Day #16: Alcohol. "I like my drink with a splash of snob, please."

This is a subject near and dear to the hearts of many, and especially appropriate on a Friday afternoon when those of you in this time zone are shortly to engage in the art of consumption. I, for one, will be hoisting a glass as soon as possible, because I believe I am entitled to start celebrating my birthday a full three days in advance, and continue celebrating it though Thursday.

Let's just cut to the chase here: I have drank some drinks. If you read Beth and Mike Across America, you know I will still be standing at last call and I'll be the one with enough sense to tell you to go home because you're wasted.

Because here's the thing about me and alcohol:

1. I can count on two hands how many times I have been really and truly drunk. When I broach the "Beyond Tanked" threshold, I pack myself up and put myself to bed, thereby eliminating the need for next day phone calls that begin with "Um... so... about last night..." and end with you apologizing for something you fail to recall doing.

2. When I do have one too many, I am the happiest drunk on the planet. I love you when I'm drunk. We are best friends. I will tell you so. I will tell you so repeatedly. I will hug you and sing to you and praise your glories and thank you for being my best friend (even if you aren't).

Then I will pack myself up and put my drunk self to bed.

The reason I manage to stay in control when everyone else is saying things like, "I haff a fantashtic idear! Less settoff firewerks in the garage!" is because I drink expensive beer and I drink it slow.

When I was in my twenties, I aspired to be a wine connoisseur. I bought different wines and tried to remember their names (fail). Nice people bought me wine paraphernalia (of which there is an abundance on the market: cocktail napkins, candles, openers, closers, keys, holders, glasses, and this enormous gadget called The Rabbit that won't fit in any of the drawers in my kitchen and therefore has been relegated to The Cabinet Where Kitchen Utensils Go To Die next to the oven).

Unfortunately, all that work was for naught. Sigh. The wine that can typically found at my house is labeled "WHITE WINE." Not savignon-blanc, or pinot-gregio, or chardonnay, just "WHITE WINE." Its by White Truck. I recommend it.

I also thought, in my twenties, that I would become a fancy-drink-drinker. Fancy-drinks, in my world, are any drinks made with liquor. I don't touch the sauce, man. Nooooo way. Because I am smart. I learn from mistakes. I know this about myself: you give me a shot, and I will go from standing-up-and-talking to believing I am truly a candidate for So You Think You Can Dance and attempting to prove my assertions, um, anywhere. Dance floor not required.

Its just not okay and its the kind of thing that comes back to haunt you in the form of stories told to people whose opinions matter to you.

So I have become a beer snob. My husband is my partner in beer snobbery. We scoff at your Miller Lite in a can. We pashaw that Bud Lite Lime in your fridge. We refuse to drink your free Natty Ice.

Isn't this obnoxious?

It so is, but we don't care, because we know more about beer than you do and we aren't afraid to flaunt it. However, we concede that you have the right to flaunt your checking account balance in front of us because ours is suffering from our expensive taste.

Its not just that we exclusively purchase six-packs that run us about $9.89 each (although, we do and we do it so often that when we walk into Once Upon a Vine South, the owner, Tomy, says "Hey MikeandBeth!" Is this socially acceptable?). Its also because we feel we need to mingle with other beer-drinkers who are as snobby as we are, so each year we shell out $400 bones plus the cost of a hotel room and we attend Savor.

Savor is an American Craft Beer and Food Experience. No really, that's what they call it.

Picture it:

You dress in your best cocktail party attire, tuck your $100/pop ticket in your pocket and stand in line to enter the National Building Museum in DC. You enter a hall that is a full two stories tall and chock-full of tables featuring beer made at craft breweries from around the country. Each beer has been paired with a small dish prepared by one of the top catering companies in the area. You mingle and rub elbows with brewery owners and bar owners and other people with an ungodly amount of expendable income.

We also get our nerd on. Yes, you can (pay $$$ and) attend "Salons," which are small sessions on topics such as "The Historie of the American IPA" or "Panel Discussion on Cheese Pairing."

Truly and honestly, this event exists. See this for details and you can come with us next year and get your annual dose of beer snobbery too!

Part of the beer snobbery is due to the fact that Mike brews beer. In case you haven't had the opportunity to try Mike's beer, let me assure you, its good. Its not your buddy's homebrew where you taste it and then say "Yeah. Wow. Um. That's different" while you figure out how you're going to choke the rest of it down without gagging.

Mike's beer is excellent -- it makes our basement look like a meth lab, but its worth it because we have a nearly unlimited supply of awesome beer.

We have a kegerator:

I remember the night we realized how much Mike's brewing had changed our lives.

We were sitting out on the deck in the fall a few years ago. We are frequently found there, but are definitely found there when, like this particular night, it is cool and crisp out. We have not started to hate the 3 million leaves that will shortly dump themselves on our lawn, because at this point they are golden-orange and beautiful. Mike and I are having some laughs, catching up after a busy week, enjoying the tunes coming through on the outdoor speakers.

We are chuckling and smiling as we stroll into the kitchen to refresh our beverages.

Screeech... music stops. Smiles drop. Silence.

We are out of beer.

Mike and I look at each other. We can read the look in each other's eyes: But I was having so much fun... So much fun that now I can't drive anywhere...

Then it occurs to us:

There is an entire keg of beer downstairs, on tap, ice cold.

The "Hallelujah Chorus" begins to play. The night has been saved.

This post has made me want a beer -- immediately. I suggest you hoist one too, but preferably not one in a can.