I sit here Sunday morning, a football widow for the day (He ["H"] FINALLY left after pacing around questioning the tardiness of his ride coming from one street over: "It's 8:02 - He said he'd be here by 8." "Why don't you grab your 3 cases of beer, seventeen pounds of raw meat and, I don't know - start WALKING!" I want to reply.) But I believe he is entitled to this day of no responsibilities; of reliving his youthful days of manly Sunday camaraderie gathered around a hibachi and a cooler; a day he has been planning, strategizing and justifying for what seems like weeks.
You would think he hasn't been out of the house for months, though, the way he joyfully roused himself at 6:30 to marinade steak tips, carve ice sculptures for a freshly-sanitized cooler (at least that's what I assume he did with the ice pick and all that pent-up anxiousness), and watch the Doppler radar over and over like a child tracking Santa's sleigh on Christmas Eve ("You see, right there, kids -- it's breaking up! That gigantic blob of green rain will give way to blue skies at precisely 1:00 in Foxborough. Not sure about here in Scituate - you and Mom may be out of luck. Here, let's watch it again...")
Not that it matters whether it rains, snows or drops firebombs at the Patriots' stadium -- the men (okay, 'boys') are child-free, woman-free and carefree, and damn it, they are going to make the most of this 16-hour window of self-centeredness. They all left their money worries, honey-do lists and disciplining desires in rainy Scituate. Friendly Foxborough, on the other hand, holds only the worries of beer quantities, fantasy league trading opportunities and whether or not the Hiram Walker Promotions Girls' skimpy outfits will be covered up by rain gear (Probably not, since it never rains in Foxborough)
So here I sit, popping left-over cupcake martini garnishes, Snickers bars and Peppermint Patties (I asked you to hide them on me, H!!), to snap me out of my morning fog and provide some much-needed caffeine. You see, H and I have been playing the "Since you are going out this night, then I am going out that night" game for the two past weeks; and last night was my night - a late one. We've been jockeying for entitlement and excitement the only way we can these days - without the other.
That's the theme of our entertainment opportunities lately: Girls Nights Out and Guys Nights (or "days") Out. It may have started when he referred to my bartending work as "going out 2 nights a week" - you can imagine the "discussion" that ensued from that utterly absurd observation. Yet, the gauntlet had been thrown, and I, loving a passive aggressive competition as I do, held up my end. (So, yes, I sometimes now, without guilt, go out AFTER work. Yawn.)
Two weeks ago, H mentioned in passing, as if it was a given, that Sundays would inevitably be spent experiencing football - whether games were 'home' or 'away'. That was on a Wednesday, the day before his usual night out, Thursdays. The possible tenor of the next 4 football months flashed suddenly before my eyes: H out Thursday and Sunday, I work Friday and Saturday. I immediately claimed that next night as my own, justifying it as us both having a night out, without working. And we were off....!
Thursday: Girls Night Out. Fun time. So fun that I decided the following Thursday should be my fun too. But I spun this one a little differently: Market Research. Being a bartender, market research means lots of fun. Cupcake Martinis had been garnering a lot of Facebook time and personal attention lately - I decided to fully explore their potential with a home tasting party. And the Cupcake Martini Cocktail Tasting Party was born. Evites were sent...
H was fully onboard; even helped perfect (read: taste, offer critique, taste again, critique a little more, taste, taste, repeat) the Yellow Cupcake Martini Base with me. When the guest list expanded from 10 to 20 to 40 women, he grew a little wary of the idea of being totally and completely outnumbered by females and decided to reinstate his Thursday Night Out. I could handle it, he reasoned, by myself. He was right, and I entered full-blown party planning mode.
The following week, tasting sheets had been printed out, pitchers were labeled and ready for eight flavors of cupcake martinis, and women were arriving promptly at 7:30, bottles of booze, cocktail shakers and appetizers in hand. Our excitement was comparative to the football excitement of Sunday morning maleness. Yet our competition was a lot more participative - we would not be watching the plays from bleacher seats; we would be actively involved in our own competitive match. And there were prizes at stake here too: a pedicure to the MVP who guesses the secret recipe; not to mention the pride and honor of a solid win.
The ladies filed in to their respective spots around the kitchen island and planned their strategies ("I am going to drink all the chocolate ones first." "Well I am going to work backwards and start with the fruity ones first.") They eyed each other, 2-ounce mar-TEENY glasses in hand, readying themselves for the challenge bestowed upon them. Who would fare the best in this fierce competition of drinking, deducing and driving home???? It almost sounds like a day at Foxborough. Stay tuned for instant replays from both these events -- as soon as I throw away this Snickers bag.
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Coming up next: Tasting Take-aways & Fan Favorites
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