Real Women drink Tequila!

Dixie Dandelion’s soiled dove friend, Cinnamon, was a dark-skinned, mysterious-eyed, half Creole beauty whose little French accent drove the men wild.  Cinnamon was a real woman of the West and she called tequila the “golden elixir of the handsome, bronzed Aztec gods.”

Dixie called it Aztec Joy Juice.

I call it purgatory in a fancy bottle.

Why purgatory?  Because after a few shots, I’m clinically alive, but I know I’m dead.

My first exposure to the liquid dynamite came after winning a woman’s softball tournament.  Feeling smug and over confident, I downed a shot on a dare.  The amber lava tore down my throat and hit my stomach a few seconds before my brain registered what I had done.  Then, all hell broke loose.  Spitting and choking, I hacked up everything but my toenails.  I still remember the words I managed to croak, “This stuff is nasty!”

Of course I proceeded to throw back a few more shots just to make sure my analysis was correct.

A few years later there was an incident in Cozumel where the mango margaritas flowed like water and I danced on the table with cute, Mexican waiters.  But that was just innocent fun.

Ah, the glory of youth!  Young, dumb, and full of . . . stupidity.

But I am older and wiser now.  This past weekend I proved my maturity by mixing tequila with rum.  Well, gee, I had to.  It was a celebration party complete with kindred sisters, a bonfire, and paper lanterns that sailed into the dark sky like tiny ships starting out on a “first star to the right and straight on till morning,” voyage.  It would have been a sin to sit under that grand ol’ walnut tree, butt grounded firmly to the rich earth, and not toast to a brighter future.

I mean, gosh, it would have been downright rude to refuse that shot.  And I am not a rude person.  Although after a second and third shot, I turned into Chatty Cathy—pull the string and listen to the Kewpie doll chatter.

While we all sat in a circle, I put on my pointy black witch hat and passed out advice like serving chips and dip.  One half of my brain screamed, “Shut up!” while the other half kept right on trucking.  My "witchy-woman” self was out and flying.  Who am I to deny the “spirits” when they come out to play?  Be they ancient deities, Captain Morgan, Jack Black or Jose Cuervo?

What is it about tequila that makes a woman, no matter her age, act so free and wild?

Personally, I think it has to do with the power of the woman.

Even if she heaves over the deck railing, it takes a real woman to lick (the salt), swallow (the tequila) bite (the lime,) grin and say, “Hit me again.” 
And there ain’t nothin' more sexy than a real woman!

Granted it may not be pretty the next morning, but if you run with the big dogs, ya gotta’ take the bad with the good.

And speaking of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, Clint Eastwood looked damn hot shooting tequila too!

Ole’ for Jose!