Gone With the Gin

It’s been a rough seven days. Late last week, an extreme storm with a 70+ mph wind microburst knocked down enough trees in its path to leave us without power for 48 hours. After wearing a bright green shirt to the gym on Monday, my armpits still have a green tint. While trying to mow the yard, the mower ran over a rock or something and bent the blade so that they won’t rotate. My driveway looks good but the grass in the back is tall enough to lose my dog in.
I gave up after the mower incident and raided the liquor cabinet. Three different single malts, top shelf vodka, and run-of-the-mill vermouth. And no olives. Except the Kalamata olives that my kids snack on. Grocery store or liquor store?

One friend suggested going to both. Grocery store for olives and liquor store for gin. “For a proper martini.” But I'm not a "proper martini" kind of girl. I like my martinis dirty. Like I like my men. Yum, olives stuffed with bleu cheese, a splash of olive brine, a whisper of vermouth, lots of gin. Stirred, not shaken. You don’t want to bruise the gin. Too bad the liquor store closed before I could get there. I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another weekend.

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