Dirty Martini
Vodka. Vermouth. Olive Juice.
You’re probably turning up your nose at this very moment. I haven’t met many people who love Dirty Martinis the way I do. I consider them a little bit murky and salty, but with a semi sweet finish. And don’t forget the surprise you gain at the end. Those bleu cheese stuffed olives are like a party in my mouth! No wonder I love them so much. This cocktail describes me to a T!
Growing up, no one really knew how to place me. Hell, I didn’t even know how to place myself. I wasn’t a girlie girl like my mom and sister, yet neither did I have the know how to fit in with the boys. I grew up a natural born jock that secretly wanted to be a ballerina. I couldn’t admit that confidential matter to anybody. My Napoleon Complex wouldn’t allow me that luxury. Ballerina and gang banger just didn’t mix. I later found out I wasn’t the tough bitch I sought out to be. I ran from my first fight with the toughest eighth grader in my school. Wait. That’s a lie. I didn’t run at all. I forced the school secretary to call my mom. She should’ve let me get my ass beat because I believe I provoked the whole fight. Instead, here comes Lil Ms. Save a Hoe with a large pepperoni pizza. I scarfed my slice down, vowing to never punk out again.
The ballerina phase departed and becoming the next hood wrestlemania star took it’s place. No more impromptu pizza parties for me. I spent my days in search of my next victim. I wanted that big ass gold belt! It’s safe to say I was a total mess. I was even getting into fights as a whole married woman. Before you judge, let me explain.
She asked for it. I was at the strip club minding my own business when I was told that one of the other dancers said some foul shit about me to one of the club goers. I really could care less. She couldn’t stop my money and in reality, I was dealing with my own crap with my husband at home. But one day she approached me acting all buddy buddy in front of these customers. Now, that wasn’t gonna fly. Nevertheless, I spoke my peace like an adult. “Please don’t touch me. I know what you said to PT. Don’t be fake ‘cause you think some money is over here”.
Well now she’s calling me every bitch in the book. But for what? It was me and Terry on the playground all over again. Except this time, I was the toughest eighth grader on the playing field. I didn’t want to fight, but this chick was testing my patience. Two hits to the face and ol’ girl was ready to close herself in one of the lockers. I never even took off my eight inch heels. After the adrenaline rush wore off, I changed clothes and cried in the car. I had to call my momma. I thought in this season of my life, I should be well into the “sweet finish”. Not still stagnant in the olive juice brine.
I guess some people never get to experience that sweet finish. This can be achieved by replacing the Vermouth with Riesling in the cocktail. As far as I’m concerned, I can’t dwell on what notes someone labels me as being. You get what you give with me. By no means am I saying that I switch off between how I treat people. Everybody starts with an A+ with me. Failing and getting held back is all on you. So to all the Dirty Martinis of the world, be okay with not being the favorite. Take pride in being the more complex breed.
