It all started when I got invited to a wine party. “Wine!” I thought, agreeing immediately. I love everything about wine…except for the fact that it’s not bourbon. Still, it has a very real place in my kitchen; usually in a box on the counter by the fridge. Throw in a designated driver and a wine party sounded like nothing but good times.
Except not so much.
You ever get invited to a party that’s not really a party at all, but actually a “super fun” sales pitch? I don’t go to these. If there’s the faintest whiff of somebody trying to sell me something, I panic and hide under the bed. I realize this is a normal aspect of everyday life, and many people enjoy these tupper/jewelry/candle parties, but it doesn’t work for me. Call it my own personal social anxiety disorder, but I cannot deal with sales people. Possibly because I’m related to so many of them. Possibly because I’m in marketing. Hell, even watching Gil Gunderson makes me uncomfortable.
Fun fact about me: I respond to discomfort by becoming a toddler. A hilarious toddler.
As soon as I walked in the door and was greeted by a chipper lady in a branded apron, I knew I’d been tricked. The only reason I didn’t immediately claim dysentery and bolt was because the party still had the word wine in it. Also, I wasn’t exactly driving, so to run for it would have meant knocking down my friend and stealing her car. Anyway I’ll be shot dead before I buy a $30 scented candle, but how bad could a wine party be?
I suppose that depends very much on just how bad the wine is. SO bad.
So in a room full of normal people enjoying microscopic pours from the “Paris to You: Wine Club for Lonely Housewives who Don’t Like Wine,” I did this:
I wasn’t even mad about the tiny glasses, I just wished I’d brought a flask. Or some actual wine. At one point I was told that the wine was so special, and so perfect, that it really needed to be consumed within a few months of purchase. Because really quality wine, by a really quality FRENCH wine maker, wouldn’t keep well.
They kept saying the guy in charge was French. I kept picturing:
I did not buy any wine. Frankly if I wanted to drink rebottled Strawberry Hill I would just rebottle it my damn self in one of the many fine bottles I have in my recycling bin.