Consider This

By LC Van Savage

Luckily for me, I simply hate the taste of anything alcoholic. Were it not for some sort of a biological taste buds error at conception, I’d likely be brawling and boozing with the best of them, and I’d likely be loving it.

But I can’t. We go to parties, and by 9 I’m yawning, yearning for the sweet comforts of our big bed while the party attendees are just getting their engines cranked, all gushing at each other, while in daylight, most of them barely speak.

Maybe it’s because of a small incident when I was a kid. Uncle Nasty was visiting. He enjoyed the occasional (hourly) Scotch and Soda and demanded one, a double. I was about six and insisted I could make it for him, considering I’d watched it being done routinely every day of my life. Ours was a yardarm family after all, and the sun was always over one somewhere in the world, permitting everyone to unguiltily commence boozing. I was so persuasive that I could mix Uncle Jackass’s drink that my parents caved and allowed it. I happily trotted to the kitchen where I poured a huge tumbler half full of “Cutty,” well knowing that dark green bottle with the cool ship on the yellow label. I looked ‘round for the soda, found it in another bottle and filled the other half of that tumbler. It was gin. I proudly marched this concoction into the living room, spilling a little en route, and handed it to Uncle Ugly. He took one sip, turned purplish and kind of roared a little. I was questioned about the ingredients, everyone laughed heartily which soon turned to howls and I was most politely asked I if I might enjoy a sip. I said sure, took a gulp, gagged viciously and then stared agog as Uncle Jerk gakked a couple of times and then with an embarrassingly wild flourish, drank down the entire potion, causing him to behave for the rest of the afternoon even more stupidly than usual. That was my first real belt of booze(s) and I’ve definitely hated it since.

The problem is that booze smells so good, at least before regurgitation, but when I finally take a tiny sip of that fabulous smelling Martini or that great smelling mug of beer, they taste lots like crank case oil and yes I did, once when I was very young. Brutal stuff.

I’ve decided, now that I’m in the sixth decade of my life, in order to fit in more, and desperate to make people understand I truly know the difference between Beaujolais and Gator Aid, I began to try to appreciate wine. It just looks like such cool stuff to drink while dining on a fabulous meal, and everyone tells me it enhances---I forget what it enhances, but it does. And of course it’s now considered a health drink, right? Does the heart good, correct? Well, whatever, I went out to buy some good wine thinking I’d pay a fair price. I found a nice pale “blush” as it was called on the label, in an enormous jug, for about $4., and thought, wow, what a deal. Must be on sale. I carted it home, took a hit and it was really nice, like fruit juice, much better than the drain cleaner Mongo and our pals drink. Weeks later, I proudly offered some to a dear friend who really knows her wine. She barely sipped it. “LC,” she said a little haughtily, “this is plonk.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not. See the name on the label?”

“It’s plonk of the first order,” said she, grimacing. “Not worthy to clean your toilets.”

“But I love it,” I whined.

“Nonsense,” said she.

I looked it up. Plonk is British slang for cheap booze and has nothing at all to do with cleaning toilets. Well, OK, maybe British toilets.

As an author with several books published, LC Van Savage still finds time for air time and an active community service life.
See her biography by clicking her byline (name in blue at top of the page.)

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