I recently searched the term "Middletini" on The Google to see whether I had become famous yet or anything. It did pop up as a top result, but I also learned that there actually IS a cocktail called the Middletini. It was created by the Four Seasons last year to celebrate the Royal Wedding and is "an elegant martini of Hennessy XO, Grand Marnier Cuvee du Centenaire 100 year, Chambord, poma juice and ginger ale – complete with the replica sapphire and diamond engagement ring" (emphasis in original). Here's a picture from their Santa Barbara location's website:
|The drink should at least include a title. I'd like to be "Lady Catmistress Drinksalot of Culdesac."|
Apparently, it cost $125/pop, including the ring, $75 without. So I won't be making that.
I'm hoping that the Four Seasons doesn't send me a Cease and Desist letter, because despite being a real lawyer and everything, I don't really want to get into a smackdown. Even though The Oatmeal recently showed how to do such a thing with style, I unfortunately don't have enough artistic talent to depict the Four Seasons' General Counsel's mom trying to seduce a Kodiak bear, and in all fairness I'm the one who started using the name second. Thankfully I don't think the Four Seasons is still serving this cocktail, nor am I trying to imply that any of the blissful concoctions I stir up in my kitchen and take amateur photos of on a whim are created or endorsed by the Four Seasons. So hopefully I'll get a pass.
If I do get a C&D letter, I think my only logical course of action is to appeal to the Duchess of Cambridge herself to intervene on my behalf. I think she'd be cool about it.
|"Your children are quite ... charming ...."|
I think I should invite her to visit me and see how people who don't have professional child minders on staff get through the day, just so that if she does decide to pop forth an heir to the throne, she has some appreciation.
She could sleep on the IKEA bed in my guestroom, which I would even clean out in her honor. Tweak would entertain her with endless descriptions of his fantasy baseball team, and Tink would do some interpretive singing and dancing, in between joint stagings of Harry Potter fan fiction plays (if she plays her cards right, they might let her borrow a wand and be Hermione, but only because she's a real princess) and several screenings of Phineas and Ferb. I'd throw some burgers on the grill and let her catch lightening bugs in the backyard with the kids while I mixed some cocktails. After the kids were asleep, we could watch Glee reruns and eat popcorn and do our nails, and Tink and Tweak and Magnus the Cat would probably all try to climb in bed with her at some point during the night. This, my friends, is living the dream.
If she flirted with McDreamy, however, I'm not afraid to cut a bitch, so in the interest of avoiding an embarrassing international incident, perhaps we should have him stay away while she's here.
I would even, and this is a HUGE concession on my part, refrain from mentioning that one of her husband's many titles is, I kid you not, "Baron Carrickfergus." I wouldn't even do that for my closest friends. They'll tell you that.
I think we can agree that Kate would totally have my back. How could she resist the siren call of American suburbia? I fully expect to receive an acceptance letter from Kate on Royal Family stationery, hand-delivered by a knight in full armor, riding a unicorn. Or, even better, a Knight riding a Great White Shark riding a Lion riding a T-Rex riding a Unicorn (while having a beer). It could happen.