Bottoms Up


Well I SUPPOSE it’s about time for a REAL post.  Said the pre-retiring mess-making cartoon-drawing officially old lady trying to make sense of this new not-classic mode of creation on Word Press.

So just ignore that, I’m not here to complain about insignificant things, because what I really want to talk about is my signature beverage.  It was a WP prompt awhile ago that made me laugh, because, really, who do we think we are, famous people with images or something?  And without even knowing me all that well you might suspect my drink du jour would be a tall glass of red wine (good guess) but it wasn’t always so.

It used to be chocolate milk.  I thought I would never outgrow it, and maybe I still haven’t completely, because that stuff is good.  Not the kind you mix with a powdered concoction into actual milk, but the kind you buy in little brown bottles or cartons which may or may not contain any real milk.  Smooth and thick and chocolate-y with coma inducing amounts of sugar.  This was such a rare treat when I was a kid that whenever we ate out (another once in a blue moon treat) that’s what I would order to drink.  Who cares about the food.  Chocolate milk goes with absolutely everything.

Then when I was a teenager trying to put chocolate behind me, Coca Cola was the next best thing.  Until it became cool to prefer Pepsi although if you did a blind taste test you’d probably have to cheat if you really wanted people to think you could tell the difference.

In my twenties and beyond, when I became extremely world-weary and sophisticated, my go-to beverage was a Harvey Wallbanger.  Because what could possibly be more sophisticated than that.  Not cheap draft beer, that’s for sure, although I admit I drank my fair share of that too, depending entirely on the money situation of the moment.   Vodka, orange juice, Galliano, a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry.  And lots of ice.  Umbrella purely optional.  But a nice touch.

W is the one who got me drinking amber rum.  Probably because the umbrellas were an embarrassment for him.  And it had to be with real Pepsi, no substitutions.  And a twist of lemon or lime.  I’m the one who switched myself to spiced rum.  He hates it.  All the more for me then.

Raising children changes everything of course, and drinking something like coffee to keep yourself alert replaces drinking anything that might cause you to pass out and miss seeing whatever it is they’re up to now.  And coffee seems harmless enough until you clue in to how addicted you are to it.  Even then, it’s not easy to give it up.  Mostly because you can’t possibly convince yourself that there’s any good reason to do so.  And besides, you spent a lot of money on that stupid Tassimo.

But pop and diet pop are SO incredibly bad for you.  I’ve had enough of them to last several life times and now I’m ready to quit.  Wine seems like a viable alternative.  I used to like white, but not much.  Then my daughter started raving about Malbec and I’ve been hopelessly hooked ever since.  It’s like store-bought chocolate milk for adults.  Plus you look way more worldly and refined sipping on something that’s not in a plastic cup or a travel mug, right?

Well I hope so.  I have a friend who won’t drink red wine because it makes her teeth and lips red.  I say, who cares?  I also say, drink whatever you want, teeth and lips be damned.  That’s the first time I’ve ever said that really, and probably the last time now that I look at it critically and while completely sober.

Damn, I should have said water.  We should ALL be saying water.  And being thankful that we have access to the clean and drinkable kind. That would be commendable, but also boring.  So red wine it is.  Until I’m at the stage in my life where they switch me to Metamucil through a plastic bendy straw.  May the wine preserve me until then.

Yellow Cocktail Dreams


Galliano (Photo credit: Rennett Stowe)

Day two of a serious yellow high.

Would you like something to drink? the waiter asks me, and I reply, Yes, please, I’ll have whatever cocktail you’ve got that’s yellow.  I’ve never said that in real life, but I’m working up the nerve to do it.

My niece, when she was four years old, asked a waiter for a pink drink.  I think adults should be able to order their beverages in the same way.

Yellow Submarine should be easy enough:  vodka, white rum, banana liqueur, in a cocktail shaker with ice.  But is it truly yellow?

Yellow Fever sounds more promising color-wise:  vodka, Galliano, pineapple juice, lemon juice, ice.

There’s also a Yellow Bird:  rum, Galliano, banana liqueur, orange juice, pineapple juice.  Notice how I’m leaving the exact amounts of each ingredient to your own discretion and imagination.  I would never try to discourage creativity.

Those concoctions remind me of a Harvey Wallbanger,  a drink I used to order all the time.  I can’t remember why I stopped.  It’s vodka, Galliano and orange juice. Maybe I thought all that orange juice was good for me, and then later decided that asking for a wallbanger didn’t sound very classy.  After a couple of Harvey Wallbangers, nothing makes sense.

Harvey Wallbanger cocktail

Harvey Wallbanger cocktail (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Doesn’t all this make you want to run out and purchase a lot of  bright yellow ingredients?  Mix them all together with crushed ice, pour them into a chilled glass and garnish them with slices of lemon and banana and orange?  Pop in a straw and a colorful little umbrella?  Put on your shades and sit in a lawn chair and soak up the sunshine?   Would you like me to join you?

Unfortunately, I have to go to work.  I know being bored is a sin, but yesterday I got sucked in by it and swallowed whole and there was nothing I could wrap my mind around to stop the crushing numbness.  Working in a retail setting can do that to you even on a good day.

Today promises to be more of the same because so many people have decided they don’t feel like shopping and would much rather sit in their back yards sipping gin.  But day dreaming about yellow cocktails might save me. It’s worth a try.

I’ll give it my best shot.