Everyday I learn something new. Yesterday, much to my surprise, I learned that I am not married to a "real man." Nope. That guy who has been lying beside me and fulfilling my needs for thirty-five years is a wimp, a wuss, a sissy. How could I not have known? The proof was there, written in salt and lime, every time we went out for drinks, but I was blinded by love -- and tequila.
Morning drive time radio is an education -- at least during the fifteen minutes it takes me to drive to work. Between the commentary and the fans who call in during a broadcast, my horizons are broadened with the expertise of a professor teaching a master's class in psychology -- and all I have to do is tune my dial to WIRK 107.9. Jeff Elliott and Bill Adams have an easy style which draws the listener to them and, when joined by Sandra Fox and Tiny, the banter can be hilarious....and shocking. Well, shocking to me. After yesterday's show, I may never have sex with my husband again.
Since my attention was somewhat hampered by trying to avoid the landscape truck driver who thought my car was a lawn in need of mowing, I did not really catch the beginning of the segment in question. Once I was sure that I was no longer in danger of being mulched and scattered by the roadside, I picked up on the small talk.
My understanding is that Jeff, Bill and Sandra (maybe, Tiny, too) took a trip to Universal Studios in Orlando. The day was sweltering and the threesome was badly in need of fluids. They stopped at the Hard Rock Cafe to quench their thirsts and here is where the trouble started. Sandra and Jeff ordered something that came in a short glass with ice. Bill ordered a margarita. All good so far.
When the waitress brought their orders, Jeff noticed that Bill's drink was not what he thought it should be. He suggested that Bill stop the waitress before she moved away from their table and have his order corrected. Bill was confused. Here's my interpretation of the conversation that took place at that moment:
Jeff: "Hey, Bill, catch the waitress before she disappears."
Bill: "Huh? Why?"
Jeff: "Your margarita. It's frozen."
Bill: "Yeah?"
Jeff: "You didn't order it that way.....DID YOU?!
Bill: "Ahhhhhh..."
At this point, incredulity registers on Jeff's and Sandra's faces because REAL MEN DON'T DRINK FROZEN MARGARITAS IN AIR CONDITIONED BUILDINGS! Exceptions can be made for ordering a glass of alcoholic frozen slush if a man is being subjected to 110 degree heat with no shelter from the sun's burnings rays and provided no fancy fruity versions are substituted for the normal lime infused refresher. Any other scenario and a guy should be prepared to turn in his man card.
No amount of arguing on Bill's part could change their minds. Frozen margaritas equal banishment from the ranks of he-men everywhere. As the umpire says, "You're out!"
Needless to say, when I got home last night, I was a little hesitant to get close to my guy. Sure, I wanted to kiss him, but Jeff's words kept echoing in my ears. A wuss? A weenie? Overcoming my initial revulsion, I moved in close and planted one on his lips. They were cold. In fact, his tongue felt like an icicle. Opening my eyes, I peaked over his shoulder and my heart sank. There, on the counter, was the blender....and, god, no....strawberries!
I think I'll sleep in the guest room tonight.
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Kate O'hehir
Brassawe
PlannerDan
Surazeus
A North American
November Skies
Salon.com
Comments
It's the least I could do to repay you for all your wise and wonderful posts.
Glad I brought a chuckle to your morning. BTW - You can redeem yourself by not drinking that creamsicle through a straw. My son informs me that straws are really BIG no-nos.
I prefer them without ice crystals! -- but I get your meaning.
Of course, if I am at a business function, I get a gin and tonic. But that can be our little secret.
You do know this post was written strictly tongue in salt and lime with a heavy dose of ice -- DON'T YOU? Will you invite me to your next party? I'll bring the mango mix.
Czar: Pink is a good color with naked.
Okay, no mango. What about pineapple? I had a dynamite pineapple margarita at Cabo Flats last week. Think I'm addicted.
Actuallly, you should let your husband know that servers all across the nation dread hearing "frozen margarita" and immediately think of bachelorette parties and time consuming, noisy blending.
It's not just men - NOBODY should drink "frozen" drinks.
It's not like frozen margaritas are an entry drug to gayness like Skittles. Frozen margaritas are pretty hard core queer. I bet you have seem the repercussions of his queer-diction and have just not realized what they were.
When he goes to the hardware store does he inevitably drive over to the pastel paint section?
When he's thirsty has he been asking for pink lemonade?
Have you found argyle socks buried in the back of his dresser drawers?
Has he EVER picked up a copy of Cosmo?
Thought so.
Like I say, sorry hon, but you've lost him. Until he hits bottom (sweater tied around his neck over his pastel sports shirt as he studies the hang of your curtains, for example) he'll just keep getting worse and worse.
You might as well start looking up your local chapter of Alsaqueer in the phone book. You'll need the support.
No argyle socks or pastel shirts as yet, but there was a time he wore bow ties. Does that count?