Stuck In The Drink

I blame it all on Amber.

Amber, you see, is my friend and euchre partner. She sometimes likes to say "You're my boy, Blue!" to me when I do something commendable, like win a tough euchre hand.

It's a reference to the centenarian frat pledge in Old School, and it's funny because Amber's a good 10 years younger than me, making me an old man relative to her. We pretty much kick ass at euchre, so it's come up more than once.

Fast forward to Wednesday night, when I'm at Tavern on the Green with co-workers. I'm going over the cocktail menu, and there just happens to be an offering called You're My Boy, Blue. It's a mixture of Stoli Blueberi Vodka and lemonade. That sounds pretty good, and it would allow me to tell Amber, "Hey, Amber! I had a drink called 'You're My Boy, Blue' just like that thing you occasionally say to me." I order one up.

Now, what color would you expect a drink that's called You're My Boy, BLUE, and that's made from BLUEberry vodka, to be?

If you guessed pink, you're a lot better at this game than I am.

Here's what happened: The blueberry, as we all know, is the most egregiously misnamed food in the entire vegetable or animal kingdoms. Any right-thinking person would clearly call this thing a purpleberry.

And, when you mix a purple-ish liquid with much lighter-colored liquids like vodka and lemonade, the color gets diluted, so much so that ... well, that I end up with four righteous-babe co-workers straining their necks to the point of risking C-4 injuries for a better look, all the while whispering to each other "Is Kevin really drinking a pink drink???"

Yep. I sure was.

This naturally led to no end of fun for my friends Michelle and Kristine. There was talk of a new Facebook page called Flamingo Schweitzer; at dinner Michelle asked our waiter if my pork chop came with pink peppercorns; the laughs went on and on.

To top it all off, Michelle and Kristine accused me of drinking this unholy-pink concoction while wearing a PEACH shirt, even though it was actually ORANGE. (Or at least it was when I bought it. The way a manly man like me does laundry, it may well have faded over time. At any rate, if Michelle emails me the picture she gleefully took of me drinking my pink drink in my allegedly peach shirt, I'll post it here and you can decide for yourself.)

Speaking of being a manly man, I have to say in the ladies' defense that they did follow proper pink-teasing etiquette by handing me the tired line that I must be very secure in my manhood if I'm comfortable drinking a pink drink. You know, the type of thing you say to someone to let them know you're just playing harmlessly, whether it's true or not.

But they're right, damnit! I am secure in my manhood, enough so that I don't feel the need to prove to anyone how secure I am by drinking a pink drink.

After all that, Amber, you'd better win at euchre on Monday night while I'm away.

Oh, and for the record: I didn't share my fruity, delicious pink drink with anyone.