Bottle of Red, Bottle of White

Have your ever dated someone aspires to be classy? If so you may appreciate the following.

While in college , Fred decided he didn’t want to look out of place at dinner parties (although the only “dinner parties” he ever had to worry about attending involved pizza and PBR), so he decided to become an expert on wine. It seemed a little odd for someone his age, but I didn't mind. After all, it is kind of really sexy when a guy knows his way around a wine list.

Of course, he assumed I would teach him everything myself. But while I do enjoy drinking it as much as the next girl, I really am the worst person to ask about wine. The truth is I only go to wineries for the free alcohol. I usually don't pay attention to anything I am being told about the wines. I can't taste the damn vanilla undertones and I don't really care how the light refracts in your pinot grigio. But, I suppose compared to his friends who exclusively drank everclear, I was the closest thing he had to a sommelier.

Anyway, Fred insisted we go to the wine store one day so he could pick out a few things. When we arrived though, he entered an almost fugue like state of fascination at the sheer variety of wines. He had only ever known Franzia Red, Franzia White and Franzia Pink. The wine store was truly an exciting and educational experience. Standing in the California white section, he asked me the difference between a riesling and a chardonnay. I told him that it's pretty much the grapes they use (there is no doubt in my mind that there is a more elaborate answer than this, but I sure as hell don’t know it…if you really feel the need to enlighten me, go ahead, but I most likely won’t remember anyway).

"Oh, yeah, they use grapes for white wine, right…” he commented. “And so, for different types of red wine, they use different types of watermelon?"

Seriously. And yes, I know there are novelty fruit wines that probably do use watermelon, but that is not what he was referring to.

He was 22 years old and thought red wine came from watermelons. But then again, this was the guy who thought that champagne glasses were called "flukes" (yes, fluke, as in whale tail, or barb, or part of an anchor, or accidental advantage, fluke) instead of "flutes." He probably thought vodka came from hotdogs, too.

I wish I had let him ask the wine store staff this question.

Till Death to Us Part... Or you know, whenev.

Weddings are bright, cheerful, and momentous occasions. The bride and groom share their new family with all their friends and loved ones, and all come to share in their joy. Granted, we all know that in a matter of years they'll be at each others throats, but that comes with the territory of tying the knot.

For the bridal party, weddings are even more hectic. Yes, we always must cater to the whims and worries of the bride, and we do so gladly. But we shouldn't have our own worries.

For me, the majority of the trouble came after the wedding itself. A close friend and former boyfriend of mine was my date to the wedding - from hereon referred to as "The Date." He happily accompanied me and even, quite sweetly, wrapped my gift for me after the airport had rudely ruined my careful packaging. And because... well I'm bad at wrapping anyway, so it was probably for the best.

Following the happy newlywed's send-off after the reception, the rest of us took off for some fun. The city is rife with bars, dance halls, jazz bands, and clubs. We went to a few of the town's most famous locations, renowned for their delightful elixirs of excessive alcoholic content. No city in these United States is more well known for the party life. (Hint - less gambling, more drinking. And beads.)

The Date and I had a long history though. We had been off and on for nearly a year. But, much to his chagrin, I had met someone new and I wasn't about to cash out for an old love who lived thousands of miles away from where I had moved after college. While this certainly was painful for the Date to hear, and surely I could have put it slightly better to him when I explained that I was falling for someone else... it still does not excuse the remainder of the evening.

I was tired. Waking up early to be wedding-wing-man takes a lot out of a girl! So by midnight I was dragging, and by 1am I headed back to the hotel. The Date stayed out with the Maid of Honor, the Best Man, a few other members of the bride and groom's party, and a few old friends of the couple. These guests included my former roommate from my last year in college. Nice girl, but at times... how do I put this delicately... overly friendly with members of the opposite sex. And by at times, I mean many many times over the course of my living with her. Not every roommate keeps a tally board.

I'm still a little sketchy on the details of the evening. And suffice it to say, I'm ok with it remaining that way. The Date did eventually return to our hotel room. At 5am. I didn't think much of it at the time, because this particular city has bars that open their doors to thirsty patrons twenty-four hours a day. Regularly! But I also did not need to hear what had happened through the night.

Remember, this was my ex. The Date and I had been together for awhile but had broken up after he had made a... bad judgment call.

Well, he made another one.

The Date had gone to my old apartment. Where my ex-roommate still lived. He had gone with said roommate. He had accompanied her into the room next door to the one where he had visited me over the course of our relationship.

I won't get into the nitty-gritty. It's one thing to partake in these acts. It's another to be drunk when such horrendous choices are made. And it is yet another to come back to your ex and tell her what you have just done to her former roommate. We may have been over, but let's put our thinking caps on and know better than to be downright vindictive and crude.

Next time, no former boyfriends will be chosen as my date to a wedding. Only currents or completely platonic friends.

Negotiations over.