Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Every December, I buy a Christmas present for myself.

This might seem a little high and mighty but hey, ‘tis the season. If I’m going to make a commercial fool out of myself, I may as well focus part of that energy on me.

Last year it was a sweater. The year before, a necklace. This year, alcohol.

I once heard a disenchanted young lady proclaim, “Liquor is just the most impersonal gift EVER!” While everyone has the right to their own opinion, sweet cheeks, I am so not agreeing.

Wine for the wine lover, Armagnac for the connoisseur; 40-year old rum for a prized bar collection. Rose liqueur for the person who has everything, and seriously expensive champagne for celebratory purposes.

I have cause to celebrate, or, at least I will have cause to celebrate. I bought myself some champagne.

I don’t love champagne. Truth be told, I don’t even like champagne. Blame that on experiencing my first official hangover at the tender age of five, where 300+ wedding guests thought the little girl taking her first sips of bubbly was just the cutest thing. They offered, I took, they kept offering, I kept drinking, and whammo, I was talking in Technicolor.

Needless to say, champagne and I haven’t been on the best terms since. Oh sure, I take my obligatory New Year’s glass, but steer pretty clear of the stuff until the next January 1st.

There is, however, one huge exception to my champagne rule: Veuve Clicquot.

Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin is the crème de la crème of the champagne world. Over two centuries of history, nifty orange label, atrocious price tag, bubbles aplenty, and we have a formula for success.

I bought my first bottle of Veuve last year, after closing on my loft. I figured my first real estate needed some kind of celebration, and what better than the finest spirits, apparently seen in the liquor cabinets of celebrities everywhere. A first for a first; I dented my wallet with the Veuve, chilled it, then popped the cork across the furniture-less living room and poured myself a glass.

It was… so-so. Why did I convince myself that I could like champagne again, after all these years? I drank the glass down, toasted my grown-up home purchase, put the bottle back into the fridge and let nature take its course.

In this case, nature was going to make the carbonation disappear. It’s not that I don’t like the taste of champagne, see, it’s the bubbles. I know liking flat champagne makes me gauche, but I never considered myself a conformist, anyway. That’s what having curly hair does to you.

Two days later, I enjoyed the remainder of my Veuve for breakfast. With toast.

I honestly thought that was to be my last real adventure with champagne, but as it goes with many things in my life, I was totally wrong.

Last week I was in the liquor store with Oli, when a gigantic orange paint can caught my eye. Those masters of marketing, Veuve Clicquot, had done it again: a paint can slash ice bucket, with not one, but four bottles of champagne inside, each at 200mls apiece.

I said the involuntary, “Yuck!” that comes out of my mouth every time I see champagne, and then I walked away.

Then I walked back to it.

And then I walked away.

Back to it again.

And so on.

Over a dozen times I walked back and forth to that orange paint can. While I can appreciate that I don’t like champagne but do have an affinity for interesting containers, I was starting to get an idea.

A really good one, too. I bought the Veuve can, and all bubbly within.

Why, you ask? Because even though I don’t love champagne, I do recognize it as the celebration beverage of choice. Celebrations are important; they make us happy, they keep us sane, and they denote a goal accomplished.

Celebrations are victory, and there’s something I want to celebrate. Not just one thing either, but four.

I went back to my loft, set the can down and opened it up to find all the 200mls intact. Excellent. And then I called Sandy to say, “Ace, I just got a buttload of mini champagnes, and I’m going to open each one after a landmark success. I want to open the first one on New Year’s Day with you.”

“What’s the landmark?”

“Us. I want to celebrate us, and the amazing year we’re going to have together.”

Is it possible to hear someone melting over a phone? “Aww, Cheech…”

“Yeah I know, too nauseating for life.”

“And the rest? What are those for?”

“Bottle the second opens up when I get a new job.”

“Sounds good. Next.”

I paused before this one, because I knew what he was going to say. “Bottle the third, for when I meet my physical goals.”

“Cheech….”

“I know you think I look great this way, and you have no idea how happy I get hearing you say that… but I have to do this for me. K?”

I sincerely believe I am in love with the most understanding man in the world. “Okay. Any more?”

Just one. “Yes. Bottle the fourth, when I finish writing down everything I have to say. That fourth and last bottle, we drink when I finish this blog.”

I could hear him smiling over the phone. I’d say that he hummed the theme song to Rocky, but that would just be too corny. “Go get ‘em, Cheech.”

I think I will. No, I know I will. And each of these victories, I will celebrate with Veuve.

Not that I actually like the stuff, but that isn’t bothering me too much. I can always drink it flat. With toast.