I really, really love Sara Bareilles’ concert CD. I adore it, can listen to it over and over and over again.
Anyway.
Went out with Zach last night in the big city. Australian place in SoHo for dinner that was quite tasty (best duck I have ever had) and then Pegu Club for drinks. Are you laughing yet? Really nice…can I call him a bartender? I don’t know what else to call him. Anyway, two guys mixed me some drinks, one much more successfully than the other. I had a Pisco Punch, for those who care, first, which was probably the best of the night, then some unknown concoction that was grapefruit-colored and tasted like cough syrup then a take on a mojito called a Gin-Gin Mule which was acceptable, then a teensy bit of a daquiri. Meh. Give the 22-year-old a Shirley Temple and call it a day. It would taste better. Maybe I’m just not the drinking kind. I would much rather linger (and ingest calories) over a gooey, fudgey, close-your-eyes-in-bliss chocolate cake than sip a cocktail.
Cocktail. That’s an awkward word.
It was a good night, though, out on the town. I sort of felt like a little kid sampling grown-up beverages though, especially when I let my feet swing off the bar stool. I am, as Paul told me earlier this week, rather tiny, after all. Well, I added the ‘rather’. I can’t really see Paul saying that I’m ‘rather tiny’. He’d have to don some sort of stodgy British professor garb to pull that off. And a really bad accent.
I also really don’t understand the point of drinking. It doesn’t make me feel more comfortable. It might have dampened my emotions actually, now that I look back on the night. I felt sort of sleeping but awake, and then, after a bit too much of the daquiri, slightly light-headed. But…eh. It’s much more fun to be in a giddy, faux-tipsy mood than to be actually tipsy, me thinks. Paul says that drinking is fun. Well. He can drink while I eat cake. Doesn’t that sound like a party?
