My ex-coworker Paula is in town, on a break from P.A. school in NYC. Paula, in case you don't know, my imaginary friend, is an adorable, tiny, faux-blonde, implanted, Brazilian physician who gave up her life and career to live in the U.S. with her husband. She's awesome and goofy and hilarious.
You understand. We had to go out for drinks. It was the law.
The roommate picked her up and we met at The Irishmen, my favorite place in Everett, and we talked and laughed and gossiped. There was a teensy bit of alcohol consumed. Connie had a margarita---yes, in an Irish bar---I had my usual double Bushmills Black Label. Jennifer and Maureen and Dr. Divita stuck to soft drinks/water. Paula....
Paula didn't drink all that much, but please be advised, she has the body mass of a gnat. So one glass of red wine and two vodka-and-lemonades later, Paula loved everybody. No. Everybody. Wait, seriously. Everybody.
Oh, I miss having her around.
Two side notes on this. First, I love the fact that the two women in my life named Maureen are not Irish. One is 100% Cuban, a New Yorker to the bone, married to an Italian guy, which makes for an awesome hyphenated name, I can tell you. The other is Filipino, married to a Cambodian. It's a beautiful world sometimes.
Second is more of a story that side note. A while ago, Connie and I were at The Irishmen, and had no idea who was taking our drinks order. The man stood patiently while we decided---and yes, it took all of a millisecond for me to ask for my whisky---and Connie, sweet creature that she is, looked up at him with doubt and consternation.
"Would it be awful if I ordered a margarita in an Irish bar?" she asked us both.
The man got a rather belligerent look on his face and replied, Irish brogue and all, "It's my feckin' bar; you order whatever the feck you like."
I love that place.