I was recently asked, by my mom, about proper wine tasting etiquette because she’s going to attend some such event in the near future. I believe her words were “do I need to use words like ‘bouquet’ or will ‘blech’ suffice?”

If you’re now pausing because you clearly understand me better based on that statement then well done.

But here’s the thing: being a person who consumes a fuckton of wine does not mean you know anything about the snootery that is wine tasting. Nor does it mean you are socially considerate or anyone who should be asked about etiquette in any kind of situation anywhere in the world. Apparently, though, drinking lots of wine does make you some sort of “expert” in the eyes of others. (Note: throughout the remainder of this post “expert” shall be used in the place of several other terms including, but not limited to, “drunk,” “wino,” and “alcoholic.”)

So, one time I went wine tasting. At 10 in the morning. In Africa.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. And to prove it, here’s a blurry grainy photo of me and a dude I promised to marry when I’m 60 if neither of us were yet married. Sorry, Tommy Derrick, I got married.

How do I know you were in Africa? Also what were you doing in Africa? 

Um, cause a) I can’t lie if I try and b) that’s another story.

So there I was, 20-years-old, skinny as fuck in South Africa, drinking wine at 10am. I have no real idea how I got roped into going and have no real recollection of arriving at said venue. I do remember at one point turning to Tommy and saying “I’m super drunk and it’s only 10am” and him responding with “I’m still drunk from yesterday.” It was that kind of trip.

See how annoyed the guy pouring the wine at the end of the table is? His grimace says it all. Actually what is says is “I hate drunk Americans.”

Much to my and Tommy’s dismay some people weren’t finishing their glasses of wine and instead dumping them in these little spittoon type containers on the table. Viewing this as a wine drinker’s abomination we put an end to this right quick by volunteering to finish others’ tastes even if they weren’t to our liking. Effectually adding to our rapidly growing expertise.

Meanwhile down the table there were a few people taking this shit seriously and they were in fact using words like “bouquet” and “oak” and “toasty” and “grassy notes” and “soft” all of which I assumed meant they were talking about smoking fucking weed in a field somewhere.

I do remember that I was especially pleased to see small plates of dry crunchy crackers spread out along the table. At the time I was dabbling in a fun project, as many 20-year-old women do, called “How Little Can I Eat and Still Survive?” My regular diet consisted of cottage cheese, yogurt, crunchy crackers and wine. So being presented with two of my very important four foods was a fucking dream.

“PLEASE PASS THE CRACKERS.”

Here’s the thing though, the crackers are meant to be consumed as palate cleansers between tastes not eaten like Cookie Monster by a drunk skinny girl.

“CAN I GET MORE CRACKERS?”

[Insert me brandishing a tiny saucer of cracker crumbs.]

In the end I remember taking a nap under a tree well before noon then boarding a bus that took me back to the hovel in which we were staying.

So my wine tasting advice: fuck that. Don’t go. Have some cocktails on the couch like a regular person. But if you do go it better be for some charity event. And have more than a tablespoon of cottage cheese or a Yoplait beforehand. And bring extra crackers. Trust me, I’m a fucking EXPERT.