So I keep trying to find the perfect adult beverage – one that won’t give me headaches, one that doesn’t have sulfites, one that’s low-calorie, one that is kind to my liver, one that’s affordable and readily available, one that has street cred, and one that won’t add a bulbous red Irish drunkard’s nose to my fair Celtic face.
I tell myself it’s the sulfites in my beloved red wines that make me blotchy and flushed, and have endeavored to give them up.
It might also be the hot flashes that continue to plague me. Those, I’d love to give up — but can’t. They’re Mother Nature’s way of thanking me for dutifully perpetuating the species.
Note to Self: Mother Nature is an ungrateful humorless bitch.
It’s Mother’s Day as I write this, which makes taking Her name in vain even worse. If God doesn’t punish me, She most certainly will.
Then again, She already is.
It’d have been nice to have been raised Protestant rather than Catholic. How lovely and freeing to cast one’s inconvenient sins at the feet of Jesus and scarper off guilt-free, time and time again! I was raised with healthy respect for an inevitable and thorough day of reckoning. Your sins may be forgiven, but they are never forgotten.
That’s one of the few tenets of Catholicism I actually agree with. Sister Mary Herman instilled deep personal accountability into her young charges, with a ruler to the knuckles and dire threats of eternal damnation. You are responsible for your actions! You tell people to drink bleach, you never wash that stain from your soul!
But I digress.
One thing we can check off the flushed probable-cause list is vigorous exercise. I refrain from that, so as not to exacerbate my genetic tendency to furious blushing. It’s a sacrifice I make willingly, since I really don’t need a bulbous red Irish drunkard’s nose.
I do hate to give up on alcohol, though. I’m not a quitter. So I’m devoting myself to Quarantine Cocktail research. I try something new and lovely every evening, and then peer into the mirror looking for signs of spider veins and rashes and hives and rosacea. Grain-based spirits? Potato distillations? Corn liquor? The fruit of the grape?
Alas, they all make my nose turn red. Even an alcohol-harm denialist like me can see it. It’s as obvious as a fake orange tan or thick white under-eye concealer or one of the world’s worst comb-overs.
Tonight, in honor of my bringing forth his second litter and all, Husband treated me to a bottle of nice Italian Prosecco. It is dry and bubbly and hopeful and fun. And it agrees with me! No W.C. Fields nose! I’ve found my poison!
I guess the bleach – and heaven — can wait.
Keep the faith, friends.
Please leave a comment, or reach me at mirthfulmmissy@gmail.com
Lovely! Proseco is delightful, and one of the nicest things about it is that you have to finish the bottle! Happy Mother’s Day!!
Right you are — to keep from wasting those bubbles, you have to drink the lot of them. And champagne flutes don’t hold much, so if feels like the bottle is endlessly full. You’re holding a delicate little glass rather than a Super-Glug Thirsty-Man tankard. Sure, you top it off 8 or 10 times, but that’s a whole different feeling. It’s civilized, like. You want to extend you pinkie and use good grammar.
I find that a daily bottle of Dos XX, with the addition of a shot of freezing Patron Silver on the weekends hit the spot, and my body tolerates it well. Alternatively Macallens 12 with a splash of soda and a Romeo y Julietta robusto on the back porch with music to accompany the sunset is outstanding. The methodism the I grew up with believed in singing the devil out. It seemed effective.
Your regimen sounds lovely — except for the cigar. Last one I smoked was, I believe, years ago on your back porch. I’m out of practice. I imagine a little peer pressure could remedy that (along with the Scotch you mention). Singing the devil out is a wonderful plan! Easily done, particularly if those singing can’t hold a tune. I’ve belonged to a symphonic community choir for many years, and have been missing that creative outlet terribly during this pandemic. I’ll find me some righteous hymns to fight off depression — and maybe even devil viruses.
My nun teachers were actually really cool — Sister Michaelinda in 2nd grade would hike up her habit and play softball with us at recess, which was about the coolest thing ever at the time. However, the principal — Sister Agnes Therese — was a knuckle-rapper extraordinaire. Overall, however, the nuns preferred a bleached-white soul, not a Clorox cocktail aimed at eliminating a virus. Perhaps one of them should have run for president…
My new go-to beverage is locally concocted Coyote Gold pre-fab margaritas. No red nose (so far), and no blender required. Every day can feel like Cinco de Mayo!
I’d forgotten about Coyote Gold. Oooh! That’ll go on the list of “essentials” I’m willing to venture out for. In truth, I’ve been fetching the food every week while Husband re-supplies us with liquor. We risk ourselves for what’s important . . .
There wasn’t a Catholic school in the village where I grew up — so I escaped full indoctrination. We’d get excused from public school early every Tuesday afternoon and trudge a few blocks over to St. Mary’s for catechism class. The nuns carpooled over from the next biggest town, so you never knew who you were going to get. They were tired and unhappy. They’d signed up for the beauty of the cloister and a life devoted to divinity, and instead were carted around farm towns to instruct ignorant disinterested kids. God’s grunt work.
Try a “skinny” margarita – fairly lo cal and harmless if you don’t drink 6 or so. My recipe – 1/4 C silver tequila, the juice of 1 lime, a teaspoon of agave nectar, and a splash of club soda. It’s lighter and not as sweet as the triple sec varieties. My diet conscious wife approves…
Sounds lovely, Clark. I do remember enjoying one too many of your full-strength private-recipe margs at one point. Couldn’t stand the smell of tequila for quite awhile thereafter :-)