The other night, my friend and I were edgily waiting for ice to form in her freezer. Casting longing glances at the other ingredients of our Moderately Disgusting Bloody Marys (waiting patiently in the Pyrex measuring cup that was our cocktail “shaker”), she told me about her favorite Christmas gift. See, we like our alcohol. We’re not terribly picky, except for when it comes to beer, and have been known to quaff, slurp, chug and, occasionally, sip. This Christmas gift, thoughtfully provided by her mother’s gentleman friend, was all the fixins for that saucy Cuban treat, The Mojito. The package (a crumpled brown paper bag?) contained the following:
one (1) bottle of spiced rum (does not belong in a mojito)
two (2) limes (mouldering by the time I saw them)
one (1) bottle of tonic water
zero (0) mint leaves
one (1) petite Ziploc baggie of sugar (bearing no small resemblance to certain drogas)
one (1) genuine live ant (in said petite Ziploc baggie of sugar)
I think we can all agree the ant is the crowning glory. Eventually, the ice was done…or at the very least half done. Ignoring the sloshy centers, we dumped the cubes in our glasses and poured out the Moderately Disgusting Bloody Marys with a teapot. (This choice of receptacle was either resourceful or pathetic. The judge, jury and executioner have thrown up their hands in disgust and dismay, so it’s up to you). Poking my M.D.B.M. with a wilted celery stalk, I thought, perhaps, I should take a look at my life, take a look at my choices.
I suppose I always thought there would be a recognizable age of growing up. A magical time when I could step back, eyeball my life and say, “Yes, this is it, I’m firmly ensconced in adulthood. Positively dripping with maturity.” I figured there would come a time when, after helping my friend and her husband paint their new house, I would not be compelled to hew drinking vessels out of water bottles. Because, yes, the vodka needed to be consumed right then, and no, that paint tray was not an acceptable option…too painty. If that time is, indeed, ever coming, it did not come this year.
Oh well, maybe it will come in 2011. Perhaps my mild dipsomania will suddenly acquire an air of sophistication and I’ll start keeping up with the Charleses.
Joanna Robinson wishes all you drunken louts a Happy New Year and can’t believe the roast beef combo’s only $9.95.