Rotten Fucking Grapes
Rotten Fucking Grapes
I've been saving the same $15 bottle of Malbec for two years.
Every day I head into the pantry for oats or honey, and there it is! That delicious and tangy French red. Pouting alongside a chocolate stout, a bottle of mulled wine and some Krupnik honey liquor - all of which were gifts from our landlords and/or bosses.
It's not that I don't drink. I can. I do, very occasionally.
It's just…never the right time for a drink. I think because, now more than ever, it is always the right time for a glass of wine.
It's a show of willpower.
Sure.
But it's also a sad relic of a social life past.
I decided at some point, a couple of years ago, that I would share this particular bottle of wine with a friend. Or, at least, drink it alongside a friend or a relative as they drank their own whimsical poison. Preferably beside a fire pit, or with music playing.
Preferably this century.
Our nearest friends visit on rare occasions during the day; never the right context for wine, it seems.
Our closest friends live far away, and many of them don't drink alcohol at all. Those who do, well, we just…don't see each other for obvious 2020-2022 reasons. And for obnoxious geographical reasons. On the golden occasion that we do share a room together, gulping wine is the last thing on our minds.
What it boils down to is that I'm actually one of those friends who doesn't really drink. My close relationship with alcohol ended many years ago; we are now mere acquaintances.
So why save the bottle of wine?
Maybe I'll cook with it. But I'm rarely that motivated to concoct a culinary masterpiece. Maybe I'll give it away next Christmas, but I’d probably end up handing it right back to the person who gave it to us. Cheeky.
When my relationship with regular alcohol consumption ended, it took a lot of things with it as it stormed out the door. Regular visits with friends. Tipsy movie nights with my husband. Bar shows with my band. Drunken backyard fires with my brother. A certain kind of laughter. A special brand of disarmament. It took a lot of fun things with it that I wouldn’t mind experiencing again.
It also removed a volatile variable from my life. I only used to write with a glass of wine beside (and inside) me; now I write in the middle of the morning over breakfast or tea. My health has improved (gut health is mental health, right?) I no longer rely on any substance to fix my mood, or to get inspired, or to distract me. As much as I want to, and sometimes really powerfully desire. As difficult as it is never to mute or escape my own thoughts.
It's just me in here.
As much as that bottle cries, as much as it begs from inside that dark cupboard, something is always holding me back.
The long arm of loneliness, perhaps?
Or the conviction of a woman who has been through 40 years of every manner of shit?
A woman who knows that we can be gas-lit by ourselves into thinking we’re missing out on something great, when it is truly just a bottle of rotten fucking grapes.
I completely understand! I have a bottle of whisky in my cupboard that a neighbour gave me 38 years ago. By now I’m sure it is well aged.. it does not cry out to me as my relationship with whisky ended one Christmas Eve about 47 years ago. However, the wine in my closet says hello about once a week with a 4 oz. Glass. Perhaps one day you and I will share a glass of that which hides in your cupboard over some good conversation.