Aimee just put her man on a plane to Boston, and called me up ’cause she’s cool. We’re gonna meet for a cocktail at five! How cool is that?! A cocktail! With a girlfriend! It’s like I have friends or something!

Last night I stopped at The Dew Drop for a cocktail on my way home from work. Sometimes you need a bit of a buffer between the Internet and cooking dinner, if you know what I mean. (The cocktails at The Dew Drop are so fucking hefty that I wondered if I was over the legal limit while driving home, and I only drank one. In a short glass.)

My favorite cocktail – for the past few years – is the Scarlet O’Hara: Southern Comfort and cranberry juice. It’s delish.

Once my drink was the Snakebite: Yukon Jack on the rocks, with a dash of Rose’s Lime Juice. (No, I don’t know what the hell my problem was.) I started drinking them, then all the bartenders got to know that that was my drink, and would have one made in the time it took me to enter the door and cross to a barstool. When someone has your drink ready before you even sit down it seems rude to refuse it, so I ended up drinking Snakebites for quite awhile longer than I’d intended to, just because it was so cool to be known in that way.

I will probably never drink another Snakebite ever again. *shudder*

I wish I knew what the hell I’d been served at The Backroads last weekend, the fruity thing in the martini glass. It was quite refreshing, and I’d order myself one of those after work tonight if only I knew what it was.

Once I saw an episode of Match Game ’76 (yes, I realize I’m dating myself with that admission) in which one of the contestants identified herself as a being “a cocktologist.” I was old enough to know that that was fucking hilarious, even though she insisted it meant she was a bartender and I was probably younger than ten.

I really like to say the word “cocktail.” Cocktail!