Craig and I are now officially Bartenders.
Our course took only two weeks but by the end of it we had memorised oh about 45 (MILLION) drinks.
The worst part of the exam was the practical test where we had to make 3 drinks in 5 minutes and not-enough seconds.
I was assigned a Long Black (yes, coffee), a Cosmopolitan and a Sex on the Beach.
Tutor : And what’s this one?
Me : A Sex on the Beach
Tutor : And what’s in it?
Me : uh Vodka-Peach-Melon, half a shot of Raspberry and 50/50 Orange Juice and Cranberry …
Tutor : … you sure? I thought there was … triple sec …
Me : No, Very Pretty Mrs Robinson
Tutor : … I can’t stump you can I?
Earlier that week, discussing shots.
Tutor: Ok. An Unlawful Carnal Knowledge, otherwise known as?
Entire Class : Quick Fuck!
Now, both Craig and I come from families were swearing is rare if not uncommon and even I seem to be stuck in 1950s Britain and am just as likely to be caught saying Shoot! or Blast! or oh Bother as Cunting Motherfucker.
In fact, the few times I’ve dropped the f-bomb in these pages Craig has actually said to be “But … our families might read it!” … yes dear, but they know we’re practically grown ups.
But somehow, it still feels just Wrong to be talked about a drink called Sex On The Beach or Cupid’s Cum with my parents. In order to cope I tend to adopt the same face I use in the supermarket queue when buying condoms (or as in one unfortunate shopping list, lettuce, cucumber, vaseline, hairdye, wine and condoms) which is wide-eyed, eyebrows relaxed and raised just a fraction, and a vague but genuine smile. The key is to will yourself to NOT look at your shoes or Anywhere-but-at-the-cashier because that just gives you away as totally Not Cool with Buying Condoms (or, Swearing).
The worst thing? Sex on The Beach is a really really nice, really really girly drink. And I love it. So I don’t think I’ll get away with not saying it. Ever.
Hm. This entry was not meant to be about swearing or buying condoms. I blame the Wine. It causes the destination of all my trains of thought to be south of the border.
[I should clarify, I am not drunk as I type this. I'm at work! but I wrote it on Friday night and I May or May Not have been drunk then.]
Oh. That’s right. Craig and I are now possibly the Worst People Ever to take to a bar, or to a restaurant that serves drinks.
Craig’s Mother took us out to a nice lunch in a pub-style restaurant in Devonport …
Craig: Tsch! You’re not meant to give straws to me
Me: No, Orange Juice and Coke etcetera always come with a straw, in a highball glass.
Me: Hey baby, look they have Bulleit Bournon
Craig: And CC
Me: And Galliano, and Johnny Walker Red
Me: Oh! did she-
Craig: She just used a glass as an Ice Scoop!
Me: Tsch. You NEVER use a glass as an Ice Scoop!
And so on and so forth.
We’re not Wine-eys, but we’ve become cocktail&bar-service-eys which is almost as bad.
I feel for all of you.
Excepting, of course, my dear Kat who did the exact same bar course and is probably just as cbs-ey as us.
Jumping back a carriage (and continuing the painful train metaphor) to the subject of my In-Laws, Craig and I have just returned from our Secret, Hidden Weekend which was a trip to Auckland to Surprise Craig’s Mother for her Birthday. AND! I’m pretty certain that it worked which is probably the most shocking thing of all.
So we spent 4 days in Auckland, marvelling at that big round yellow thing in the sky, and surprised by the lack of rain and the strange absence of the nagging fear of frostnip, finally returning to a Wellington where it rained 3 days straight and we feared flooding.
It was good to be home.
After two straight days of curling up with my sick husband, my amazing immune system seems to have succumbed to whatever it is that he has and now we’re both sick.