My friends Eric and Elissa are real adults who just bought and moved into a brand new home. They supervised the building of this home. They decorated the kitchen and the 3 bedrooms and the master bathroom. They made sure there’s a cohesive look running throughout the house. They thought about things they might like in their home in the future and added them into the design. They are my age. They are much more responsible than I am.

Because they wanted to celebrate this momentous adult occasion, Eric and Elissa decided to throw a housewarming party and were nice enough to invite me. They ordered pizza and made Chex mix for the event. I wanted to contribute something, too. Since I try to be socially acceptable in most situations, I decided to bring a bottle of chilled Riesling, which is something both Eric and Elissa enjoy.

The day of the party, I went to Nebraska to see my grandparents, so I knew I was going to be about an hour late. I called Elissa to tell her this so she would save me a slice of pizza. Everyone else was already there, but there was plenty of food left over. Thank god. I might have starved.

I decided to do my wine buying at my old neighborhood favorite on 6^th Avenue both because it was on my way and because I trusted their selection. It’s a small shop with good knowledgeable help, something I relied on heavily back when I had no idea what I was doing when it came to buying wine. Perhaps it was because of this that I behaved the way I did: like a total d-bag.

I entered the shop and scanned the white case quickly, finding not a single Riesling appropriate for the event. I looked around the shop for Germany, and as I clearly looked confused, one of the clerks came over to help me.

“Can I help you?”

“Germany?” I asked.

“There,” he said, leading me unnecessarily 2 steps to the right, “Anything in particular?”

“I’m going to a party and my friends are big Riesling drinkers. I was going to bring something German, unless you have another recommendation.”

“Honestly, if you don’t want to spend that much, maybe this one from Washington.”

Nice, normal conversation at this point, right? So please explain to me why I suddenly decided I needed to aggressively prove my knowledge on wine. Please explain to me why I became a huge wine d-bag. This is a situation in which I knew in the MOMENT that I was behaving inappropriately and just refused to stop myself. I would have punched me in the face. I wish you had been there to do so.

This is how I continued: “How’s that Washington drinking? Normally, domestic Rieslings are too hot and too sweet for me.” (By the way, “too hot” means “too much alcohol” in wine language)

“Well, I’d describe this one as off-dry. If you want something less sweet, this other one is done in a dry style.”

“Yeah, I like high acidity, myself. No cloying sweetness for this girl.” (First off, every Riesling ever has high acidity. I don’t think I need to elaborate on what’s wrong with the rest of that sentence)

“Uh, right. Well, which one?”

“I’ll go Washington. Do you have that thing that instantly chills?”

“Sure, it’ll just take 7 minutes.”

As my bottle was chilling, the clerk busied himself with other tasks. I browsed the shelves and promptly noticed Scarpetta, a wine made by one of the Master Sommeliers for whom I used to work.

“Do you guys sell a lot of Scarpetta?” I asked.

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Cool. I’m from Boulder, and I used to work with Bobby Stuckey. It’s all over up there.” Great. So now I’m name-dropping Master Sommeliers completely unnecessarily and talking about something of little to no import.

“Yeah, Bobby’s a cool guy.”

“Definitely. Do you sell Richard Betts’s wine, too?” This may have been the moment when I considered putting my head through a window to shut myself up, but it still kept coming.

“Yeah, good stuff.”

“Definitely. He’s a cool guy. Great palate.”

“Right, well, your wine must be ready by now.”

I walked out the door rolling my eyes at myself and proceeded on my way. 15 minutes later, I was pulling up at Elissa and Eric’s house, shaking off my d-bag move and preparing to give them the bottle of wine I’d carefully selected for their consumption.

Sometimes, when I go to my grandparent’s house or when I feel like being a social ruh-tard, I like to wear slippers out in public. Had I remembered that post-grandparents I’d be headed to a classy little party, I’d have brought a change of shoes. As it was, I was ill-suited for not only social interaction, but also outdoor exposure in my traction-less house shoes. Elissa and Eric live in a charming neighborhood so new that snow removal is not yet included in their neighborhood amenities. This added another treacherous element to my journey from my car to the front door.

I crossed in front of the threshold of the first house on the street and hit a patch of black ice (I swear it looked just like the sidewalk). I slid clown-on-a-banana-peel style about 3 feet before both legs flew out in front of me, and I hit the ground like a tree felled by a lumberjack. That bottle of wine, which I’d just taken great care and major hits to the pride to procure, shattered, Riesling spewing forth across the sidewalk.

I lay there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Obviously driving somewhere to get another bottle of the wine was overkill, but I am loath to show up empty-handed. So I picked up the half-empty half-shattered wine bottle and marched up the steps to the couple’s front door, knocking with conviction. Elissa pulled it open, surrounded by about 20 people I didn’t know.

I thrust the remnants of my journey into her hand and managed sheepishly, “Mazel Tov.”

Laura makes a grand entrance, as per usual.  Decorative vase perhaps? Happy housewarming, kids.