irds freak me out. They always have. I think that they're secretly plotting against me: one really big flock of well-organized, battle-ready assault weapons. I've been dive bombed regularly, for no apparent reason (I'm not antagonizing them, I swear). Fearing a group attack, I avoid all bird refuge/sanctuary areas. This year I've been shat on four times, and it's only March. You can understand my psychosis. A bird in a bottle, though, that's a different story.

Admittedly, I wasn't initially turned on by Grey Goose Vodka (something in the name), but after searching for a suitable companion to my glass of spring water, I looked beyond the bottle-emblazoned goose silhouette, peering further into the French Alp backdrop for placation. There, in that bottle, I found smooth, light, subtle bliss; now I'm hooked. Grey Goose is my preferred vodka. In spite of my bird phobia, I willingly pay the outrageous tumbler price (anywhere from $8 to $11, depending on the spot). I have a bottle in the freezer (a well spent $52, versus the $28, pleb-friendly Smirnoff).

Why the more expensive bottle? Do I think that I'm too trendy for the layperson's vodka? Maybe. Or maybe it's how I drink rather than why. Vodka and I have a history together, forged in coming-of-age bouts of boozy allegiance swearing. My loyalty is unbreakable; that's the why. The how is simple: Any philistine can get a decent taste out of vodka soda or vodka tonic; the vodka used doesn't matter, you just taste the mix. I, savant that I am, drink vodka and water. If I'm drinking the V, I want to taste it. Vodka and water calls for a premium brand like the Goose.