Home of the Reluctant Midlifer. This is where I rant, rave, reflect, and ROFLMAO. Feel free to do the same. Let's be clear: I am irreverent, and I like me that way. Grab a libation, kick back, and share your thoughts -- and don't lie, cuz I'll know.
I don't speak wine. I have, however, acquired quite an appreciation of certain wines. Problem is, I don't know if I appreciate a certain wine until after I've drunk it. The intricacies and nuances of wine selection are lost on me. Therefore—and I can't emphasize this enough—I cannot be in charge of choosing the wine. Listen, I've done intensive self-analysis on this and come to these conclusions: I'm cheap, indecisive, cowardly, and lazy—all of which springs from a quirky internal force that screams: "But what if they don't like me?"
At a restaurant, my wine appreciation can be summed up like this: "How much does this bottle of Malbec cost? Seriously? Hmmm. What have you got on tap?" Why would I spend my hard-earned pittance on a crapshoot? If I don't like it, I won't drink it, and I'll have no excuse for my behavior. Translation: Cheap.
People, I have loitered in the beer and wine aisle at the store, poring over wine labels with glazed eyes and a big question mark over my head for days in fear of choosing poorly like that greedy guy in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade who chose the pretty chalice. We all know how that one ended. Choosing from the shelf is like ordering takeout sushi in Nagasaki where the menu is all in scritchy-scratchy swishes. How do you know you're not getting slimy sea worms or poison puffers? My luck, I'll take home the wine that causes people to lurch and gag when the stuff cascades over their unsuspecting tongues. Translation: Indecisive.
In deference to that same logic, I have picked out the most expensive bottle, thinking surely this will be the tasty stuff; surely my guests will think I'm sophisticated; surely they'll think I know something. Recent evidence proves I don't know shit, and an outrageous rumor is spreading across the country: Winetard! Therefore, I can't be responsible for anybody's wine consumption when it may suck and anybody may want to hurt me. Translation: Cowardly.
Plus, if God wanted me to drink mashed, fermented grapes, he'd have installed pop-tops. What's with corks? Those beer guys got it going on. No need for pricey gadgets to pry out a floaty stopper that would rather be jammed in that little hole for eternity. No need to sniff and swirl and sip and spit—just chug. And no foo-foo pretentiousness—burping is totally allowed. So I'm boycotting corks. Translation: Lazy.
Cabernet sauvignon, merlot, burgundy, chardonnay, prosecco, malbec, yada yada. It's all Sanskrit to me—I don't speak wine. And at this rate, I will never catch a buzz.