White wine is my elixir of choice, and I could fill a small town water tower with the gallons I have swilled and spilled over the years. However, to put it nicely, white wine does not agree with me.
Actually, when I have a glass of wine it leads to many glasses of wine. It’s like someone screams from the wings, “Release the Kraken!” and I burst from my underwater cage to heave about – eating people and sinking ships… As my daughter Lauren says, “You’re kind of a mean drunk Mom.”
I still go to bars occasionally. Ordering a drink at a bar when one is sober is kind of embarrassing. I feel like one of those women who go on DIETS and then annoy their lunch mates, by studying the menu like there’s going to be a fucking test, and asking the waiter, “Is this cooked with butter?” I feel obvious and cranky and the worse kind of persnickety.
And I don’t want to stand there with a cup of tea, or a Coca-Cola, like Angela Lansbury in Murder She Wrote – the old bag who’s the only one sober enough to figure out Who-Done-It.
Here’s what I order: Perrier, with a splash of cranberry, in a wine glass – no ice. I call it a Cocktail.
In England one must order a dollop of cranberry or those frugal pub tenders present you with a glass of gassy water spoiled. It’s like they’re harkening back to the WAR – rationing silk stockings and juice.
Like a child with those rubber strapped, plastic high heals, I feel like I’m pretending to be an adult. The only problem with my “Cocktail” as a barroom ruse, is that it looks like White Zinfandel. Need I say more?
: I have to find my keys and the key fob, and get the leash and the biodegradable poop bags, and walk to the elevator, and go down the fourteen floors, and across the underground parking lot, and go outside (even in a torrential downpour), and across the driveway, and across the street to the exact, same spot, so Fiona can go to the bathroom.