I have a friend whose mother has remarried and her new last name is Martini. Based entirely on that and my friend's deep and abiding love for Budweiser, I have constructed an entire Mrs. Martini in my mind. I imagine her in a hot pink faux Chanel tracksuit, with perfectly coiffed hair and impeccable makeup; her nail and lip colors match the tracksuit exactly. She has golden platform sandals on her feet (she lives in Florida) and smells subtly of Estee Lauder's Beautiful perfume. She is very proud of how tight her tush has gotten since she started taking merengue lessons down at the senior center.
She is shaking up a batch of lunchtime martinis and listening to Patsy Cline on vinyl. She waves a martini toward her comfy white couch and says to my friend in a voice filtered through 45 years of smoking "Sweetie, hand Mommy her smokes and let's sit down and have a little chat about when you're going to give me grandchildren."
Imagine my disappointment, after my friend got back from Christmas in Florida, to discover that Mrs. Martini is a regular mom who likes to golf and give gifts of undertaker suits to her middle-aged son (I didn't make that part up, honest). No bouffant hairdo, no matching tracksuit-nails-and-lips ensembles, no Patsy Cline. It was like finding out that Santa and the Easter Bunny are mad at each other.
I've decided that since it is unlikely that I will ever run into the real Mrs. Martini at, for instance, my local Stop & Shop, in my mind she shall remain a mythological character. I can see her now, shaking up a batch of apres-ski martinis and saying to Santa "Kris, hand me my smokes and let me tell you what to bring my boys for Christmas. Then we'll have a little chat about this problem between you and the Easter Bunny."
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