Don't Call It A Comeback

So. It's taken me two weeks, but I'm proud to say that I have visited every bar in Boyne City. And I did it all in one night. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how I roll.

What? You were expecting a nice, long post about the big move, and how wonderful it is living with my totally awesome boyfriend, and all the romantic things we've been doing? Tough shit. I meant to do a post when we first got here, and I even had the last paragraph -- which included this closing sentence: "And then Chris gazed at me lovingly and said, 'You know, I really need to get an axe," -- composed in my head, but I just never got to it.

Instead, join me on a tour of the Boyne City bar scene. . .

PS: You have to click on that little talking bubble icon (second from the left) for my informative captions to appear with each photo.

You Could Cry Or Die Or Just Make Pies All Day

I'm supposed to be making pies right now. The trouble is I don't want to. Well, more specifically, I don't want to make the pie CRUST. I know what you're thinking: I don't HAVE to make the pie crust -- they sell that shit in the grocery now. But you're wrong, I do have to make the pie crust. Sometimes I even have to cut said crust out in the shape of little tiny leaves (don't worry, I have cookie cutters for this!) and arrange the leaves artfully on top of the pies. You know, instead of just covering the pies with some boring old crust.

What? Like this is the first time I've mentioned the OCD.

Another problem with Tuesday night pie-making is that all of my pies involve bourbon. It hardly seems fair that the pies get to have bourbon and I don't, but bourbon on a school night is a BAD idea. Plus, I'm not allowed to drink bourbon unsupervised. Trust me, it's a good rule. Most people who know me would prefer that I not drink bourbon at all.

But here are my options: A) spend the rest of the evening cutting dozens of one-inch leaves out of pie crust while drinking water or B) spend the rest of the evening cutting dozens of one-inch leaves out of pie crust while drinking BOURBON. Right. So let's just hope I have ginger ale.

Now I guess I should go make the pies. Oh, and PS, I stole the title of this post from Patty Griffin's "Making Pies," my appropriately-named pie-making theme song.

Update: This post was up for exactly 16 minutes before my phone rang and I heard my best friend's voice say, "Uh, you need to just drink wine."

Note To Self

The next time your friends call you and insist you come over and drink on the porch with them, don't just grab any old bottle of wine on your way out the door. Remember that most of your friends teach high school too, and that years of choosing your words carefully in the classroom to avoid unintended sexual innuendo has permanently affected everyone's sense of humor. Make sure there's nothing about your wine contribution that could conceivably be construed as material. For god's sake, don't grab a bottle of


Otherwise, conversation for the rest of the night will center around jokes about 47-pound synonyms for "rooster." And you will likely be the butt of such jokes for months to come.

I’m Actually Somewhat Articulate When Sober

I’m at my parents’ beach house this weekend for what was supposed to be a family reunion. Many family members backed out at the last minute, including my sister. I, however, am not the backing-out type (unless we’re taking about weddings) so I was doing some serious drinking with my cousin Kate last night. I was also, judging by the message I left my sister, waxing philosophical about skinny dipping in the community pool, a practice we and our girlfriends have been engaging in since we were teenagers.

Hey. I was just tryin’ to explain, like, the beauty of the community pool and it. . .it wasn’t really goin’ over well and then I realized, you know, how much I missed you and how, like, you know. . . community pool, no community pool. . .there’s somethin' to be said for like, oh and by the way I’m drunk, but there’s somethin' to be said for like the whole you and me thing and the whole like, you know (unintelligible whispering) um, so, oh and Kate says we’re gonna keep callin’ you back until you answer but don’t worry it’s like two o'clock in the mornin' so we’re not gonna do that ‘cause I'munna [I am going to] go to sleep.

But so like you know, the POOL and, like, the whole takin’ your clothes off and jumpin’ in the pool when you don’t have the “appropriate permission” to do so. . . like, there’s somethin’ to be said for the FUN of that that’s kinda lost on, like, people who are all about doin’ the right thing or whatever. ‘Cause I am actually all about doin’ the right thing but I’m not all about payin’ my money to jump in the community pool.

So anyway, uh, yeah, I’m drunk. Okay bye. I love you. Bye.

(several seconds of silence)

And you didn’t answer for the record no bye.

Tighten Up, Norfolk!

Port Folio, our alternative weekly, recently reported that Norfolk ranked 26th on the Forbes list of America's 35 drunkest cities. 26 out of 35. That is a piss-poor showing, my fellow Norfolkians. I mean Providence friggin Rhode Island is ahead of us. Like WAY ahead.

Some of us are doing more than our fair share of drinking. We're certainly not complaining -- in fact, we rather like it -- but if the rest of you would get on board with this whole drunkenness thing maybe we could make it into the top 20 next year. Lord knows we have plenty of fine establishments in which to consume copious amounts of alcohol. For cheap, even!

I certainly haven't been to every bar in the city, but one could easily contribute to Norfolk's overall drunkenness just by frequenting my three favorite hangouts. Cogan's has an awesome weekday happy hour, with Abita Turbodog for $2.50 on Tuesdays and Purple Haze for $2.50 on Thursdays. Colley Cantina's happy hour includes $2 domestics and $2.50 imports all week long. And O'Sullivan's has $1 PBRs all day on Mondays and $1.50 Coronas on Thursdays.

Not to mention all those posh places downtown. I'm sure they have some sort of happy hour too, I just can't say for sure, what with that being totally not my scene.

But let's not lose focus here. The important thing, Norfolkians, is that you get out there and start drinking. And it's 4:00 on a Saturday afternoon. Let's roll!

Things Are Getting Pretty Weird Around Here

Last night I returned home just after midnight to find my next-door neighbor's door wide open and her cats in the hall. I shooed the kitties inside and asked them where their mom was. That didn't get me very far, so I knocked on her open door repeatedly, then stuck my head into her apartment calling "Hello? Hello? Anybody home?" Then it occurred to me that I should probably call the police. In retrospect, everything I'd done up until calling the police was pretty stupid. "Hello? Any ax murderers in there? Could you maybe try not to let the kitties out?"

90 seconds after my call to the police, three officers arrived. That's a pretty speedy response. I live in a fairly safe, fairly white section of the city. I wonder how long it would have taken the police to arrive on the scene in the ghetto just a few blocks away. Anway, the police came and checked things out and I guess they didn't find any ax murderers or murderees because they simply left, shutting the door behind them. Case closed.

But THEN I stepped out of my apartment this morning to go to work and was greeted by the EXACT same situation: door wide open, kitties in the hall, and no neighbor. Since I was running late -- as usual -- I decided to deal with it once I got to school.

Only I couldn't get to school because Tropical Storm Ernesto is dumping 4.1 inches of rain an HOUR on Southeast Virginia and the streets are flooded out. Not flooded like there's a few larger-than-normal puddles, but flooded like there's two or three feet of water on the road. I got halfway to school (which, since I live five blocks away, is really not that far) and had to turn around. Then I called Steve's cell to see if he'd been able to get to school. His wife answered, which confused me.

"Uh, hey Jen. I thought I called Steve. Did I accidentally call you?"

"No, you called Steve, but he's sleeping."

"What? He's sleeping?"

"Oh. We probably should have called you. School's closed."

Note to self: perhaps owning a television might not be such a bad thing.

But see, it never occurred to me that school might be closed today since yesterday I sent an email to my principal saying I'd heard a rumor that school might be closed tomorrow (which is now today) and asking if there was any truth to it, and he sent me an email back that said, "RUMOR!!!!!!!!!!. . .see you tomorrow." You mean I could have stayed out later and had more to drink last night? I could have caught the ENTIRE Lovesick Cousin (or, as it appeared on the marquee last night: Love Sickcousin) show instead of just the first two sets? Bastard.

So anyway, I came back home, tried to reach my landlord about the neighbor situation, and then called the police again. This time it took them ten minutes to get here, which isn't bad considering the aforementioned flooding and the non-emergency nature of the call. They asked me a few questions and said they'd check it out.

It's kinda freaky to watch three big-ass cops enter the apartment next-door to you with guns drawn. I mean, nobody said anything like, "Cover me. I'm going in," but they were definitely prepared for some sketchy shit to go down, and it was still kind of a weird thing to see.

I absolutely hate guns. Just the thought of guns creeps me out a little, and seeing them in person literally makes me tremble (and not in a good way). The police officers' guns didn't do that to me though. I can't go so far as to say I was comforted by their guns -- they certainly didn't make me feel any safer. But I sort of felt glad for the officers that they had guns, like if they had to go in there and face the bad guys at least they had some leverage.

Which pretty much goes against everything I believe in and is going to take some getting used to.

It turns out there weren't any bad guys in my neighbor's apartment, and so far her door has remained closed. But there's definitely something weird about the whole situation, and I really don't like bothering the police every 12 hours or so. Even if some of those officers ARE pretty cute.

This Is Unacceptable!

With two weeks to go until Labor Day and the unofficial end of summer -- not to mention an entire month before the autumnal equinox and the official end of summer -- the delicious Sam Adams Summer Ale has been replaced in the grocery by the merely decent Sam Octoberfest. As I explained to the guy stocking the beer aisle, I am not okay with this.

Unsolicited

My mom, who will be visiting in a week or so, called me today. When I answered the phone she said, "I'm about to go in the package (liquor) store. Do you need anything besides Tanqueray?"

I would simply like to point out that I have the kind of mom who A) calls me from the package store to see if I need anything and B) views my need for Tanqueray as a given.

No you can't have her!

Just When You Thought Bastille Day Was Over

Last night I went up to Norfolk and hung out (by which I mean drank) with some friends, one of whom was Steve of Bastille Day party fame. The friends wanted to know when they could expect to see Bastille Day photos on the blog. "Bastille Day was like three weeks ago. You want me to just throw some pictures up there now?" I said. "Uh, yeah!" they answered. So here they are. Photos courtesy of Steve and Bob, since I was camera-less at the time.

My Family Is Fucking Weird, Vol. I

Main Idea: Lip-Sync Routines

Supporting Details: The other night, my dad and I sat around drinking gin (he with Tom Collins mix and I with tonic) while listening to Dwight Yoakam's cover of Elvis Presley's "Suspicious Minds" on repeat. We listened so long and drank so much that my dad finally -- and very happily-- suggested we work on a "routine" to perform at our upcoming family reunion. He even demonstrated what that routine might look like, leaping into the living room from behind the dining room wall and crooning into his alcoholic-beverage-microphone as the singing began. He then left my brother approximately five messages in the hopes of discussing the routine and the rehearsal thereof. My brother's only response when he finally called back: "I'm not sure that's an Elvis song. I think it's just a Dwight Yoakam song."

Because he, like the rest of us, is used to this shit. It's a given. Any gathering of more than two of my family members, given enough time and enough alcohol, will result in a lip-sync routine. Actually, it's probably not lip-syncing, it's probably just regular old singing. It's just that the music's so loud by that point that it's hard to tell.

Some members of the family have a standard routine to a specific song. My sister does "Tiny Dancer." She's not above being a backup singer in someone else's routine, but "Tiny Dancer" is hers and hers alone.



Other members of the family, namely my dad, will get down to just about any song they know.



The rest of us will only get in on the lip-sync action given enough alcohol and the right song.



Lip-syncing is fun. Just ask the neighbors.

I don't know what other families do on Christmas, but I distinctly remember one Christmas that my mom looked out the window and noticed our neighbors across the street laughing their asses off at my sister and I singing and dancing around to Madonna's "Like a Prayer." It was on repeat. And we were in college.

Sure, it's a little odd. But if you'd spent your childhood watching your dad twirl around the kitchen singing "Leader of the Pack" and "Poison Ivy" into utensils while clearing the table and washing the dishes, you might have developed a penchant for lip-sync routines too.

Summer Love: 92°, 94% Humidity

While 92° heat coupled with 94% humidity may not seem appealing to you, the only way to fully enjoy a gin and tonic (Tanqueray, with extra lime, please) is by sitting in the oppressively sweltering heat on a deck overlooking the ocean, wearing as little as possible and occasionally lifting the hair from your neck or holding the glass to your forehead to cool yourself. It's especially nice if you're ordering doubles and the waiter's charging you for singles.

Vive La France, Wherein I Affectionately Fry Steve

My friend Steve, a fellow Social Studies teacher, throws an annual Bastille Day party. Technically, Steve and his wife Jen throw the party, but I'm pretty sure she's just in it for the beer. It's Steve who talks about Bastille Day all year long, and Steve who included pictures of Bastille Day parties past in the French Revolution powerpoint he shows his World History students.

You know you're at a teacher's party when:
A) the party is in celebration of Bastille Day, and the hosts aren't French;
B) the first thing you see upon arriving at the party is not the alcohol but a little table containing "Hello, my name is" stickers;
C) when it comes time to sing the French National Anthem, your host distributes self-made handouts that include the lyrics to said anthem, in both English and French, AND a little flowchart containing a brief history of the French Revolution.

Anyway, the party was lots of fun. I should know, what with having been the last to leave. It may also have been the only Bastille Day party in history at which guests could Vive la Resistance! by doing jello shots.

A Word To The Wise

If, amid a tropical downpour, you consult your pals and determine that the day is a much better day for curling up on the couch with a bottle of red wine than it is for working; if you then ditch work around 3:00, wading through two inches of rainwater to get to the wine store, and slog home with pals and wine in tow to drink for the next five hours; if you consume so much wine that you finally break out the Trivial Pursuit game you’ve been eyeing for hours and force your friends to play; and if, in response to the question, “which day of the week is named after a planet?” the sheer volume of alcohol coursing through your bloodstream causes you to triumphantly blurt out, “March!” when the answer is obviously Saturday, you are certainly going to pay for it the next morning.


I blame you, Alberto!

Color Me Happy

Yesterday I discovered yet another reason I love living where I do: The Greening of Ghent, a St. Patrick’s Day block party held on the main drag of my very very cool neighborhood (Ghent). The local business association closed several blocks of the street to traffic, set up beer tents, and brought in a few bands. So we (we being Dave and I) pretty much walked downstairs out of my place to the corner and bought a beer at the nearest beer tent (technically Dave bought the beer -- I just drank it). When we had to pee we walked back around the corner to my place, at which point a revelation struck us: we don’t need to wait in line to buy beer -- we can just pour the beer from my fridge into our “Greening of Ghent” plastic beer cups and walk back downstairs. Dave thinks they should do this every Friday.

Have I mentioned how much I love it here?

PS okay, to be honest our beer cups said “Fraim for Mayor” but no one I know is voting for Fraim so allow me a little poetic license here.

2 Dead Presidents = 1 Long Weekend

Presidents' Day weekend and at long last. . .visitors from Northern Virginia! Eileen and Molly drove down after school on Friday and spent the long weekend with me. We hung out in Norfolk on Friday night and then headed down to Corolla on Saturday afternoon. I greeted them with sangria and cheese dip, which we enjoyed while consulting the tarot cards. Although Molly was hoping for some indication that a rich Southern lawyer was about to enter her life, instead she got a lot of crap about loss and hardship. But it’s February, a month of loss and hardship. I’m sure her rich Southern lawyer is due in like March, or maybe April at the very latest.

After sangria and tarot cards we walked across the street to Colley Cantina (of course) for food and margaritas. Once we had a good buzz going we met up with Dave, Steve & Jen, Jess & Rob, and others at O’Sullivan’s to see everyone’s favorite local cover band Lovesick Cousin. (Lovesick Cousin was recently voted “Best Local COUNTRY Band” by readers of Port Folio Weekly, our alternative newspaper, but they’re really not a country band. And Steve’s really not in love with their lead singer.) Anyway, the alcohol flowed freely, Lovesick Cousin was fun as usual, Molly & Eileen got to meet Dave, and I got to meet a few of Dave’s friends.

Saturday morning Molly, Eileen, and I had breakfast at the Donut Dinette down the street, which is a pretty cool little diner if you’re not a vegetarian, or even if you ARE a vegetarian but can somehow comes to terms with the fact that everything you eat there tastes like bacon because, well, it’s fried in bacon grease. After our bacon breakfast we drove down to Corolla, stopping only to pick up crabmeat and booze. We lay around chatting all afternoon Saturday, then we showered and got ready for a wild and crazy night! Actually, no. . .we showered and immediately put on our pajamas. I made my slightly famous crabcakes (bacon grease-free!) and we drank a LOT of champagne and wine amidst girl-talk. Topics discussed: boys, sex, birth control, (not to be confused with) abortion, the status of women, motherhood vs. career, and probably some others that I can’t quite remember because, quite frankly, at some point I became drunk.

Sunday we did a little shopping, walked up to the beach for a bit (well, Eileen didn’t because it was 34° and she’s a candy-ass), played the question and answer (but not the moving pieces or keeping score) part of Trivial Pursuit, and watched Garden State. . . all while drinking sub-par bloody marys. (Now, technically there was nothing wrong with these particular bloody marys, but Dave makes his very own kick-ass bloody mary mix and I’ve grown quite spoiled by his bloody marys.) Garden State is a pretty funny movie, but the funniest part for us was cracking the 4 digit parental control password Brian had for some reason set up on the DVD player. Eileen tried 0000 -- no dice. Molly suggested 1212 -- still no luck. I said, "Hmmm. . .try 0420" -- BINGO! We laughed for a good five minutes over the irony of setting your parental control password to the secret code for marijuana use.

We had big plans to hit up Metropolis for drinks and dinner, but alas, it was mysteriously closed and we got stuck at Northbanks, which was the only place open in Corolla, unless you count Sundawgs (and I don’t). We made it home in time for Eileen and Molly’s Sunday night shows: Desperate Housewives (which I myself was WAY into last year) and Grey’s Anatomy (which, according to just about everyone I know, is the best show on television). I think I managed not to get hooked on either, which is good considering I don’t own a television, although I must admit I’m a little tempted by Grey’s Anatomy (but not tempted enough to get a TV).

We rose at the crack of dawn (really, 6:30!) on Monday morning to find snow on the ground and snow still falling. We were on the road by 7:15 in the hopes of having Eileen and Molly home by 1:00. Sadly, it was not meant to be. . .we arrived in Norfolk to find Eileen’s battery dead and her car surrounded by other cars, which prevented any type of jumper cable action. See, this is where I fault the tarot cards: instead of (or perhaps in addition to) telling us all that stuff about loss and hardship (Molly), being at a crossroads and having your hard work pay off (Eileen), or trusting your intuition and following your heart (me), they might have reminded Eileen that she left her damn dome light on. Alas, I suppose tarot cards deal exclusively with weighty matters.

Despite the crappy ending, it was the best girls weekend I’ve had since mine and Nisha’s birthdays at the beginning of October. Photographic evidence:

Virginia Wine Festival

Lately my life has consisted of school (about 12 hours a day) and sleeping. However, I did take a break from both over the weekend to attend a Virginia wine festival with some new friends. The wine festival is an annual event held at a park in downtown Norfolk along the Elizabeth River. The weather was absolutely gorgeous, the wine was good, and fun was had. Check out some pictures. . .