Friday, July 20, 2012
My wife, Cupcake, is a tea-totaller. Not that she limits her beverages totally to just tea-based products, of course. She will have hot chocolate, too, but only if I prepare it. Apparently, I make cocoa so deliciously tasty, Cupcake claims she couldn’t possibly produce a cup that could rival the chocolately-goodness of my concoction, even with my simple recipe. Some may say I’m an unwitting victim of a scheme by Cupcake to ensure I make her cocoa on demand. I can’t believe she would ever do anything so underhanded. That would be like calling my siblings liars for saying I was the bestest Kool-Aid maker of anybody, even though I was youngest (and still am.) Being on permanent Freshie duty was a badge of honour. Even if it’s true my wife is manipulating me to get waited on, I don’t care. I am consoled by the fact there is at least one thing Cupcake thinks I can do well.
Her hot drink preferences aside, Cupcake does not, however, enjoy cold drinks; at least ones with alcohol in them. If I had a buck for every time she’s turned down a liquor-ish libation, I’d have enough for a warehouse full of wobbly-pops.
“You know I don’t drink,” Cupcake snorts when offered. “Don’t you remember what happened last time?”
I do remember, of course, although it’s a challenge as it happened about 27 years ago. It was a night when my ball team was celebrating yet another moral victory for playing so amazingly well, we were spared the ignominy of a ‘mercy rule’ loss. Our team motto was ‘Set Your Sights Low’.
The first thing Cupcake did at the almost-victory celebration was to try and be ‘one of the guys’ and chug-a-lug an entire beer. I’ve seen her do this as often as I’ve seen her get married; in other words, just the once. For one thing, she hates the taste of beer in her mouth, the after-taste of beer in her sinuses and the beer she tastes when she kisses my mouth. Luckily for her, she has found a number of effective strategies for avoiding tasting beer breath on me. They mostly have to do with staying as far away from me as she can get while still being in the same general area. She’ll hang out with the other ladies in the kitchen, for example, while I’m with the guys partying in the garage, or she’ll be in the bedroom on the bed while I am out in the doghouse snoring like a chainsaw.
This is why I was astonished to see her knock back the brewski like a pro. I wouldn’t have been more surprised than if she had hit a homerun in our ball game, especially considering she only kept score for us. She followed the long-gone lager with a bunch of vodka and orange juices.
‘If you mix some milk of magnesia in there, we could have Philips screwdrivers,” she giggled.
Cupcake also consumed a goodly number of shooters, as well. That was due to peer group pressure, however. For some reason, when slow-pitch ladies gather, they feel a need to order girlie shots as a group, before they all march off to the bathroom together; probably to plan what girlie shots to order next. The shots they fancy have vaguely naughty names such as “sex on the beach” and the ever-popular “orgasm” with its trademark spritz of canned whipped cream. These girlie shooters are inevitably vile concoctions and should never be consumed at the same time as either beer, wine or hard liquor. In fact, the only smart thing to have with these shooters is Imodium. Unfortunately, however, despite my warnings, Cupcake was painting the town and there was nothing I could say to stop her. Mind you I have the same problem when she’s sober, too.
By the end of the night, the team was sloshed and our loyal score keeper was even ‘sloshed-er’. It was only a modest three block walk home but the distance was much longer because our steps weren’t always aiming directly at our destination.
Suddenly, about halfway home, Cupcake announced she was going to be sick. Being the loving, caring, sensitive husband I was back then, I dissolved into a helpless heap of laughter. Cupcake was foaming and bubbling like a vomit-flavoured slurpee machine gone mad.
“Bend and puke!” Bend and puke!” I coached from the sidelines. “You’re going to make a mess of your… ooohhh… never mind.”
“My new shoes!” Cupcake wailed. “They’re rooned!”
“Don’t worry, honey,” I consoled her. “I’ll hose them off. I just want to get you home and get you to bed.”
“Izzat all you think of? Getting me in bed?” she slurred in earnest. “Jess because I’m inoobriated… inbruliated… a lil tipsy… doesn’t mean you can take advantage of me! Get away from me! Wait! The road started spinning! Get back here!”
By an amazing processes whereby we carried each other home, we finally made it safely back to the house. Cupcake didn’t bother trying to wash the shoes but put them directly in the garbage. Even if they could have been reclaimed, Cupcake couldn’t bear the thought of puked-on pumps.
Ever since then she has drank alcohol about as much as the average kindergarten class, not counting the teacher. I’ve explained that there are other points on the imbibing continuum between total abstinence and footwear destroying benders but she is resolute. It is sometimes a minor irritant but at least when we go out together, there’s no question who will be the designated drinker.
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