Martoonies

I didn't intend to have four martinis. You don't put on your calendar that a week from Tuesday you'll go out and have four martinis. But I met friends for dinner at a bar, had dinner, and still didn't feel quite wound down from a stressful week. Stern measures must be taken, I thought. Thus a martini, Tanqueray, three olives. It came, and I was disappointed. A good martini, especially a good gin martini, is like pine-scented mountain air. Of course, it's also pretty much straight booze too, so you drink it with a delight tinged by the certain knowledge of pain to come. But I didn't drink this one with delight. It was blah. Seriously blah. So I hurried through it and ordered another, assuming it was a fluke. It was no fluke. The next one was the identical twin in blahness to its predecessor.

This, I thought, will not stand! So we took it downstairs where the drinks are mixed by professional mixers, not by the eye candy upstairs. Ah! I sipped with the delight I had sought before. Drank it to the dregs. And why not treat myself to more delight, life being short and the night being young? And so I did. Walked home too, more or less in a straight line. Tried to read in bed, but mostly slept in bed. Woke up—and this is the only thing that worries me—not feeling too bad. I think my brain is completely scarred over at this point. But I didn't black out or anything. I remember everything. Including which floor to order martinis on next time.