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Talking About Vodka

I’m writing this from a hotel room in San Diego, where Weevy has discovered, among other things, the joys of a hotel minibar.  I don’t think she ever knew they existed until I showed this one to her the other day.  Chips Ahoy!  Pringles!  Coke!  Gatorade!  And we can just take this stuff?  And then they’ll put MORE in there the next day?  It’s like magic or something!  I did try to explain to her that her loving mom and pop not only had to pay for that stuff, but pay highway robbery-type prices for it, just because it was in a fucking minibar.  But she wasn’t really dissuaded.

Anyway, this afternoon, while she was perusing the minibar for about the 80th time this weekend, she pulled out a little airline-sized bottle of Grey Goose, and said with a smirk, “And if you’re a grownup and you need a drink, here’s some whiskey.”

“Actually, that’s vodka.”

She studied the bottle carefully.  “You know, Daddy, this vodka kind of looks like water!”

“That’s the idea.  Vodka’s not supposed to have any color, smell or taste.”

She looked intrigued.  “Does this vodka… taste like… water?”

I quickly nipped in the bud any notion she had of taking a swig.  “No, it tastes like alcohol.  You definitely wouldn’t like it.  And besides,” I said, in a somewhat secretive tone, “that is my least favorite vodka in the world.”

“Really?  Why?”

“I just think it tastes disgusting.  When someone offers it to me, I say No thank you!  But you know,” I said, adopting that sly, just-between-us voice again, “I’m going to an event of theirs in a couple of days.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, it’s a tennis lesson with a really famous tennis player.  And he’s going to give ME a lesson!”  It’s true.  Former US Open champion Andy Roddick will be giving me and a handful of other writers a semi-private lesson.  How much Grey Goose paid him is beside the point.  Tennis!  With Andy Roddick!  Well, and Grey Goose, unfortunately.

“So I’ll probably have to drink some Grey Goose after the lesson.”

“But Daddy, can’t you just tell them you don’t like it?”

“Well, if they’re giving me a tennis lesson with a really famous player, I figure the least I can do is drink their vodka after.”

“Are you going to tell them you don’t like it when you drink it?”

“I don’t think so.  It’s best to be polite in that kind of situation, I think.”

And there you go.  Hypocrisy 101, courtesy of her own damned father.  But at least I’ve got it drummed into her head that Grey Goose is a lousy vodka.  Mission accomplished in that department.

Later on, when I told Weevy’s mother about our little chat, she said, “You have far more interesting conversations with her than I do.  With me, she’s just like, ‘I like flowers.'”

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