I like beer. And as alcoholic beverages go, that's pretty much where I begin and end. I do prefer good beer, Guinness or Bass or sometimes both. I do not enjoy the watered-down, mass produced garbage they sell at convenience stores. But, still, I'm just a beer guy. Wine and liquor are beyond me. And liquor should remain beyond me.

I haven't had good experiences with liquors and mixed drinks. Not that I've been involved in any kind of alcohol related tragedies or anything. It's just that I'm a beer guy, not a liquor guy, and I'm a redneck, besides. I possess all the urbane sophistication of a roadkill squirrel.

Here's the thing:

There's nothing I enjoy more than unwinding at the end of the day with a cold beer before bedtime. Just one cold beer, mind you. I don't overindulge. All I need is one cold beer to "take the edge off." I enjoy it and I feel like it helps me sleep. Or, at least, it used to help me sleep.

But since I've had bladder problems, if I drink a beer before bedtime I can plan to visit the bathroom six or eight times before sunrise.

So, being an idiot with no memory, I got it into my head that I ought to find a mixed drink that I'd enjoy. That way, I thought, I could drink far less actual liquid, but still have the sense of taking the edge off before bedtime and still enjoy the sleep-related benefits of consuming a small, moderate amount of alcohol.

For some damn fool reason I specifically got it into my head that I would enjoy a White Russian before bed. I bet you they taste like milkshakes, I told myself.

That should be a good indication of how much I know about vodka.

But, nonetheless, I went on the internet and found a recipe for White Russians, and I picked up a bottle of vodka and a bottle of Kahlua on the way home from work the other day. Wendy got me some cream when she went grocery shopping.

So last night I decided to fix myself a drink, as they say, and I went on the internet again to get the "parts" right. You know, one part this, two parts that, etc, etc. But on the net there were a number of different recipes for White Russians, and there was a lot of variance between one recipe and the next.

So I ended up in the kitchen with a number of different recipes, and with my assorted bottles and cartons, and a tumbler, and a measuring cup, and there I was, trying to make this damn drink.

So I'm pouring some of this and some of that, then throwing in an ice cube, then mixing in a little of that, then some more of this, etc, etc. And when I finished I had a glass full of something that looked like a White Russian. And then I took a sip and it felt like someone had punched me in the face. So I mixed in more of this and more of that and took another sip and another punch to the face, and then I gave up.

This failure is consistent with my other mixed drink experiences.

One time many years ago I went to a restaurant with an old girlfriend and we ended up at the bar while we waited for our table. She ordered a drink, a Strawberry Daiquiri, and then the bartender looked at me with that "And you, sir?" look on his face. So I said "Uh, oh, uh, ok, I'll have what she's having."

I hadn't paid attention to what she'd ordered and I didn't really know what a Daiquiri was, anyway.

And then the bartender brought each of us these big, bright pink, frozen things. They each looked to be about a gallon of pink slushy stuff, and they each had a mound of whipped cream on top of them. And they each had little umbrellas and swizzle sticks in them, and I think each of them might have had a Barbi Doll stuck in there, too, and all I could do was look at the smirking bartender with that "What have you done to me?!?" expression on my face, because clearly I hadn't known what I was getting myself into when I'd ordered "what she's having."

Man, I could not have felt more embarrassed or uncomfortable if the bartender had handed me a trucker's hat with the word "SISSY" on it in giant red letters and said "Here, wear this for twenty minutes or so."

And, of course, it was right then that the maitre de announced that our tables were ready and I had to parade through the bar and out into the restaurant carrying this gigantic glass drum full of frozen, pink slush ... this whipped cream topped threat to my 21 year old masculinity ... and I was convinced that everyone in the place was looking at me thinking "Look out, Nancy-boy there might spill some of his slushy sweetness on you."

Another time I ended up in this noisy country bar with a buddy of mine and this girl we worked with and a friend of hers, and I had this vague feeling that I was the "wing man," and i really just wanted to leave and go ... somewhere, anywhere ... where there wasn't a terrible band playing off-key George Strait songs.

But instead I went to the bar with the rest of them and when the bartender looked at me I was again overcome by my stupidity, my insecurity, and my desperate need to have occasional mixed-drink related bad experiences. So the bartender asked me what I wanted and I was, in that instant, convinced that it was imperative that I order a mixed drink (but NOT a Daiquiri). By ordering a mixed drink, I told myself, I'd impress everyone with my adroit savoir-faire.

So I asked for a Rob Roy.

In a country bar.

And the bartender looked at me as though I'd asked her for a magical pony. And it was then that I looked around and realized that I would now be the only person in the bar not drinking out of a bottle. And the bartender disappeared and came back and handed me something in a glass, and I don't know what it was because, truth be told, I didn't know what a Rob Roy was then and I don't know now. But, whatever it was, it smelled like paint. And I drank it one painful, grimacing sip at a time ... and to this day I have to wonder if the bartender gave me that glass of something (maybe paint?) just to see if I'd actually drink it.

I don't remember what happened next, but I'm certain that it was miserable. The night may have ended with me sitting outside on the curb, quietly crying to myself and singing along as the band played "All My Exes Live In Texas."

So that's my history with mixed drinks. And that's why I currently have a small bottle of vodka and a small bottle of Kahlua in my freezer, and why I have no interest in ever opening either one again.

And if you're a beer drinker, drink one for me, won't you?

Labels: Humor, Personal