It began innocently enough as I surfed the ‘net looking for a new corkscrew. Seems as if I’m buying one every week. You’d think they wouldn’t break after only a few cases. I stumbled onto an advertisement that screamed the Contessa’s name: become an independent wine consultant and throw in-home wine tastings for your friends.

Wine tastings are like Disney World for grown-ups, magic kingdoms where middle-agers trade in mouse ears for crystal stemware. Last year, The Big Guy took me on a pilgrimage to the holy land of tastings¯Napa Valley. We spent our days visiting wineries and swilling, er, sipping, vino. At the end of the trip, I got teary-eyed, turned to the Big Guy and blubbered, “We ARE in Kansas, Toto.” He turned to me and took away my glass of Pinot Noir.

What could be better than sharing a bottle of wine with friends? Other than drinking it by myself, of course. I was hooked. The Contessa is now an independent wine consultant.

My job started with a telephone conference call with other winos, um, consultants. They’re held weekly, my sponsor, the Wine Warden, explained. All newbie consultants are sponsored and everyone conferences to support each other. Sorta like Weight Watchers, without the scales. The call lasted 45 minutes. Long-distance. On my nickel. I used my mobile minutes, but if I jump into any more of these Kumbaya gabfests, I’ll have to tap into Cat’s minutes. The only thing worse than curtailing Cat’s talktime would be cutting back on her trips to Aeropostale. Maybe I can convince the group to text message instead.

There weren’t many of us on the call that night but my sponsor’s sponsor was, and she was full of wisdom. Or wine. It was hard to tell. Some people naturally slur their words. She advised me to identify potential tasting hosts by using the FRANK method:

F is for friends. Sure, there’s Zinfa Delle, my buddy on the fitness kick who’s always dieting. Even though Zinfa doesn’t consume more than 750 calories a day, she makes sure half of them come from wine. The other half are from martini olives. Zinfa loves her fruits and vegetables.

R is for relatives. Got a few of them. My twin sister is a wine aficionado – it’s in the genes – but my brother-in-law’s idea of a wine tasting is sitting in a deer blind and passing around a bottle of Two Buck Chuck. The rest are teetotalers. Go figure. At least Contessa and The Big Guy can enjoy family gatherings, knowing some lushy uncle won’t nip at their Chianti the minute they hit the chow line.

A stands for associates. Does the latte boy at Starbucks count? How about my personal trainer? He’s always muttering something about needing a drink when I do sit-ups.

N and K stand for... I don’t remember. At that point, I was polishing off my second glass of Chardonnay. I’ll have to ask the Wine Warden the next time she calls, which will probably be in five minutes. She’s contacted me more times than Merlotta does when trying to recruit room mothers.  In less than one day, the Wine Warden e-mailed me links to my new Web site, left voice mails about the monthly wine club and called to see if I’ve scheduled a tasting. Strangely, she keeps talking about “my business.” This is beginning to sound like a real job. I swore off those the year my boss threw a stapler at me.

If this gig turns into more working than tasting, I may have to return my personalized wine bag and complimentary wine glasses. I’ll keep the corkscrew, though. A Contessa can never have enough of those. 

Danielle Schaaf is the co-author of Don’t Chew Jesus! and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com.