Despite the fact that I look like the sort of exotic beauty who does nothing but run around getting massages, buying ridiculous shoes and getting her hair and nails done, I'm actually a very down-to-earth sort of person. I have no truck with pretentious poseurs (Editor's note: Only a pretentious poseur would use the phrase "I have no truck with." My note: Good point. Now fuck off) and, given the choice between decadent luxury and simple pleasures, I will almost always choose the simple pleasures. Unless someone else is paying.
And yet, somehow, I seem to have purchased a wine aerator.
It happened two weeks ago, after I spent a perfect rainy girls' night in, guzzling red wine and gossiping about everything from boys to food to Gone Girl to boys. (It always ends up with boys.) Our hostess, Marg, was generously refilling the glasses and at one point I noticed she was pouring the Ravenswood through a bullet-shaped crystal object and, frankly, sloshing wine all over the goddam table in the process. "What the hell are you doing, girl?" I asked her. "And what the hell is that THING you're doing it with?"
"It's a wine aerator," Marg said. "It makes the wine taste better."
"BOLLOCKS!" I snorted. "I'll have another glass and decide for myself!"
Marg obliged, out of terror, probably, and continued to explain that aerators are the new black. They take a cheap red and make it taste like a pricey one. They do in one pour what fusty old decanters used to do in half an hour: they infuse oxygen into your $10 plonk and make it taste like J. Lohr. Which is exactly the point at which the light went on in my tipsy head and I thought, "What I need in my life is a wine aerator!"
And so, not three days later, I bought one and put it on my counter, where it has sat, sheepishly and unopened, for about two weeks now. Because not only am I not really a wine aerating type of person, but I drink white wine almost exclusively on account of I don't like what red does to my bleached teeth. (Did I mention that I am a very down-to-earth sort of person?) I look at it every night when I come home from work and mutter, "What the hell was I thinking?"
And so, not unlike this thing that I also inherited against my will, the wine aerator will be getting re-gifted. It'll be a lovely surprise for someone, I have no idea who. (Hey Liz: Guess what you're getting for Christmas!)
EDITOR'S NOTE: Maybe you were drunk when you bought it.
MY NOTE: Maybe your parents were drunk when they met and conceived you before the $2 shooter buzz had time to wear off.