I'm too young to be a curmudgeon, but that's exactly what wine has done to me the last few years, as prices of wine creep up and my tried and trues become Monday-night prohibitive. I've come full circle and understand once again the abject horror that many customers feel upon entering a wine shop. All right, that may read a skosh melodramatic; let's downgrade feelings to those of tension and anxiety since we're talking about inconsequential items of varying degrees of luxury that all end up around the bowl and down the hole no matter the pedigree or chateau of origin. That's always been my problem as a salesman and now as a customer: I may know too much, but I still think like a neophyte and count my pennies.

My wine knowledge doesn't get me closer to actually affording the fancy wines that I get to taste on a regular basis; it only means I am a trainable monkey with a decent nose and good memory. I drank through much of my cellar this year in an effort to grow a nest egg, so I'm left entirely devoid of my top three wine categories, and I'm out of everyday white, which is my preferred drink well after Labor Day. Now I must venture out if I am to drink wine and — gulp! — shop for it. I have a newfound respect for all wine novices who venture out in search of a decent bottle of wine.

Some of us pros, more likely those of us who no longer make the bulk of their living from cash money tips, burden our wine buying with the knowledge that not all bottles are created equal. Walking into one of my local wine shops, I cringe at that $25 entry-level Oregon strawberry sangria that passes for Pinot Noir stacked by the door. Don't tell me that it's snobbery; I can't even afford $25 a bottle on a regular basis. To me, that $25 bottle acts as nothing more than a Louis Vuitton keychain, a product invented for people who can't afford the purse. I know that I could get two bottles of a pretty rockin' cru Beaujolais for that price. I know you pay a premium for the words "pinot" and "noir," as well as for West Coast start-up wineries eager to recoup all of their costs before retirement.

Uh oh, my eyes lingered to long. A staff member has spotted me. He's judging me, but little does he know that I am judging him. The wine stacks I've seen so far, most being overpriced local wines or underwhelming bottles from giant distributors, do not impress me. I don't want to recognize every bottle in a wine shop because as a professional, I want to see risks. I want to see a palate and point of view, just as a menu — no matter how diverse — gives an overall feel of a restaurant.

I drop a hint that I just ran out of everyday white and I'm open to any suggestion, but looking for something Italian in spirit: dry, light, and crisp. I prefer these for everyday because I know what I'm getting — I know they won't be overly fruity, but will always refresh. He grabs the nearest white (not a good sign), an Oregon Pinot Gris that I know to be neither dry nor light. He tells me it's the same grape as Pinot Grigio. Same grape, totally different taste. I tell him the wine is far too off-dry and from his guilty reaction I can tell he hasn't even tried it. He heads to Australia and hands me a Clare Valley Riesling, telling me that white wines in this area are very dry. OK, so he latched onto one word and has countered; but it's still $17, hardly everyday pricing. "How about we stick with something Italian," I say.

He follows. I spot a $20 Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio, which I loathe. Twenty bucks for an Italian white had better buy you something spectacular, something that's the very best — and it's sure not Santa Margarita. When you strip away magazine, television, and other advertising, this is just a $10 bottle of wine. A product like this can cause inflation, with other wineries jealously thinking maybe they can get more, too.

Now my wine salesman recommends his favorite Vermentino, priced at $15. I love Vermentino at $10, but $15…When did Vermentino crack the $15 barrier? Probably after the umpteenth mention in a national glossy. News to wine guy: $15 is not everyday, at least not to me. Now he's telling me everything he knows about Vermentino and the island of Sardinia. I don't have time for this shit. I'm really glad he's read a book, but why do wine people feel they have to unload everything they know about a grape or place? I'm not here to buy a freaking S-class.

"They eat maggot cheese in Sardinia," I inject. Good, I stunned him. "I really want to spend closer to $8 or $10, something I can buy in quantity. I just ran through a stash of white Saumur from [insert ponytail distributor here] and I need something new." I'm such a brat that I drop an obscure wine name and backing it up with an indie distributor with tons of street cred. This will be my last passive-aggressive attempt to get him to stop dicking me around. He counters with some bullshit about the Euro. If this shop stopped buying all their wine from giant distributors with as many layers of sales people as a croissant, maybe they'd find some more values. Euro my ass.

I'd like to point out at this moment that not once has this guy asked me a question about what I like to drink. I'm playing tee ball with him, and he still can't hit. When he asks if he can help me pick out a red, I tell him thanks, but I'll just look around a while. I really wanted to be turned onto something new, but I know I'll do better on my own. I'll shop here again, and give someone else a try, but most consumers don't give wine shops a second chance. I'm starting to understand why.

Maggie Savarino Dutton is an industry veteran who has played bartender, sommelier and line cook and who now consults. She writes "Search & Distill," which appears every Wednesday in the Seattle Weekly, and maintains The Wine Offensive, a blog about wine, food, and anything else that might be discussed over the bar.

"Planet of the Grapes" photograph from Getty Images, wine image from the Associated Press, "Planet of the Grapes" photograph from Getty Images, "Bottle" photograph from istockphoto.com.