Vintage: . . . and don't call me girlfriend!

Vintage is a new category, with essays, recipes, audio interviews, and more from my archives.

". . . crafted especially for women . . . Boxed wines, in general, demystify the perception that premium wine is . . . too hard to find and too difficult to deal with after it has been purchased" —from a press release accompanying a newly-released line of boxed wines.

Man, I don’t know what to do. I really want a glass or two (well, maybe three. Shhh, I know. We, as in girls, are not supposed to have more than half a glass. Like that’s going to happen. Ever.) with dinner tonight but Jack just called to say he can’t make it.

Don’t you know what a last-minute cancellation means? I want to shout, but, hey, I’m a lady. I. Don’t. Shout.

I ask if he can stop by anyway to, you know, open the wine for me but he doesn’t think driving an hour out of his way is quite the thing, especially considering the price of gas.

Jerk.

What’s a gal to do?

Note to self: Promiscuity would solve this issue.

I’ve got five corkscrews, each one different. What’s the problem? Can’t they get the concept right? I mean, a hammer is a hammer, n’est-ce pas?

After I try the first corkscrew, the squiggly metal thingy bends like a limp noodle, I notice that the damned bottle has a screw cap. Would it be so hard to write that on the label, like maybe above the name of the wine maker? Or whatever.

I try a nutcracker, an oyster knife and those needle-nose pliers I use to pull the bones out of salmon fillets but nothing works. The screw cap won’t budge.

I switch wines. I want red anyway and there’s that one with the cute label — matches my skirt! — that says it tastes like a kiss. Sounds good to me.

I try a corkscrew that looks like a plastic squid, with its curlicue thing all up inside like a squid’s beak. I can’t get it near the bottle, let alone the cork.

Another looks like something a dentist would use and this thing with prongs, one on each side? All I can say is: ick, it reminds me of my ob/gyn.

You’d think my wine club could have done something about this but at our last retreat all the wines were poured for us while we watched the fashion show about what wines would make us feel like we were drinking our favorite jammies and what wines taste best with diamonds. (Frankly, I’d like to find the wine that tastes just like that black t-shirt David on Six Feet Under borrows from his sister. That was yummy.)

Then I have a brilliant idea. I hop into my car, bottle in hand, and drive so fast I nearly strip the gears as I shift. I walk into the shop where I think I bought the wine but, oops, no, I didn’t get it at the beauty supply store, as pretty as this Go Girl Red is. I remember now; I brought the wine with me so I could find matching lipstick. Duh.

Next stop: Bottle Barn.

Bingo! Look at all these wine bottles!

The clerk won’t open the bottle for me.

It’s illegal, he says.

Right.

I refrain from pointing out that the guy at the music store always peels off that sticky stuff on CDs so that I don’t chip my fingernail polish.

Instead, I drive to the music store. Bummer, my pal isn’t working.

Back home, I check my voice mail and e-mail, open iTunes to that cool y’alternative station, haul the recycling to the curb, bring in the mail, read Harper’s Index (yeah, like you can wait), feed the cats, reset TIVO, carve the rack of lamb, flame the brandy, swirl butter into the sauce, set the table, light the candles. I put The Girl’s Guide to Wine next to my wine glass. Never hurts to check to see if I’m doing it right!

If only I could get this wine opened, it would be a perfect night, even without Jack. I mean, truth be told, what’s a man good for anyway, if not pulling corks?

And then I remember.

Sabering!

Silly me. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

Just because it’s traditionally used to open champagne doesn’t mean I can’t use it for still wine. You know, the kind without bubbles.

I mean, it’s not like it’s illegal.

Okay, I’ve got my leopard-print goggles, I’ve got my long velvet gloves, I’ve switched from twang to Thus Sprak Zarathustra . Now where did I put my sword?

Note to publicists: If a woman is too stupid, oops I mean challenged, to locate a wine shop or wield a corkscrew, she’s going to have a helluva time finding the nozzle inside those cardboard cubes. Maybe you should add a zipper. And shelve ‘em next to the tampons.

When this essay was originally published in the Wine Enthusiast’s Case Closed feature in the fall of 2006, it launched a firestorm of letters, many of which were published. Some writers were shocked, SHOCKED, I TELL YOU, that a woman could be so crude. Others praised this piece of satire, sharing how hard they had laughed as they read it.