Make Mine a Double: Why Women Like Us Like to Drink (Or Not)

Drink and the Single Girl

138 niamh cunningham ฀ t Drink and the Single Girl my parents spent a long time picking names for my sister and me. Their main criteria were that the names be traditional Gaelic ones and that they couldn’t be shortened or “butchered .” I got Niamh (Neeve), and my sister got Orlaith (Or-la). NiamhwastheprincessofTírnanÓg(theLandofEternalYouth) in Gaelic mythology, and Orlaith means “golden lady.” It seems only natural, then, that as a child, I had a princess complex. I would dress up in my mom’s nightgowns and high heels and pretend I was a real princess. I was short enough that the dresses reached the floor, and my patient mother would put pretty clips in my hair to hold it back. My dad grew flowers in our front garden , and I would pick as many as I could to fill my hand, since I was convinced that every princess needs a bouquet of flowers. My dad wasn’t impressed that I was picking his precious Sweet Williams, but I think the very sight of me walking from the front yard to the playhouse that he built for me was enough to make him laugh rather than make him cross—my ability to walk in high heels has improved only slightly since then. It also seemed only natural that when I came of age, I used aliases in bars because for some reason, people (men) just couldn’t understand “Niamh.” They would hear meeve, leave, Steve. Anything except Niamh. And God help me if they heard it correctly and then wanted to know how to spell it. I worked through a few aliases before settling on Kate. It was short and easy to hear, and since my middle name is Catherine, Dad has always called me Kate. Gertrude-but-my-friends-call-me-Trudy got me a date at a bar. I was in the Hamptons celebrating a friend’s Drink and the Single Girl t 139 birthday, and it was the first time I tried Gertrude. I told my friends the plan, and they remembered to call me Trudy. He introduced himself with a horrible pick-up line. (He overheard us talking about running and asked us if we had ever been to the Penn Relays in November (the Penn Relays take place in April, but I must have felt pity and overlooked this). We danced until closing time, and as the night went on, I began to imagine our matching embroidered towels and a Hamptons wedding. When he asked me for my number, I grabbed his phone and started entering it myself, but then the phone wanted me to enter my name. After a few rum and Cokes, I had no idea which fake name I had given him. Gertrude? Mildred? Kate? So I asked him, trying to make it sound as flirtatious as possible. Apparently I was going for multiple personalities that night, since his answer was that my name was Gertrude but I hated it so I let my friends call me Trudy and I tell people my name is Kate. I typed Kate into the phone, gave him one more kiss, and hoped for the best. He called while I was at work on Monday and left a message: “Hey, Kate. It’s Michael from Saturday night. Just calling to see how you are. Give me a call when you get a chance.” What was I supposed to do? I knew I had a confession to make, so I called him on my way home. niamh: Hey. So I have small, very small, minute confession to make. michael: Umm, okay. What is it? niamh: Well, my name isn’t Kate. michael: I know. It’s Gertrude. You let your friends call you Trudy. niamh: Well, that’s not true either. It’s Niamh. I hate giving my real name at bars because it’s hard to explain when music is blasting. michael: It’s what? niamh: It’s Niamh. Like “Eve” with an n at the beginning. 140 t n i a m h c u n n i n g h a m michael: Oh. Niamh. I get it. So why did you not want to give your real name? niamh: Well, how many Niamhs have you met? You could be some psycho stalker for all I know. michael: But you gave me your real number! Promise your real name is...