The Scene: A brunch spot at around noon on Saturday, with around seven hungover friends after HomeTown's annual Boxing Day debacles.
I am discussing wine tastings with two others (including my theory that no one really thinks wines have hints of chocolate or a full bouquet, but rather than no one else wants to call them out on their pretentiousness).
Him: My band played at a wine tasting a while back, and, as part of it, we got to participate in the tasting. I got completely wasted.
Her: You do know that you are supposed to spit the wine out at fancy wine tastings?
Me: But who doesn't swallow, right?
As I (and they apparently, too, despite my attempts to play it cool), realize what I have just said to my friend and her boyfriend (C and TG, for anyone who may remember back to the last holiday season), who is coincidentally my ex-boyfriend, and got his very first, um, occasion when someone would need to swallow for non-nutritional reasons from yours truly.
Me: So, uh, moving along...
Her: Naw, let's just stay and simmer in the awkwardness for a little while longer.