I was out very late at a sensible business dinner in midtown that turned into a bit of a Scotch-driven drunkfest in SoHo. My clients/hosts for the evening (designers who are working up the jackets for a couple new cookbook proposals) are the types to know from experience their way around a wine list. They chose lush California Zinfandels, spicy, electric Riojas from Spain, and delicately rose-perfumed Italian Barberas. The good shit. More, then more, then more. We sniffed, swirled, sipped away the freezing cold night, work and pleasure blending, well, pleasurably.
We climbed in a cab to head downtown, questioning why we had endured mediocre, over-priced food in the Theatre District, when we all knew better than to settle for that domestic burrata. But, we’d plowed through six bottles of wine, which kept the complaints about the food to a minimum. There were four of us. Me the only woman.
It must be one of my tragic flaws that I always think I can compete on any playing field.
So, when wine no longer seemed to hold any interest, and the call for 18-year-old Glenrothes Scotch was made, I was brave/stupid enough to declare myself game and forge ahead into the danger zone of a promised Mix-and-Match Hangover. I achieved as much the next morning, but not before boring the designers with stories of scotch drinking with Sara and Amanda in Dublin during college, dancing awkwardly in my seat to Kanye’s latest (“His shit is SO HOT!”), and getting hit on by the 24-year-old intern (who, knowing I’m from Texas, thought it would be charming to recite every line from every country music song he knew in an accent that sounded more Atlanta than Amarillo).
I hung on ‘til the bitter end, mostly keeping my decorum in tact in the presence of the colleagues, until I got home, got naked, and tried to make toast in a pan (it burned). I gave up and got into bed. I turned on HBO and Bill Maher, my real favorite Friday night date. My head was spinning, but I was sharp enough to curse aloud at the young, conservative woman’s point of view (“Don’t you know anything about the politics of your own self-interests?!”) and laugh at the sardonic Richard Belzer’s Bush-bashing.
“I should get out my credit card, get on my computer, and make a huge donation to Barack Obama’s presidential campaign!”
“I can make a difference,” I thought. “Help change history! Help elect a visionary! Maybe all he needs is a few more dollars to put him over the top, get the nomination, get elected President, bring admiration from the rest of theworld to the United States and achieve peace in the Middle East. He’s just waiting for my contribution!”
I vaguely remembered this mental monologue this morning when I stumbled into my office, on the way back from throwing up in the bathroom, and saw my credit card sitting on the computer keyboard, Barack smiling out of the screen at my naked self, thanking me for donating to his historic campaign.
I drunk donated.
If he wins, thank Glenrothes.