Tag Archives: cocktails

That Margarita, Though

Posted on by
1

Bad days that follow good times feel somehow worse, as though reality wishes to remind you that you’re not on holiday anymore, you have responsibilities and the occasional wild card, so here’s one to remember that with.

I left my last aunt’s house at 6:30 am on Sunday. Four days of visiting relatives, attending conferences, making strategy, and running around with childhood friends from my old neighborhood would culminate in getting to my parents’ house in time to see my sister, who was there helping them get their wills finalized.

This was a big deal, the moment when “what happens if” became a certain plan involving who had what decisions to make and who would come live with them and inherit the house, all the things. My sister and I had agreed an amiable plan, and we really wanted to celebrate it with Sunday fun before they went to the lawyer’s office Monday.

My tire blew at 9:30. There was a rest area right there and off I wobbled–knowing what that smell, that sound, and that pull to the right meant. But hey, I had Triple A, hurray hurray!

Yeah, right.

Four hours later the tow truck took me five miles on their dime and another three on mine. Every time I called to check progress, they told me the tow truck would be there within 45 minutes. A nice truck driver offered to help me, but the Prius had no spare. A couple of people asked if they could do anything, but the tire store open on Sunday was behind us, northbound, and everyone at the rest area was going south. So Triple A got a scathing review, and I got a new tire at 3:30 pm.

Which meant the day with my sister was lost. I should have been there at 1, but still had three hours of driving. After a few phone calls (hands-free, of course) we agreed I would shop up Monday after the wills and we’d all grab lunch before I had to conduct business in Knoxville for my day job.

So I drove another couple of hours until the emotional and physical exhaustion of a packed week of extroverting coupled with the anger of realizing Triple A was a scam and I’d been took suggested now would be a good time to pull over.

I pulled off in some little town called London, Kentucky, and found a hotel with a pool. By then I was starving, and 600 feet straight down the road was this little shack of a restaurant labeled “Mexican Grille”

Whatever. I stashed my stuff in the room and walked to the place, decorated like every other Mexican foodery in America. I ordered a veggie quesadilla and the house margarita.

A minute later the waitress brought me a party in a swimming pool. I’ve seen hotel bathtubs smaller than that thing. I stared at the sparkler, which seemed to be singing something to the effect of “THE SUN’LL COME OUUUUUUT TOMORRRRROWWWW” while simultaneously promising immediate delights.

It had five pieces of fruit, three pieces of candy, and a rubber duck hanging off its rim in addition to the sparkler. Forget salted rim; there was no rim showing beneath that stuff.

The waitress openly laughed at my face, and then she patted me on the shoulder and left.

I don’t think I’ll ever know if she read my face and added a few things, or if that’s the way the margarita sparkles in London, Kentucky, in this tiny little shack of a restaurant by the side of the road in this deserted small Appalachian town.

It was the next day, talking to Jack (hands-free!) as I drove down to Knoxville that he pointed out where I had been: THAT London, where the guy had shot up the highway before disappearing. Well, maybe that explained why the place was so empty and the hotel and the restaurant were so friendly and kind. They were recovering from a very bad week as well.

The sparkler told the truth: in all the hard times and strange circumstances, we still have Light to guide us, some fun to have, a few delightful surprises to lift our spirits in bad times, and always, the friends and family who undergird our lives. Thank God for London, for sweet waitresses who makes amazing margaritas, and for sparklers.

The People You Meet When Cruising

Posted on by
2

Wendy returns, as promised, to sharing details of her and Jack’s recent Alaskan cruise

We met Melissa in one of the Alaskan cruise ship’s eight or fifteen bars – I never did get an accurate count. The different locations had varying personalities: poolside cheery, upscale top deck, and the British-feel pub (Oak and something, they’re all named Oak and something) down in the bowels of level 4.


Since the ship requires you to buy a drinks package (unlimited drink, obscene amount of money), I had made it my aim to try two new-to-me cocktails every day. Research, you understand, because I am an academic.

Having been told to try a Boston Iced Tea Party at the Oak and something, I slipped onto the bar stool next to Jack, at the corner adjoining the short end of the bar. Hearing of my quest, Roy-the-bartender began to suggest cocktails I might want to write down and try later.

At the short edge of the bar, leaning casually against the wall, sat a pretty woman, dark-complected, a sturdy kind of plump, and with a light to her face that signaled she enjoyed life. When she heard what Roy was proposing—a particular kind of “dirty martini,” she suggested an Espresso Martini. “It’s the kind of drink you can only have before noon,” she said with a grin.

The bartender agreed and a minute later, I had one in front of me.

Holy cow – the buzz could have been triple sec, coffee beans, or turpentine. I don’t know. I don’t remember a lot about the drink.

Melissa, as her name turned out to be, was on holiday after switching jobs. She had been a manager for a busy Best Buy and decided life was not as she wished it. Having gotten her real estate license, she was exploring her interest in “people, houses, and money.”

Nobody’s fool, Melissa wanted to live a comfortable life, but she also wanted to do more than “sell people bigger appliances than they can afford, while deluding them it would make them happy.”

As we chatted, Melissa shot us a swift, assessing look, then said her wife was on the cruise with her. It was a five-year anniversary event, as well as a change of life celebration. “I’m from a very traditional Catholic Hispanic family. We grew up a block away from each other, and it was a significant difference. My family had money, and I was the youngest girl. She was the oldest child in her family that didn’t have money. We didn’t know each other until high school, when she suddenly invited me to a club meeting.”

“And that’s how you got together?”

Melissa tossed the next line off casually. “No, we weren’t allowed to be gay in high school. It was after, when I was in college and she was working that we went to the same party and she said, ‘I remember you.’”

“She’d had a secret crush?” My romantic husband’s eyes lit up.

With a shrug, Melissa said, “I didn’t remember her. And she said that wasn’t unusual because all the people on my street were snobs. Which made me mad, and we didn’t speak the rest of the party. But I saw her a few days later in the store and told her off. And then I asked her out. Then we were together until it was legal to get married. That gave my parents time to get used to the idea. My dad walked me down the aisle. Her dad wouldn’t attend.”

Melissa paused, took a sip of her whiskey and soda, and said, “Actually, I think he was pissed his oldest girl was marrying a snob from across the tracks more than anything.”

We gave polite chuckles. I ventured a question: “So your family was accepting from the beginning?”

Melissa laughed. “No. My grandma said I would burn in hell, and she didn’t want that for me. You don’t know guilt until you’ve met an abuela. My dad went with the ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy, and my mom acted like I had a life partner I loved. She took it in stride. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend, do they respect you and will you get bored of each other?’”

I smiled back. “Moms tend to get it right first.”

“They do,” said Melissa. “They really do. When I told her I wanted to get married, to a girl, she told me, ‘The greatest happiness a child should be able to give their mother is to watch them be happy in life.’”

Talk flowed to our plans for docking in Skagway the next day—Melissa knew someone in town who was picking them up for a meal. Jack and I were casually meandering the tourist trap stores and then walking up to a waterfall. We parted with handshakes. I never saw Melissa again.

What fascinating, lovely stories people hold inside them.