We went out for cocktails last week, after a slight misunderstanding. We were supposed to go to a party at four, so I'd put makeup on and blowdried my hair and bought what I thought was baklawa to bring along with us. Then I'd sat at home with my party dress on me, tick tocking, til Andrew arrived home at six with five pints on him. "We'll leave at seven" I had said. "We'll leave the party at seven with an invented excuse so that I don't have to spend more than three hours straight playing nice with strangers" is what I meant. I'd planned to leave home by half three.
I was cross, but there's little point in being cross with a genuinely apologetic man full of Guinness. Still, I was cross. I'd been sitting on the couch feeling like a pig in lipstick for two hours at that stage, and I was hungry. Green Nineteen, I decided, for a mojito. Because if I don't, my patience will wear off at about the same time as his beer.
I ordered the burrito and a mojito, because they rhyme. He ordered a mai tai, and the waiter snickered. It tasted like dissolved boiled sweets. After dinner we moved on to Solas. While the mojito had taken the edge off my crankiness, I was still skirting dangerously close to a hands-on-hips stereotypical wifey strop of the you-never-listen-to-me-when-I'm-talking-to-you variety. And sure if he'd wanted that he'd have married a teacher, and I'd have married someone who never fucking listens to me when I'm talking to him.
I ordered a caipirinha. He ordered a Turkey Lurkey; a horrifying red, green and brown striped concoction in a long glass. I ordered a second caipirinha. He ordered something purple with prosecco in it. I ordered a white russian, which came with a flake. "Do you want me to wait til you've ordered before I go to the bathroom?" I asked. "I can pick my own!" he spluttered. When I came back, he was sipping from another long glass full of disappointment, this time filled with white wine, elderflower cordial and pear vodka. I laughed at him and ate my flake.
On the way home, we stopped at the offy so that he could buy some Baileys and Kahlua to make some white russians of his own. Yes, I know (and he knows) that you don't put Baileys in white russians. And he didn't, because there on the shelf by the Baileys was a bottle of Maloney's Irish Cream. You should have seen his little eyes light up when the shop assistant scanned it in at €7.99. We got home, I got into bed, he got busy in the kitchen. He got stuck into the tray of what I'd thought was baklawa, only to discover that they were marzipan cakes. Disgusted, he brought a half-eaten one in to me as proof of his disappointment (and he was right, they were very disappointing) before returning to the kitchen to mix his drink. And then "PUSSYCAT!" came the horrified bellow "IT'S A MIXTURE OF CREAM AND WHITE WINE!" Undeterred, he slopped a load of Kahlua and milk in on top of it, added a Cadbury's Twirl and brought it to bed with him. "White wine, Pussycat!" he wailed between sips. "What Machiavellian bastard thought of mixing cream and white wine and bottling it to sell to... to..."
"Protestants" I offered.
I was cross, but there's little point in being cross with a genuinely apologetic man full of Guinness. Still, I was cross. I'd been sitting on the couch feeling like a pig in lipstick for two hours at that stage, and I was hungry. Green Nineteen, I decided, for a mojito. Because if I don't, my patience will wear off at about the same time as his beer.
I ordered the burrito and a mojito, because they rhyme. He ordered a mai tai, and the waiter snickered. It tasted like dissolved boiled sweets. After dinner we moved on to Solas. While the mojito had taken the edge off my crankiness, I was still skirting dangerously close to a hands-on-hips stereotypical wifey strop of the you-never-listen-to-me-when-I'm-talking-to-you variety. And sure if he'd wanted that he'd have married a teacher, and I'd have married someone who never fucking listens to me when I'm talking to him.
I ordered a caipirinha. He ordered a Turkey Lurkey; a horrifying red, green and brown striped concoction in a long glass. I ordered a second caipirinha. He ordered something purple with prosecco in it. I ordered a white russian, which came with a flake. "Do you want me to wait til you've ordered before I go to the bathroom?" I asked. "I can pick my own!" he spluttered. When I came back, he was sipping from another long glass full of disappointment, this time filled with white wine, elderflower cordial and pear vodka. I laughed at him and ate my flake.
On the way home, we stopped at the offy so that he could buy some Baileys and Kahlua to make some white russians of his own. Yes, I know (and he knows) that you don't put Baileys in white russians. And he didn't, because there on the shelf by the Baileys was a bottle of Maloney's Irish Cream. You should have seen his little eyes light up when the shop assistant scanned it in at €7.99. We got home, I got into bed, he got busy in the kitchen. He got stuck into the tray of what I'd thought was baklawa, only to discover that they were marzipan cakes. Disgusted, he brought a half-eaten one in to me as proof of his disappointment (and he was right, they were very disappointing) before returning to the kitchen to mix his drink. And then "PUSSYCAT!" came the horrified bellow "IT'S A MIXTURE OF CREAM AND WHITE WINE!" Undeterred, he slopped a load of Kahlua and milk in on top of it, added a Cadbury's Twirl and brought it to bed with him. "White wine, Pussycat!" he wailed between sips. "What Machiavellian bastard thought of mixing cream and white wine and bottling it to sell to... to..."
"Protestants" I offered.
