer Whale at a SeaWorld show.  I told Aussie N I'd clean the tank and sent him off to do rotos instead.  I've mastered getting in and out through the top door, thanks to Guru P's instructions and lots of yoga and/or limbo competitions.  

Getting in to the tank through the top door

Doing the limbo to finish inserting myself

 Guru P's contortionist exit from a tank

     And just when I thought I could escape pumpovers during my internship due to Aussie N's mastery of them, I was asked to help "firehose" our large wooden tank.  With most of our pumpovers, in order to get the cap of skins wet, we attach a sprinkler-like piece of machinery to the hose and stick it through the lid of the tank to distribute an even spray of wine.  With the firehose method, you basically become a human sprinkler, forgoing the attachment and instead standing above the tank and hosing the cap down yourself.  With our large wooden tanks, there's nowhere to stand, so you have to perch yourself on the side for as long as the pumpover takes (in my case, 30 minutes) while hanging on for dear life to the tank as well as your wine-filled hose as you blast it at more than a thousand gallons of fermenting wine.  Making it more difficult are the wafts of hot CO2 erupting at your face, burning your eyes and causing you to get lightheaded, especially if you try to peek into the tank to see where you're aiming.   I realized halfway into my firehose pumpover that I was just as concerned about falling off the tank and on to the winery cement floor as I was at falling into the tank and suffocating myself in CO2 and fermenting wine.  

     But, as I mentioned in my last post, I always have to look for the silver lining.  From all the rotos and heavy lifting, I've developed a bit more muscle and just did my first chin-up (OK, I had to get a jumping start, but still...)  So, in my OCD-filled wine world of rotoing squashed frogs, having my eye shot out by a bung, or possible death from CO2 asphyxiation or falling off tanks, I am now able to do one (mildly assisted) chin-up.