This post has nothing to do with the dangers of alcohol abuse. You are following the wrong blog if that’s what you’re looking for! I will simply share my own personal experience with joining a wine club.
I am not by any means a wine connoisseur. The only thing I know about wine that the average college freshman probably doesn’t is that good wine has legs? See, I’m really not even sure about that one. Kinda funny to think of wine having legs, actually…I’m imagining my wine glass with sexy legs like this:
I can picture my leggy wine glass just marching all over the dinner table, all floozy-like. Stumbling into the salt and pepper shakers, tripping over a wayward fork, bumping into the clearly-confused water glasses. Eventually Floozy just shimmies under a placemat and passes out. Once I drink enough wine, that tends to be the type of thing I actually do see, anyway.
Every now and then I get on a kick and decide that it would be fun to learn all about wine. You know, learn all of the lingo and discover which wines go best with certain foods, that sort of thing. This would allow me to become the most obnoxious person at a dinner party. I tend to be this anyway, but at least now I’d have a good excuse. (Actually, I don’t ever go to dinner parties, I just like to think that I will someday.) But then I learned that for wine tastings you are not even supposed to swallow the wine. You are simply supposed to taste and spit. Seriously? Then what the hell is the point?!
A few years ago I was on one of these wine kicks and joined a wine club. I’m not talking about a group of people who meet up and swill and talk wine-smack. I am referring to the type of club where you get an initial shipment of six or so bottles of wine and then a delivery of two bottles a month thereafter. It starts out cheap but you end up paying for it in the long run. Kinda like Columbia House Records back in the day. I’m pretty sure I still owe them money for some tapes I never paid for…
So it was 2008. I join this wine club on a Thursday. The following Wednesday my period is late. No exaggeration, I am in the bathroom and have just peed on a stick. I am waiting for the test to develop and ding-dong goes the doorbell! My wine delivery. I go to the door, sign for the illicit goods and go back to the bathroom to discover that I am, in fact, pregnant.
Heed my advice, people. Unless getting knocked up is what you want to do right now, don’t join a damn wine club!