Your Unemployed Daughter

photo credit: malec slomas

Yes. It’s true. I love wine. And loving wine means I drink it, in sometimes largish quantities. I know, I know, it’s not good for my liver, the sugar count is ruining my metabolism, it doesn’t help with the productivity the next day—I’ve heard it all before. But that just doesn’t seem to stop me when I get started. And once I get going … well, no one else is going to stop me either.

Technically speaking, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with drinking a lot of wine. I choose well; no crappy wood-oaked California Chardonnays for me! I don’t hurt anyone (other than self) and mostly I am a happy drunk. I am crazy, but I am crazy fun. The problem comes in, I suppose, when I don’t eat beforehand, or don’t eat nearly enough.

For instance, dinner last night was composed of a few bites of birthday cake, with special attention to the frosting. This refined sugar meal (correction: appetizer) was definitely not enough for my 5 or (don’t say it) whatever glasses of Gruner to rest on. And it was definitely not a good plan to wear those hot pink suede 4-inch stiletto booties, which of course I realized even while leaving my apartment sober.

The worst part of the night, however, wasn’t falling (now I have a wound on my knee to match my singe mark from the oven mishap) but being kicked out of the bar (banned for life, in fact) when I decided that a jerk deserved to have my Gruner poured on him. What a waste of good wine!

Upon reflection, I don’t know whether said jerk did or did not deserve my actions. There was another jerk who probably deserved them more, in fact.

But what I did feel was undeserved was the bartender’s reception, which was more akin to the response you might get when you’ve just stabbed a man or perhaps beaten his small child or puppy than to a simple wine-flinging.

I mean, ladies have flung their beverages of choice since the beginning of time. It’s even considered a coquettish move by some. The glass stayed in my hand. His shirt, which I hit rather than his face, was made of a sensible poly-fiber and surely machine washable. No one was harmed in the filming.

Yet the bartender (who I’ve known for several years and have probably paid something in the thousands of dollars over time) immediately turned on me, not even stopping to consider whether the fellow had done something to deserve the spill (often they do, you know), or even that a little wine toss might perk up the tone of the bar overall (dwindling at best), and shouted quite nastily that I needed to get out then and there and NEVER EVER EVER come back.

Banned for life! I’ve never been banned for life before. So, fine. There are a lot of bars in Manhattan, and I could also venture out to the boroughs, I suppose. But then, he had the audacity to demand that I pay. As he was kicking me out.

No way, no sir! You get one or the other. I think being banned for life includes the right to walk away from your last tab. If not, why bother? (I will also ask whether it is in fact good business to ban one of your more loyal wine-drinking customers. Even if she does do damage now and again. Thoughts?)

The moral of the story: eat dinner before drinking, don’t wear your highest shoes to a birthday party, and never, ever, let ‘em see you sweat. And if you must waste wine, make it count.