Wednesday, December 30, 2009

     Movie goers know that when James Bond orders a martini it is "Shaken, not stirred."  Shaken, but not stirred is my pun about James Bond's famous line.  I am into my second year of unemployment and have found little to motivate me.  Chores I thought would be fun to accomplish in my free time remain undone.  Books I want to read don't hold my interest beyond the first chapters.  Clinical depression and I have been friends and what I have now is not that.  Something to focus on and learn about for the coming year could be very interesting.  My life seems shaken. I do not know what the difference would be in a martini that is shaken compared to stirred.
    I was enlightened the other day watching a bartender contest on the food network.  It was like watching an artist paint.  Mixing drinks is an art, but it also is reminiscent of an alchemist at work. One bartender demonstrated that bartenders don't measure because a proper count of four using a bottle with an attached nozzle yields exactly one ounce.  He measured it with a scientist's beaker to show his skill.
   The art of bartending for a living is for the young.  It can be very demanding.  However, there is the art of mixing drinks for fun and friends.  My New Year's resolution will be to learn about alcohol.  I have never mixed a drink. While others were experimenting in their youth, I was surrounded by alcoholics and I was determined to be the sober one.  At least there was always someone to explain to my ex-husband why he was lying under the canopy that was over our tent in the morning during our camping trip.  A story about a coming storm combined with the high winds that were kicking up and about how dangerous it was to be passed out cold on a bucking dock didn't seem to interest him.  I did drag him as far as I could.  Perhaps I should have joined the partiers.  I continue to abstain, not for religious reasons, but to be the sane one in the crowd. 
   Beer bottles sit for months in my refrigerator. Wine gets poured down the drain long before it is finished.  It would be easier if I knew more about what I was buying.  When I turned 21, I was pregnant and didn’t get to participate in the usual rite of passage.  When I was able to show my identification card and order a drink, I left it to the bartender.  He brought me a White Russian.  Until I began going on business trips to the south, that is what I ordered.  White Russians are too thick and sweet for the hot humid south.  Screwdrivers work.  I remembered a movie where the housewives sitting around the pool ordered Long Island Iced Tea, I tried it and that became my occasional southern comfort. 
   Alcohol and its history could be fun to explore. 

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About Me

Boomer, hippie, yuppie, none of these are me. Born in the 50's, graduated from high school in the 60's, married & had children in the 70's, graduated from college in the 80's, joined corporate America & divorced in the 90's, was an early casualty of the recession in 00's,08, still unemployed in 09.

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