Random Margarita Thoughts
This afternoon I’m heading to the nearest liquor store to pick up some ingredients for margaritas tonight. I wish I could say I will be enjoying the margaritas immediately, but I suppose I shouldn’t drink at work no matter how desperately I want to (this goes for work and certain RSVPs to our wedding that we’ve gotten today; the things that IP and I feared have come to pass, godfuckingshitdammitalltofuckinghell). I’ll save the drinking for tonight when IP and I sit down to watch the State of the Union address.
(Seriously, before I moved to D.C.? I never watched the SOTU, given by the POTUS, attended by the SCOTUS. I suppose you could say I’ve been a bit more interested since I moved here. Now it’s a tradition in our household that will probably endure when we move away. Out west. Where there is no Metro. Iwisse, amen.)
Why margaritas, though? I honestly don’t know. I find myself craving them, and if I am inclined to do so, I’m more than capable of doing shots of tequila for a SOTU drinking game (yes, I am currently searching for one, why do you ask?). My first shot of tequila came in Guam not too long ago (yes, I am Mexican, why do you ask?). You read that right—I only entertain new drinking experiences when I find myself in isolated U.S. territories.
I obviously don’t plan on getting messed up tonight—I do have 89 days to go before I simultaneously have a day off and turn 31—so you can breathe easy knowing I won’t be hurting tomorrow. Like I said, I’m really just in the mood for a margarita. Maybe it’s because the people sitting next to us at the Jonathan Coulton concert had a few; those margaritas looked pretty good (by that time, I was too far into my beer consumption [which I had actually already ditched for water and soda] to seriously consider a switch to liquor).
Having a margarita, taking maybe a shot or two always reminds me of my grandfather, a man who had a gallon of tequila by his side every day (from which he would take long gulps as if it were water—and he never seemed drunk, which was odd). This is a man who used to casually mention that oh, by the way, he was stung by several scorpions while out in the field today—no, he doesn’t feel bad and no, he doesn’t need to see a doctor. I think his blood alcohol level probably killed the scorpions, but despite his fondness for tequila, he was a wonderful grandfather and much loved by his friends and neighbors. He was probably the gentlest human being I’ve ever known; if I had inherited his calm demeanor, poor IP might be a bit less frazzled by me. My grandmother worshiped him and wasn’t the same after he died.
My father used to be a good drinker, too, but if you matched him up against my grandfather? My poor dad would be under the table in two seconds flat. Sorry, Dad, but it’s true!
So I will brave the cold and get the makings of margaritas for IP and me. After all, we have a new president to drink to and we’re mourning the sullying of our guest list. Joye and gle for the former; o, paine and wo for the latter!
(Yes, I’m feeling very Middle English-y today. Why do you ask?)
