At long last, Athens photos:



What remains of the Theater. The facade had just been refinished before it burned. Rebuilding is already in progress.





My delicious and nutritious lunch at The National: Lentils and goat cheese, greens and root veg with toasted sunflower seeds.



The b.h., meantime, was on a trash diet. This is his chorizo chili dog with a side of fries (which I was happy to help him eat. I'm not that good.)


This was taken at the In Laws' place: Just an example of how fantastic my new camera is.

These are "Before" photos of the scarecrow. They don't really do it justice.






For the cat, wedding day was just like any other - with an additional hundred or so extra bothersome humans.


This snake was a lot more bothered by us than we were by it. Poor thing must have been quite confused.


Tying wishes to the scarecrow.



Bride and groom light the scarecrow...



Our wishes go up to the sky...

So now that I have finished catching up on vacation posts that are nearly three weeks old (minus the photos, I just remembered- feck!), I should say that I have turned in my resignation at the Local Restaurant. It was not a difficult decision, I was surprised to find, once I realized that the b.h. was fully in support of it.

The thing is, I work around 52 hours a week, and have been doing so for six months now. Which was fine, until it started to be a regular occurrence that I never had the tools to do my job, and was rarely in a position to give my customers good service. Add to this that the accounting department decided that we were not going to be able to take our credit card tips home at the end of the night (almost ALL of our tips on on credit cards), and that we would not be allowed to tip anyone else in cash (how that is the decision of anyone else I have no idea). Did I mention that we have no General Manager? That basically no one is steering the proverbial ship? Yeah- that guy left in December, along with the person who was in charge of catering. Anyway, I was still willing to go along, waiting for things to get better when they got more help. I was put in charge of choosing the wines by the glass - something that I was really excited at the prospect of, and which I spent an inordinate number of my precious free hours researching. I had done several tastings, analyzed costs, and researched pairing with the food on both of our menus, and then was suddenly verbally shit upon by a manager last week during a tasting.

She apparently had no idea what was going on and thought that I was offering an unsolicited opinion about the current list, and therefore chose to snap at me, embarrassing me in front of my manager and co-workers and a representative from a wine company. When I wrote her a carefully worded and completely professional e-mail basically protesting this treatment and telling her that I expect her to behave in a more professional manner, I received in reply a poorly written and unprofessional non-apology. It did not address my point at all, but did say that I had taken her remark out of context, and then went on for two paragraphs proving that I had taken it completely as it was meant, and that she is a manager and I am not, blah blah blah. So yeah, I gave my notice that night.
I have one more shift (this Saturday), an iron in another fire already, and a deep desire for a more sane life. I will now have two days off a week, with summer (supposedly) just around the corner, and my sister and brother-in-law visiting at the end of the month. Joy.

This brings me enormous joy. (Click on it to make the image larger)

On the same day I heard the story from the previous post, I also heard one about a guy who walks around town on these big crazy mechanical stilts. I don't remember his name, but apparently he was in jail- "Adult Jail, when he was a juvenile," according to West Coast Karen, my overconcerned co-worker. And he is also mentally ill to some degree.
What, you might ask, would cause the authorities to jail a mentally ill teenager? I'm so glad you asked!
He was arrested for grave robbing. But according to WCK, he didn't actually dig up a grave. He broke into a mausoleum (devil's in the details, don't you know) and stole a skull. He was going to make a bong out of it to give his friends for a wedding present.
I think Montpeculiar needs a better nickname. Like Monpetotallyfuckedup.

I had been wondering what happened to Tim, a guy that works at the LG. I used to see him every Saturday morning first thing, and since we weren't friends or anything it took me a few weeks to figure out he wasn't around anymore. What happened? I'm so glad you asked! It seems that Tim had been in an accident. He was apparently driving a stolen car in the wrong direction in the middle of the night on the Interstate without headlights on when he struck an oncoming car. Remarkable, nobody was hurt. Tim then leapt from the car and ran barefoot into the woods. Seriously.
I guess I should have known from his 9/11 Conspiracy Theories that he wasn't right, huh?

The Wedding was on Saturday. We went by D & S's house (they were getting married in the backyard) early in the day to help set up. The yard looked amazing- everything was in bloom, and the tables had vases full of flowers that had come from their yard, as well as several donated from neighbors. Also, rather than using paper plates and plastic cups and forks, or having to rent dishes, D & S had a huge collection of dishes from thrift stores. And in keeping with a tradition that D and his daughter have had for years, a friend of their s had made them a very large scarecrow. Guess were asked to write a wish on a piece of paper and tie it to the scarecrow, which would then be burned after sundown. There will eventually be photos of this, but let's face it: I'm way behind on this blog, and I'm downstairs and the photos are on the computer upstairs, so it's probably not going to happen tonight.
So the wedding was beautiful and amazing, and everyone had a lovely time. Afterward, the b.h. and I went down to Little Kings to see some friends play. We didn't plan to be there for the Athens Americana Festival, but I'm sure glad we were. Bo Bedingfield and whatever the band is calling itself now were fantastic. I had forgotten how good a guitar player that Marcus Thompson was, too. Damn. Good times.
We eventually met up with A, and followed her back to her house at the end of the night to sleep.
Sunday we slept in, and then kicked around with A for a bit, and eventually headed over to the In Laws. Pa In Law was ill, so we took Ma In Law out to El Sol. (Yes, I ate Mexican food four times in a week. But I hadn't had any since January, so if you measure it out that way... yeah, I am aware that makes no sense.)
Monday was actually pretty easy. We didn't have to get up at the crack of dawn, the drive to the airport was so easy that we actually stopped and ate at The Earl in ATlanta for lunch (a treat we did not expect to have time for), and returning our car and getting to our gate was remarkably easy.
The flight was quick, mostly because I slept through all but twenty minutes of it, and when we landed in Boston we decided to seek out Oleana, a restaurant that the b.h. had been interested in for some time. He bought the cookbook awhile back and has been making some incredible meals from it.
We had no reservations, which we stupidly didn't realize would be a problem, since it was Monday night, but as it turned out we got the last available table.
Dinner was excellent, the coffee was strong, and we left feeling fat and sassy.

On Wednesday, I went to Ike & Jane for a biscuit and a doughnut. I picked up an extra cup of coffee for the b.h. and headed over to pick him up at the In-Laws.
We went downtown to poke around a bit, had lunch at Senor Sol with Jared, and then went shopping for a tie for the b.h. and some shoes to match my dress for the wedding on Saturday.
We had dinner with M and L and their daughter at Big City Bread. My good friend A was finally back in town, so she met up with us as well. I wish I could say I remembered what I ate, but it's been so long now that I have only a vague memory of mac and cheese and a waiter that would not shut up. He was very nice, but he was trying so hard that it was actually painful. Anyway.
We went back to A's house and dropped our suitcases and whatnot, then we all went out for a drink or two. We stayed at A's that night, woke up after she'd gone to work, and once again had Ike and Jane for breakfast.
Thursday night we had drinks at The Manhattan with Mr. Dave, which is always a pleasure. We were met by a few friends, has a great time, swapped stories, etc. It felt like home.
Friday I did some shopping at the local Thrift Store, where I found a ridiculous number of great things that fit me for very little money. Fabulous. Also hit the T@rget with Shayne. After that we went downtown to Cutters, where I finally got to see JB and Bo and JT. Had a quick beer and then went to pick up the b.h. at D & S's house.
We had some dinner and then went down to meet my good friends J and B at Flicker. Drinks were had, memories shared, other people I miss came by. Lovely. The night ended with a set from Dave Marr at Little Kings. I was standing there, outside, New Belgium's Ranger IPA in hand, wearing a t-shirt and a light cardigan sweater while it snowed on our dogsitter back in Vermont.
That is the Athens I miss. Sigh.

Tuesday started bright and somewhat early. The b.h. and I went to Ike & Jane for some egg and cheese biscuits and donuts. We met our friends M & L and their daughter, who was hilarious. The b.h. got an Elvis donut- peanut butter, banana,and bacon. The weather was perfect.
After breakfast we went to see the b.h.'s parents. We hung out for a bit with his dad, then went out to run some errands. We stopped by at the accountant, which as you may recall, is always an adventure. Next up was lunch at The Grit. Golden Bowls all around, then a quick stop at the Local Liquor Store to say hello to my old friends and co-workers. Sam came in a few minutes after we did. He was all in a rush, as usual, but hilarious as ever and it was nice to see him.
Next we picked up more coffee and headed back to the in-laws. We stayed there for dinner and some bad teevee, then headed downtown to see some more friends. Spent most of our time at Flicker, where I discovered the new IPA from New Belgium. Delicious, it was. Ran into a coupe people who had returned to town after we left. That was fun. At the end of the night, I drove the b.h. back to the in-laws, then I drove to S & T's house to sleep. (The In-Laws have four cats, and I am highly allergic, so it seemed like a bad idea to try and sleep there). S & T were asleep when I got there, and they were gone before I got up in the morning.

Will Johnson and Anders Parker played a show at a house here in Montpeculiar the night before we left for Athens. The house was gorgeous and the people were very nice. I was wearing a shirt from someplace in Athens, and as per usual somebody came up to me and asked if I was from there. Yes. "Do you know so and so and his wife? They own whats-it-called." I don't, but a lot of my friends work there. Neat.
The show was beautiful and hilarious. I love a quiet, intimate setting for quiet intimate music. The guys were both obviously comfortable and told great stories between songs, and the crowd was respectful but fun. Lovely. I wish we could do that more often.
We decided to fly out of Boston. This required a three hour drive to the airport, but it saved us about five hundred dollars on the plane tickets and made for direct flights in both directions, which is a luxury I will gladly pay for.
The morning was mostly uneventful, as was the drive. We were fueled by pastries and coffee and neither of us had had anywhere near enough sleep. Fortunately we make an excellent team and were able to find our way into the airport without incident and with plenty of time to spare.
The flight was mostly uneventful, as was the car rental and the drive into Athens. We went immediately to Sr. Sol, our favorite Mexican restaurant, where we were met by our old friend Adam. Adam was going out of town for the week to work, so this was our last opportunity to see him until the weekend.
The food was fantastic and it was great catching up with Adam, and afterward we bade him farewell and went to Todd and Shayne's where we would be spending the night. We stopped on the way to buy beer, and then proceeded to crash their otherwise quiet Monday night, riling up the dogs and generally making a big loud mess while we came in and dumped our bags. Shayne had just returned from a weekend on an island off the coast of Georgia, where she was doing hair for a music video shoot. Her stories had me laughing until I was sick. After we had polished off a couple of beers, we headed into the guest room, finally decompressed enough to get some sleep. As I leaned over to turn out the light, I looked at the b.h. and said "Goddammit this is Just Like Home." He grinned and agreed and we both went to sleep.

Sunday I had a paid day off. Some holiday or other. Anyway, I took the dogs out for a walk in the woods behind the house. It was great fun and when we got in far enough I decided to take Kilgore's leash off so he could run around. He immediately left the trail, sniffing furiously and heading over the edge of a fairly steep decline. I started after him, shouting for him to come back. When I crested the ridge, he was at the base of a tree, nosing through an enormous pile of what looked like bird feathers. I ran up to him, re-attaching his leash and realizing with horror that the pile was actually fur. A lot of it. I dragged Kilgore back to the trail, trying hard not to see what was under it. We turned back toward the house after that. After putting a load of laundry in the washer, we headed back out, this time to the park. The river was too cold even for Kilgore to swim, but we had a great time running the trails and I took a few pictures.
On Monday, the b.h. and I went into Burlington. It was warm and lovely and we got some lunch and then headed over to the lake to walk around. D and A were meeting us later for The Hold Steady, but we had lots of time to kill. We had dinner at the Daily Planet and bought some beer at Healthy Living, and were so efficient that we were finished with everything we needed to do well before show time. We headed to the club early and hung out in the back, hilariously tired considering that in Athens we would never have even been out yet.
The show was great, even though they've lost some of their umph without Franz. I somehow managed to fix the crick in my neck by bobbing my head and bouncing up and down. I guess I could save the money I spend on the chiropractor by just getting out more.

"Smell this." It was not a request, but an order, and one that came at me from the side while I was engaged with another customer.
"Excuse me?"
"I want you to smell this and tell me if you think it's okay." She extended a small plastic tub, the kind we use for bulk cheeses. I looked without reaching for it.
"Is that the Bulgarian feta?"
"Yes."
"Then I don't have to smell it. We sell twenty pounds a week. It's fine."
"It smells strong," she sniffed, raising a used kleenex to her raw, red nose.
"It's a strong cheese," chimed in DeeDee. She gets defensive with customers sometimes. (I think if I stay there for five years I might get a tad short-tempered as well.)
"I know it is. I buy it all the time. But it smells different." She set the tub down and reached into her bag for another kleenex, blowing her nose audibly enough that heads turned in the deli. I picked it up and sniffed it, just to make her happy.
"You don't have to buy it, but I'm telling you it's fine." I was smiling (on the outside), but DeeDee was apoplectic. I stepped between her and the customer, ostensibly to reach for something, but it was really because I was afraid she was going to say something else.
The woman turned and walked away, still not satisfied, but with cheese in hand.
"It's always something with that one," Dee muttered. "Last time she was telling me that the Willoughby smelled off."
This left me wondering how in the hell one would know if Willoughby was "off". It smells like a corpse when it's at it's best. I kept quiet since Dee seemed to be on to something else.

I'm on the couch right now with a glass of Dona Paula Reserve Malbec and Lucinda Williams Radio on my LastFm. (If you haven't yet, do look into lastfm.com. It beats pandora by a mile). For dinner, I had two tofu hotdogs (a lovely pairing with the malbec, I assure you) and some rosemary lemon bread with the first fresh local goat cheese of the season. I am experiencing something near to nirvana at the moment. Spring is in the air. Everything has that fresh dirt smell that makes me itch to get in a garden. Mostly though, I think I'm just happy to be alone and away from work.

Honestly, people were going crazy today. We're between two holidays, which means we're particularly busy, but also it means that people are having to deal with their families and (I assume) the added pressure that comes with family gatherings. Which leads to exchanges like this one:
"Can I help you find anything?"
"No. I want Parmesan but all of these have too much rind on them and I have to cut so much of it off that-"
"Okay."
I said "okay" in a pleasant enough voice, and I was wearing a smile at the time, but I ceased to listen at that point and turned and fled into the kitchen. The thing is, the Parmesan is not more rindy than any real Parm anywhere else. What we have is true blue Parm, organic and imported. It's a DOC cheese, and you pay for the quality. If people aren't interested, they can go to another grocery store and buy the fake stuff. But rind is part of the deal, and most people can put it to good use. So anyway, yeah. I have learned an important lesson from Sven: Do not respond. Do not defend. Do not attempt to answer an unanswerable question. And it's working. She had nowhere to go after she said no, so I just walked off.

Did I mention how fucking delicious this wine is? Honestly. I don't know where it's been all my life.

In other news, I got my review at the Local Restaurant, and Harried Manager had nothing but great things to say. I made a few goals for myself which mostly include learning more about the wine and beer lists and teaching what I know to the staff. He put me in charge of picking the wines by the glass for the restaurant, which is glorious. I went to a huge wine tasting up in Stow3 last week, found a bunch of new things I like, and am moving to get some of them into both the LR and the LG. The wine salesmen seem quite happy to have me on board, which is great. Had another tasting at the restaurant before my shift started on Tuesday (that's where tonight's Malbec came from), too. Difficult to feel like working after tasting fifteen wines. I managed. I get a paid day off on Sunday, but the b.h. has a long and arduous day in store. Since it's supposed to be in the upper 70's, I'll likely take the dogs and go somewhere on a long hike. Monday is the Hold Steady show in Burlington. Woot! Now all I have to do is survive the next two days...

"In nature, the momma bird and the daddy bird never leave the nest at the same time. One of them goes out to hunt while the other one stays in the nest with the baby bird."

This remark from Sven follows the crashing to the cement floor of a third bottle of wine. The hapless father looks up at us as if to say

"Who knew that if I let my toddler roam around by itself in a giant stack of glass that something might break?"

We both put our heads down and continue cutting cheese while a couple other people scramble to clean up the mess.

"I just don't understand why they both have to shop."

This sentence is nearly drowned out by the sudden shrieking meltdown of yet another small child, this time at the coffee bar. there is a distinct doppler effect as it's mother drags it back and forth through produce and the deli department. Co-workers scatter like cockroaches in the light, everyone making for the kitchen and stocking areas out back. Ahhh... the joys of retail.

This just in via text from the Local Liquor Store back in Athens:

"Life on the Westside: If your 750ml of vermouth and your olives cost more than your 1.75L of vodka, you may want to rethink your martini."

Man, I miss those guys. Fortunately I will be seeing them in two weeks. Two weeks!!! Oh my gods.

The b.h. and I went to see our Senator and the Danish ambassador the other night at our local Unitarian Univers@list church. This is exactly the sort of thing we had hoped to do more of, what with living in the state capitol and all.
Bernie Sanders is a man who was obviously made for politics. He's kind of loud and brash and funny, and he managed to cut in at the appropriate moments so the Danish Ambassador didn't have to do all of the talking and so that as many audience members as possible were allowed to ask questions.
This was basically a talk about how the Danish health care system and Danish society in general function. It was interesting. Very interesting, especially in light of our current situation. I think they have the right idea over there, but I am also not naive enough to think that their system could, would, or even should be adopted in this country. Of course, you'll never convince the left wing nutjobs of this, but nutjobs from either side prefer to live in an echo chamber, so I don't think anyone is bothering to try to convince them of anything. Anyway, it was interesting and informative, and my boss Barbara and her husband Tom met us there, and he was audibly sighing through many of the dumbest questions from the audience. I think he and the b.h. are really going to get along well.

"...Local Grocery is obviously trying to kill all of the Jews in town," said the Grocery Manager, hanging up the phone at his desk and looking completely exasperated.
Annie was doubled over at her desk, laughing.
"You did what now?" I asked, barging straight into the conversation because, well, how could I not?
"This woman just called, and because I couldn't find the ingredients list on the Vermontzah (this is a locally made matzah bread- in The Green Mountain State we are very into "local" products) she said the the Local Grocery is obviously trying to kill all the Jews. Mind you, the ingredients are listed, but I couldn't find them fast enough."
Oh, how I love crazy people when they're not talking to me.

The other night I had dinner at Barb and Tom's. Barb is my boss. She's just about my mom's age, but she and her husband Bob were into the sixties in a way that my parents never were. They are a hoot, to say the least. We ate in their garden, and Barb and I shared a gorgeous bottle of French rose'. We had to go in as soon as the sun went down, because it got cold right away.
Looking forward to a lot more of that. In the meantime, rather than wishing it would stay warm I'm trying to think about how much better it is for the maple farmers that it's getting cold again. The thing about sugar season is, as soon as the trees bud, it's over. So there's that.

"Can I help you find anything?" asked Sven, briefly interrupting our discussion of Peter Sellers.
"No. Every time I buy cheese here it's bad. I always buy imports and they've gone (she flailed her hands wildly)...off."
"Uh-huh" Sven replied, his brain shutting down.
"The cheese here is always bad."
"Yep."
"Can you tell me why that is?"
Neither of us answered. Sven turned on his heel, leaving a stack of brie and a couple of wheels uncut, and disappeared through the door leading into the kitchen. I paused momentarily, not making eye contact but not wanting her to corner Barbara, my boss, who was helping another customer. I flipped through the folder that has our price list, pretending to look hard at it, while silently praying that the woman would go away before Barbara was free from the other customer. The woman continued to look through the cheeses for several minutes before eventually wandering off to produce, presumably to look through all the of the fruit and veg that she hates and finds completely substandard.

On Friday night I went with my friends D and A to St. Johnsbury to see Neko Case. I had been so busy in the runup that I hadn't really had much time to actually look forward to it at all, so I didn't get really excited about it until we got there.
Having been nominated for two Gr@mmy awards this year, you might wonder just why a woman would play a smallish school auditorium in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Turns out that this is Neko's home turf, and she has returned as a resident to the Green Mountain State. This show was a benefit for the local arts community.

The room was lovely, but you could tell they weren't used to hosting quite so many people. First, the merch table was set up basically right in front of the entrance, making it near impossible to get in or out of the building. Of course my first thought was about how the hell we'd get out if there were a fire. Also, it felt like the place already was on fire, because they had the heat set somewhere near a thousand degrees. Since everyone was dressed for the weather, we were all basically schvitzing from the moment we took our seats. I was thankful that I had layered in such a way that I could get down to a t-shirt, and jealous that A had worn a tank top. I seriously can't imagine what they were thinking. On top of the heat, there were absolutely no refreshments to be had. And again, I'm thinking to myself "Who the hell planned this?" Surely they could have sold a thousand bottles of water at a few dollars a pop in that temperature. No such luck. I found out that there was a water fountain, and during the intermission (I won't go into detail about the opening act since I didn't really like it) A and I made our way down a narrow flight of stairs to the long line that eventually would lead to the ladies' room. The ladies room had two stalls, of course, and the water fountain was inside. The men also had two stalls, but being men their line was moving a lot faster. Also, their water fountain was outside the actual bathroom. After standing too long in a virtually unmoving line, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands. I had seen another woman follow her boyfriend into the men's room, so I waited for him to come out and followed her lead. I was careful to put the seat back up when I was done, and the men that were in line when I came out didn't seem too upset. I got a drink at their water fountain and was back in my seat before Neko came on. The same could not be said for the ten women in front of me in line at the ladies'.
I was surprised and incredibly pleased to find that the lovely and talented (and hilarious) Kelly Hogan was along on this tour. And if only I could remember his name I would also credit the very talented Canadian guitar player they had in tow. There was a very casual vibe, with lots of talking between songs. Kelly Hogan could easily have a career in standup if she ever decided to quit singing. I sometimes forget how much I miss people with my sense of humor. In any case, the show was brilliant, and I didn't pass out. When everybody stood up to applaud for an encore, I looked rather desperately over and said loudly to no one in particular
"Somebody open that fucking window!"
And lo and behold, somebody did. Thank you, bearded stranger, for saving if not my life, then surely my dignity. I seriously felt like I was going to pass out. I would also note that nobody complained, even though it was very cold outside and there were at least three or four songs in the encore.
I have known for a long time that I would like Neko Case, and for whatever reason I haven't gotten around to listening, but now I'm definitely going to fix that.

Too Loud Trixie is no longer a member of the Local Restaurant Team. It was a long, long time coming, but after countless stern warnings and a lot of hand-wringing, she was unceremoniously fired two weeks ago. It wasn't because she talks loud and graphically about her sex life in front of customers. Nor was it because she can't speak two consecutive sentences without using an expletive (cough cough- yeah, but I don't do that in front of customers). Somehow she even managed to escape with her job and her neck after discussing the purchase of illegal drugs in front of our manager's fifteen-year-old daughter. That was a real shock, because that incident was just days after she embarrassed herself and the entire staff during a meeting with upper management, and the manager in question looked like she was going to climb over the table and choke the life out of Trixie (Silently, we were all wishing it so).
No, in the end, it was the fact that she gave somebody a beer and didn't charge them for it. This was especially ridiculous because things like that happen on occasion, and I'm pretty sure every one of us has done it unintentionally in the middle of a rush or in a moment of cranial flatulence brought on by utter boredom. Do I think she did it on purpose? Honestly, I don't care. She denied having even served a beer that day, even though there was a beer clearly sitting on the bar that a manager and several other people saw. That was stupid. If she had simply admitted that she had done it, called it a mistake, and offered to pay for it, Harried Manager would have been guilted, even after all of the pain that she caused everyone, into letting her stay. So in the end I think we were all lucky that she was such a hard-headed crazy redneck.
The bad news is that now she has taken to coming in for a few beers on one of my shifts. Honestly, I can't imagine having that kind of gall. Also, I want her the hell out. I am taking suggestions.

West Coast Karen got her review.
"The way they do these is just- is just- ...archaic" she fumed when she returned from the meeting. "I just don't agree with it."
"What do you mean?" I asked, stupidly inviting her to continue the discussion.
"It's just so corporate. I mean, I don't want to write my own evaluation. Like, dude, if you need me to do something differently, then you need to tell me."
At this point she finally donned a glove and resumed helping me cut cheese.
"What did he say?" I blundered on, wishing like hell I would just shut up. And then I stopped to give her direction on the cheese she was cutting. "Wait. Okay, so cut this organic cheddar down the middle, and then I'll wrap one half wand you can cut the other half into smaller pieces."
She was nodding the whole time, but I could tell she wasn't listening, so I said
"Got it?"
"Yes. Wait. No. What?" she answered, her rage momentarily losing steam.
"Finish the one you're doing. Then this one" - I picked up the chunk of organic aged cheddar, and drew a line with my gloved hand - "you should cut down the middle here. I will wrap one half and you can cut the other half into small pieces."
She repeated my directions back to me, and we resumed while she continued her rant.

"So I got all good scores on everything, but then in the part that says 'areas that need improvement' (she made bunny ears with her gloved hand) it says that I need to focus and that my personal life sometimes interferes with my work. I swear to god I feel like I work at W@l-Mart or something. I have had customers tell me that the only reason why they shop at the Local Grocery is because of the service I give. It's because I talk to them and make them feel important and I know them like friends. And I'm like dud, I know what the job is, okay? And I do my job. If you have a problem with the job that I do, then I need you to be more specific."
"Did you just cut that whole block of cheddar into small pieces?"
"Yes I did."

Amazing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qybUFnY7Y8w

I know I have posted this before, but I was reminded of it again today by a link on one of my favorite blogs.
Here's the link: http://www.moreintelligentlife.com/story/david-foster-wallace-in-his-own-words

Money Quote, posted by Andrew Sullivan:

"Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.

And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship--be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles--is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive.

If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it.

But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving.... The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day," - David Foster Wallace.


I just found out that yet another brilliant artist has taken his own life. I often wonder if having the kind of genius that David Foster Wallace and Mark Linkous had makes it harder to live with the rest of us, or if difficulty in dealing with the rest of us makes people like them the creative geniuses that they are/were. Whatever the case, I am grateful for what these people have left us.
R.I.P., Mark.

I stand corrected. This is, apparently, not winter anymore, but officially known as "mud season."

"Howya doin'?" I said to the man who was staring as he approached me. I figured he thought I was somebody he knew.

"Sorry, but that looked really cool," he said, by way of explanation. The man was approaching from down the street a ways, when I had stepped outside the Local Beer Joint and lit a cigarette. He looked momentarily awestruck.

"The way you were backlit just then, it looked like an old photograph from Paris or something."

"Yeah. It's beautiful out here tonight." It was, too. I was wearing my jacket, but no hat or mittens or anything, and I was perfectly comfortable. There was a brief exchange about the weather, wherein the man mentioned in a sideways fashion that he was visiting town.

"Where are you visiting from?" I said, internally wincing at my grammar.

"Chicago," he replied, and I immediately felt better, since that's where I learned to end a sentence in a preposition.

"No shit. Me too. Whereabouts do you live?"

He replied with an intersection which is two blocks from one of my old apartments. We chatted a bit. I talked about the tattoo parlour/hair salon that I used to frequent, a former nightclub.

"I saw The Clash at that club."

This prompted the usual 5 minute diatribe from me about how fantastic was The Clash and how I wish I could travel back in time to see them. It turned out that this guy was the uncle of a guy I had just met last week, who is a friend of one of my co-workers.
Once again, the world demonstrates its smallness.

The other day, Sven and I were talking about unfortunate business names. He mentioned Longwind Farms and Woodcock Farms, while I cited Adcock Furniture and the place back home on the Southside that's a beauty parlor/funeral home.(I can't remember the name, but beauty parlor/funeral home is right there on the sign, and I think that qualifies).

"I mean, what were they thinking, you know?"

Just now I was coming home to walk the dogs on my break from the local Grocery and I saw a truck from Hooker's Furniture.
And a hobby is born.

The clearance gods were smiling on me today the Local Grocery. Behold, my new fair-trade alpaca mittens:





Almost makes the thought of another month or two of winter bearable.

The b.h. and I both had the day off. This meant sleeping in, having a civilized breakfast (eggs, bagels, and fake bacon with ample syrup), and finally getting to a bunch of housework I have been avoiding.
I went to yoga and came home to beet tzatziki, pita, and a really tasty garbanzo-based dish of some sort. The b.h. got a new cookbook and I have been reaping the rewards. Dessert was roasted beets with an orange aoli. Fantastic. Love a day off.

Under the weather, in both senses. I have been sick for the past two days, and all day today I have been looking out the window at snow falling in big wet constant flakes, accumulating heavily on the long branches of the pine trees in our yard. It goes on like this for some time, and then when it becomes too much, rushes off all at once, leaving the branch bouncing in a big cloud of crashing snow. As a consequence, it looks like it's raining snowballs, and I'm glad I don't have to go outside for anything.

So it looks like The Hold Steady and Will Johnson are going to be playing here in April. Follow that up with a trip to Athens, and it looks like I finally have something to look forward to. Sweet Jeebus.

"It's getting hotter," Sven said, matter-of-factly. "They say that the Atlantic blah blah blah is blah blah blah..... (Insert facty stuff here. Sven reads a lot and sometimes listening to him talk is like reading an encyclopedia. Hence, I occasionally zone out)blah blah blah. I can't grow tomatoes outside in ninety-four degrees."
"Actually, you can grow a lot of tomatoes in ninety-four degrees."
"But you can't grow Sven."
Ah.

Sixieme Sens.

Twice in the past week I have heard of French chefs at the Culinary School telling students, from across the room and with their backs turned, to sharpen their knives.

"Eleezebet, I can 'ear your onions screaming!"

"Mahc, your knife is like a shovel."

It seems the French are particularly sensitive to this.

Cock and Bull? Closed. Booooo.


Public art = hats on bus stops and kiosks. Awesome.





Brewery:


View from the brewery window:




Mmmmmmmm... beer.






Also, art.









Random street photos. I want to get to Sir Winston Churchill's next time. Prolly not the disco, though.

Well, Saturday night was as painful as I have come to expect Valentine's Day in the service industry to be. I won't get into details, because they really weren't funny or anything, but I will say that if not for Taylor I would likely have quit my job. And tonight is his last shift, which sucks. I have no idea who I will work with henceforth, but I know it won't be as fun or as easy.

I awoke on Sunday morning to find the b.h. standing over me with a flat white box in his hand, prompting me to wonder where in the hell he got Pizza on Sunday at ten in the morning. It wasn't pizza, though. It was donuts. A dozen, fresh from Dunkin'. He had woken up early and walked down there in time to bring them to me in bed before I had to go to work. What a man. Sunday was fairly straightforward at the Local Grocery, with no major incidents to report. I did get a free beer from the beer buyer, which I will be sampling when I get home from work tonight. I bought the b.h. a Valentine's present as well. It's a Sopressata, an Italian salami-type thing, and he loves it, and it's expensive so he never buys it for himself. And nothing says love like fried dough, unless it's cured meat, so it was a happy Valentine's Day for everybody.

Yesterday the b.h. and I had a rare day off together, so we got up early and went to Montreal. It was cold but sunny, and under the circumstances (February and Canada) I don't think we could have asked for a better day. My friend A agreed to come by and hang out with the dogs, so we had no worries about being gone too long.
We left around nine thirty, and stopped in Burlington for a breakfast sandwich and a second cup of coffee. I also bought a four pack of Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout and a bomber of Smuttynose Baltic Porter, since I can't get them here at home. The line at the border was longish, and since it was Monday morning there was only one window open, but we got through in about fifteen minutes or so. The guy in the booth asked us where we were from and where we were going and for how long, as well as how we knew each other and whether or not we had anything to declare, etc. We were on our way in about two minutes.
Our first stop was one of the many markets. I can't remember which one it was, but it was great. We ate lunch (I had a sandwich with fresh baked bread, goat cheese, mixed greens, and tomatoes confit, and the b.h. had one with pork and brie) and wandered around for a bit. Since there are restrictions on what goes back and forth over the border, we limited ourselves to very few items. I bought some small yellow tomatoes to snack on. They were amazing and tasted remarkable of tomatoes. This is highly unusual for the time of year, and I had an urge to build myself a hothouse. The b.h. got more cured meat, and we got some pickled limes and a jar of green mustard (herbed with cilantro and basil). Here are some shots of the market:

It was a meat lover's paradise. I think if we weren't looking forward to Indian food for dinner I would never have gotten the b.h. out of there.







This is the veg stand where I got my tomatoes:


This is the bike that belongs to the guy who was running the veg stand. I was very surprised at the number of people who were biking at this time of year.



Our next stop was the Basilique Notre-Dame de Montreal. We were surprised by the number of people who left when they found out that it cost five dollars to go in, but not disappointed because it was nice and quiet inside. Though we chose not to take the guided tour, we could hear the guide fairly clearly and learned a few things about the building. I can't possibly describe it, and photos can't do it justice, but at least looking at these you might get an idea of the scale. When i found out that it only took 35 months to build, I was even more impressed. There's nothing else I can really say. It was amazing. Here are my attempts at photographing it:

This is the front from one side. I couldn't get the whole thing in from the front, but I think you get a good idea:



This is the front of the church inside.


Here's a staircase:


This is the same staircase from the other side of the church.


That tiny blob with one arm in the air is the tour guide.


This is one of the many tables full of candles where you can make offerings:


This is the only shot of a stained glass window that was worth showing you:


There will be more later, but for now I think I'm going to walk the dogs in the woods.

"Hellooooo?! I'm here for my dog chicken."
He said it like he had been waiting forever, when in fact he had just walked up.
Luckily there was another person standing there, and she answered him before I got to.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Is Betty here? I'm here for my dog chicken."
"Betty has gone home for the day. Is there something I can help you with?"
"Yes, I am here to pick up my chicken."
"Oh, so you made a special order? Can you tell me your name?"
"Bob."

I am sitting on the couch, flanked by dogs. We have just returned from a walk in the very snowy woods behind the house. I am not hiking nearly enough these days, and I am constantly reminded of this fact by the way my clothes seem to keep getting smaller. I have been very exhausted recently, and I think I am finally starting to burn out. Tonight I am going to a yoga class in hopes that I will feel more relaxed and energized and whatnot. I don't feel any seasonal depression (that I'm aware of), but I think the fact that it's so beautiful here makes the cold part more bearable. Plus, when the sun is out it reflects off of the snow and seems even brighter. The woods were full of various animal tracks criss-crossing in all directions, and with no leaves on the trees we could see for miles up there. I'll have to try and bring my camera up there next time.

"I'm thirsty. I'm Thirsty. Moooom, I am sooooooo thirsty!"
The child was thirsty. He was sitting in a shopping cart about 100 feet from where I was working, and about fifty feet from the water fountain, from which his mother could easily draw him a free cup of water, were she not an idiot.
This went on for about ten minutes, after which I assume she finally broke out of her haze and hydrated him. Next thing I know, they are ten feet away, and he is crabbing again. Now, I realize that this is not the kid's fault, because he's about six, and it is past dinner time and probably nearing bedtime, and his mother is taking forfuckingever to grocery shop. I continue to ignore them as best I can, and then I look up and find the child, without his mother, rummaging in the cheese display. Before I can say or do anything, she meanders over, gazing stupidly at both the child and the cheese.
"Yes, that's cheese. But I can't have this so let's go back over there."
"But look at this-"
"I know honey, but mommy can't have cheese, so let's-"
She is interrupted by a loud pop, similar to the sound a Christmas Cracker makes.
"I didn't do anything. I don't know how that happened," said the child, looking up at his mother with absolute innocence.
"I know you didn't honey. Let's give that to the lady." She hands me what used to be a package of local herbed goat cheese.
"I didn't do anything. I don't know what happened!"
"I know honey. It's not your fault."
And she was right, in a way.

When asked if I would like to participate in the Secret Santa exchange at the Local Grocery, I did not hesitate before saying "Hell NO" in the politest way possible. I never heard another thing about it, until the other day. Carol is a sub in my department, and since two of my co-workers were on vacation, we had a few shifts together. Carol was also smart enough to avoid the Secret Santa Trap, but she works quite closely with several people who were not. It turns out that The girl who organized this exchange didn't get her gift. There was some confusion, and West Coast Karen actually felt bad and bought her something to make her feel better. A couple weeks passed, and then The Organizer finally received her belated gift, in the form of whichever version of the bible Born Again Christians subscribe to. There are two problems with this: First, this renders the "secret" part completely moot, since she obviously got it from the only Saved participant; and second, it's not Secret Fucking Jesus.
Poor Organizer. Oh well, that'll teach her.

Current temp: 2 degrees, feels like -19. The high today? 3.

I got out of bed earlier than I had to in order to drive the b.h. to class. He was nice enough to go out and start the car to get it warm. I proceeded to make a wrong turn, because I was confused about where he was going, and it took more than twice as long to get him there as it should have. He might have gotten there faster by walking. Then I came home to find that one of the dogs had thrown up on the couch. Fortunately it mostly landed on things that I could put immediately into the wash machine, but still...
I hope this is not indicative of the kind of day I am about to have.

On Tuesday I showed up at work to find that the basement had flooded* and that we would not be opening the lounge. The live music was canceled, and there was a nice mildewy odor permeating the lower floor of the restaurant, which is where the bar is located. So, that was a nice start to my day. Anyway, I was the only person who was available to wait on any customers until the dining room opened upstairs. My first two customers were women, both of them were alone, and both were very nice and easy to wait on. They were obviously busy, one of them had paperwork and the other had a book, and so I got their orders and pretty much buggered off to leave them in peace. About fifteen minutes later, two women came in with a baby that couldn't have been two years old yet. Despite the fact that the lounge was closed and had obviously flooded, and despite the fact that the only place to sit was at the bar, where the stools are very high and where there is a damn bar and where you wouldn't want to put a baby if you had half a brain, they sat at the bar. With the baby. As soon as they put her in the chair she was yawning and rubbing her eyes. It was obviously nearing her bedtime. These women were, I figured out, the mother and the babysitter. They ordered food and cocktails, and proceeded to take up what limited space I had with a child who was soon yelping and bothering the other customers and act like it was perfectly natural.
I know that I am not the most kid-friendly person in the world, but I don't mind serving them when it is appropriate. And honestly, if we were the only open restaurant and they just needed something to eat, I would have understood. But to sit a kid in a completely unsafe chair at a bar when she is obviously tired and then feed her clam chowder (which was so hot she started screaming when she took a bite) and Caesar salad and let her scream in a room full of people who are trying to relax and enjoy a meal is just plain rude. All of the waitstaff were giving me looks of pity when I went upstairs to get some bread. I wanted to die. Actually, I wanted the women to die. But I didn't say anything. And I think maybe I should have. If anybody has a suggestion about what I might say (other than the expletives that immediately came to mind) in that situation is welcome to say so. Personally I feel that it is a manager's job to address guests whose behavior is affecting other guests, but none chose to come to my aid.
in other news, we had a meeting last week at the Local Restaurant with, among some other important people, the Director of Operations, during which Too Loud Trixie made a complete ass of herself and embarrassed everyone into a mortified silence. I used to think she was just a terrifyingly stupid redneck, but now I believe she is certifiably insane, or at least a sociopath. And hopefully she has just gotten herself fired. We'll see. The behavior in that meeting was bad enough, but she followed it up by talking about where to buy some pot in front of the 15 year-old daughter of one of our managers. I'll keep you posted. My fingers are crossed.



*I read later in the paper that we narrowly missed a very large flood- town-wide, because of an enormous ice floe on the river.

"Most wars, after all, present themselves as humanitarian endeavors to help people."
-Howard Zinn

"I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot."
-J. D. Salinger

Boy, we lost Howard Zinn and J.D. Salinger in 24 hours. I hope this isn't indicative of the kind of year 2010 is going to be.

Saturday night I got to work and discovered that I didn't have a barback. My regular barback, Taylor, was out of town for the weekend, and he had told management four weeks prior, and then told them again a week later when the schedule went up with his name on it. So when Harried Manager came down at 5:30 and asked where my barback was, I snapped back at him
"I don't know, Harried Manager, where is my barback? Did you schedule one?" There followed an exchange wherein he tried to accuse Taylor of not getting his shift covered, and then me getting argumentative, then him telling me I had done the same thing when I left town, then me telling him he was full of it and that I had everything covered and he screwed it all up (which was only partially true. Too loud Trixie threw a fit because I hadn't asked her to cover the shifts, so she bullied him into taking the shifts away from the more deserving and far more talented and professional Taylor) and then I realized too late that Too loud Trixie was sitting at the bar smirking. She thoroughly enjoys it when other people are angry at each other. Thoroughly. I immediately backed off, patted Harried Manager on the shoulder and said that there was nothing for it and we would just have to roll with it.
What wound up happening was TLT had three beers and made an ass of herself with a customer, then she left after apologizing that she couldn't possibly help me out (as if I would ever want her to). The b.h. finished working in the kitchen around seven, and he came downstairs right about the time shit started to hit the fan. He asked if he could help at all and I asked if he remembered how to barback, and we ended up working behind the bar together for the first time in two years. It went very well, all things considered. It was probably the busiest Saturday night we'd had since the leafers left, and martinis were on special, so I must have made about a hundred and fifty of those, but in the end it all worked out just fine. Harried manager remembered after some reflection, that Taylor and he had in fact discussed this weekend, and that he had said not to worry since Saturdays had not been very busy lately. He said this with the proper amount of sheepishness and regret in his voice so I didn't have to bludgeon him to death with an empty Maker's Mark bottle. In the end we made a good bit of money and i didn't have to tip anyone out, so all was well.


I was at the Local grocery on Sunday when I overheard one co-worker say to the other
"I'm going to buy propane at the wahlmart."
The other responded
"Seriously?"
"Nope. I have a history of pyrotechnics in my family you know. I started my first fire when I was eight."
"You're scaring me. Are you joking?"

What followed was a story thatIi had actually already heard, but that I had forgotten and thought you might get a kick out of. The Firestarter had a lot of brothers, and no girls to hang around with when she was growing up except a couple of cousins, who were always mean to her. She tried and tried to be friends and to hang out with them whenever possible, but they would always go away to a cabin they had and she wasn't invited. She asked repeatedly to be brought to said cabin, which was not far from their home, but was a fun getaway, and they wouldn't let her. So one day when nobody was at the cabin, she went and got two cans of propane and burned it down. This at age eight. My other co-worker, not having heard this story before, was in total shock.

"Oh my god Firestarter! What happened? Did you get in trouble?"
"No. Nobody knows it was me. They still don't. I'm waiting for the right time to tell them."

I think the funniest part of this is that the Firestarter is, as far as i can tell, a stable, responsible adult. She is married and has a kid and works hard and never calls in and is totally dependable. Just don't push her, I guess. I'd like to introduce her to Too Loud Trixie. Or at least Trixie's house.

Oh, great. Somebody just pointed out another brilliant blog that I can spend my scant free time with.
Check out the one from Andy Warhol.

Last night I spent a couple of hours on the phone with a friend. We had e-mailed and texted back and forth several times earlier in the day,because he was having some relationship issues and needed a bit of perspective. The Digital Couch, I called it, and I still don't know how much good I did him.

This morning I had my once a week shift with Kay, a woman who is nearish my mom's age and an absolute joy to be around on Saturday mornings. She is very soft-spoken and always in a good mood. We usually don't say a whole lot but there is enough small talk to keep things friendly. In contrast, many of the other people who work at that hour are heard loud and clear through the early morning quiet.

Today Kay told me that she had taken yesterday off from her full-time job because it was the two-year anniversary of her husband's death. She spent time going through some of her old things and came across a box of love letters from him.

"I have to get rid of a lot of stuff," she said, a little sheepishly. "I have way too much junk in my house."
"You don't mean to say that you're going to throw away those letters?" I responded, possibly with more alarm than I should have, considering the fact that we barely know each other.
"Well, I don't know why anybody else would want to read them, and I already read them again."
"I'm pretty sure your daughters and your grandchildren would want you to save them. I mean, you can edit them if there are any embarrassing details in there, but I really hope you won't throw them away."

She seemed to think about it for a second, and then changed the subject. We continued to work, exchanging tips on restaurants and movies. As she finished her shift, she said

"You're a wise woman. I think I'm going to go home and go through those letters and see if I can't find a nicer box to put them in."

I feel an inexplicable sense of relief.

My friend Louise is a fantastic deejay. Check out her awesome EweToob station here. Almost enough to make me forget that I am disgusted by the Supreme Court today.

We just saw The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. I recommend it highly. Terry Gilliam is a genius. Indescribably beautiful.

Vacation, Part 4

On Monday, we woke up early and had breakfast with my parents. By "breakfast", I mean "leftover pizza". The b.h. had some homework to do, and my dad was taking down the Christmas decorations, so my mom and I went out to do some shopping. I had various things that I wanted and can't easily get up here, so she patiently drove me around and I collected various beers, some dog stuff from Trader J0e's, and a couple other items that are not interesting enough to post about. I also went to her chiropractor, which was a huge relief because I had a pinched nerve in my neck and then drove for two days and I was really out of whack. We got back to the house around five, and snacked while we waited out traffic. Around six, we headed back into the city to have dinner with the b.h.'s brother.
We ate at Cafe Baba Reeba, a tapas place in Lincoln Park where I used to work a million years ago. The menu has changed a bit, but our old favorites were still on there. We started with a beer. I had Cane and Ebel, a lovely hoppy rye number from Two Brothers, a local brewery of which I had never heard before this visit. It was fantastic. As soon as we were seated, the manager, who is a friend of mine from all those years ago, sent us a pinxto (pronounced peen-cho, in case you care) plate. This is basically a sampling of one-bite tapas. My favorite was the goat cheese croqueta, but I also loved the cheese and membrillo and the mushroom and rice croqueta. The b.h. and his brother were partial to the shortrib stuffed piquillo pepper. Next up were a couple of salads, one with endive and blue cheese and quince and walnuts, and the other was a citrusy thing that I can't remember right now.
I also had fried green peppers (no breading but plenty of sea salt), tortilla espanola, and patatas bravas. I don't remember what all the guys ate, but I can assure you that there was a lot of meat and some fish and they loved every bite.

Crap. Now I'm hungry.

Anyway, we had a long and satisfying dinner, followed by too many desserts (also sent by the manager), and then we dropped the b.h.'s brother off at home and returned to my parents' house for stretchy pants and crossword puzzles.

"What IS that smell?" asked the chef loudly, emerging from the kitchen at the Local Grocery. (Yes, we have a chef at the Local Grocery. As you can imagine the food in the deli is better than average- for a grocery.) Customers turned their heads.
"It's a really lovely organic Italian Blue Cheese," I said, forcing a smile rather than screaming at him. "You know, hand crafted, tasty..."
I hoped that the customers could hear me as well as I knew they had heard him.
"It smells like manure!"
I looked at Nate, who was working in the deli and obviously as mortified as I was by this conversation.
"Yeah, well, welcome to cheese, chef. "Where the best things often have the strongest smell, you know, chef?"
"It smells like manure."

He walked away and I turned to Nate, exasperated.
"Does he know how stupid he sounds saying stuff like that while he's wearing a chef's coat?"
"Well, he's a classy guy."

Intermittent shouting lasts about three or four minutes. It is followed by a crash and then silence. As i round the corner near the deli, a mother is crouched speaking to her six-year-old boy.
"I need you to understand that you aren't respecting this space."
The boy is silent, looking around for something else to destroy. A broken cup is several feet away.
"Do you hear me? Elliot, do you hear me? Elliot? Elliot?"
Ahhhh. Now I'm really back.

Vacation, Part 3

On Sunday the b.h. and I drove into the city to meet his brother and our friend T for brunch. T was eager for us to meet his new girlfriend, who was visiting from Pennsylvania. The story of their meeting is long and complicated, but for now they are having a long-distance relationship. This is a first for T, and as a veteran myself I have been doing my best to advise him. Another complicating factor is that this woman, we'll call her B- even though that makes them TB as a couple, is much younger than T and I. But so far so good. T seems quite happy, and it has been ages since his last girlfriend. Also, historically T has made some choices in lady partners that have dismayed those of us who are closest to him. Dismayed because his choices became our crosses to bear, and frankly when he broke it off with the last one we all about threw a party. But I digress.
We picked up the b.h.'s brother at his new apartment, which was quite nice. We then called and woke T and B and asked if they would like a ride to the restaurant. After a moment of bleary indecision, B said hell yes they could be ready and we made our way toward T's house. I accidentally took a long way around, because I haven't spent enough time in the city in years and I sometimes forget the shortcuts. This was just as well because T and B needed some time to get dressed and wake up.
At first glance B didn't look much different than most of the women that T has dated- smallish, cute in a girl-next-door way, and well dressed. I find it hilarious that T lands so many women with such great style, because his wardrobe resembles mine for the most part- jeans, boots, band (or in his case motorcycle) t-shirt. Anyway, when they got in the car, the b.h. made a joke and she immediately responded in kind and the conversation was off. It wasn't like we were all particularly chatty, but there was absolutely no awkwardness. We ate at Publican. Brunch consisted of a waffle with honey infused butter and a side of house made ricotta and acorn squash for me, fried French toast with sour cherries for T, which we split and swapped. The b.h. and his brother ordered meats with sides of meat and meat on top, as well as house made pork rinds. They were thrilled. B had eggs poached in red wine with some kind of bacon stuff. The coffee was good and strong and endless. The beer and wine lists were both beautiful, and left me wishing that a) I didn't have to drive, and b) I was the kind of person who can drink beer with breakfast. This is a place where the b.h. is considering trying to get an internship after he finishes school. After that meal I can comfortably say that I am on board.
After brunch we drove back north a bit and went to my favorite stores: Myopic Book Store, Reckless Records (the b.h. picked up the new Johnson and Molina record on vinyl-yay!), and Buffal0 Exchange, which is a place where I have found some amazing clothes at great prices (they have a mixture of new and used and usually a fabulous selection). I wish we had one here. B and I hit it off so well that I didn't even realize how well we were hitting it off. We immediately went into girl mode when we started clothes shopping, and often picked out the same things. Fortunately she is tiny and so we had no risk of competing for the same items, but instead started pointing things out to each other. She got a new wool coat that was longer and warmer than the one she was wearing (which looked remarkably like my coat, actually). I ended up buying a new hat and a tall pair of blue and orange striped socks, which I will post photos of once I get the camera re-charged.
After shopping we drove the b.h.'s brother back to his house, and then were all hungry again, so we went to another restaurant which is owned and run by the same people who have Publican. I honestly can't remember what it is called. This restaurant is brand new, and located in a former gas station that also used to house one of my favorite dives, The Pontiac Cafe. It has gotten quite a face lift. Now featuring Mexican food and an excellent selection of craft beers, it is also clean and elegant without feeling pretentious. The hostess who greeted us was beautiful in a hipster way, which is a look often accompanied by a shite attitude. Not in this case. Our waitress was also cute and tattooed and completely lovely. The food was spectacular. The menu is small, but tacos were only a couple dollars apiece. They were also small, but the ingredients were fresh and of great quality. I can't remember what we all ate- damn me for not writing this sooner. I remember an enormous salad that we all shared. The guacamole was addictive, and the chips (which were obviously made in house) hearty and crunchy and fabulous. I found the salsas disappointing, but again- BRAND NEW. I'm sure they will improve. I ordered a West Coast IPA and two tacos, and ate enough salad to feed an army. It was perfect. I hated to leave. But, we had left my parents in charge of the dogs for the whole day so we had to. We had a quick drive back and a quiet evening with my parents and some crossword puzzles. That is what vacation is about.

Vacation, Part 2

We went home after pizza and watched the hockey game with my parents. When I was younger, I was a huge hockey fan. Sometime around my early twenties, I realized that professional athletes were largely over-paid, crybaby assholes and I was over it. This was also around the time that I moved out of my parent's house for good and started going to see live music on a very regular basis. In my opinion, music is much better than sports because with a good band, everybody cheers and everybody wins. Even when I was a sports fan the poetry of sports never had the effect on me that the poetry of music has.
All that being said, I will admit to enjoying that game immensely. The Bl@ckhawks were playing St Louis, and this is a bitter and long standing rivalry. At one point, I was in the living room watching the game with my mom while everybody else was crowded into the back room watching on the larger TV. They were all very loud and animated, but my mom was just muttering quietly to herself.
"Why don't you go fuck yourself?" she asked of one member of the St. Louis team. To another, she mentioned something he should do with his stick that I am certain was not physically possible. The F-bombs were dropping. Often. "Jag off" was bandied about frequently as well. I had forgotten how much I liked that one. I finally burst out laughing, and she looked at me quizzically.
"What?"
"It's just nice to know I'm not the only one."
"No- you don't take after strangers."

Vacation, Part 1

We're back. I have eaten my weight in pizza and cookies and baked goods, as well as drunk my weight in beer I can't procure in The Green Mountain State.

When we got to Flint, Michigan I was still wide awake. In fact, even at Lansing I felt fine. I imagine that part of it was the leftover adrenaline from driving in a near whiteout just after London, Ontario for about half an hour. Either way, we had crossed into Canada and back, and 180 miles from Chicago I realized that I could in fact make the entire drive in one day. So I called my parents to ask if they might leave a light on, only to be told that we were half an hour from hitting a wall that we would be stupid to try and drive through. The Lake effect Snow that Northwest Indiana and Southern Michigan are famous for was pouring down just past Kalamazoo, five inches in two hours, and where cars had attempted to get through they were piling up. Good that I called, then.
The b.h. and I stopped at a Mot3l Six, where dogs are welcome. He checked us in while I walked the parking lot with the boys. Our room was warm and set apart from other occupied rooms by our request. I took a quick shower and popped open an Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout that I had brought along for just such an occasion. At ten and a half percent alcohol, I have oft referred to it as "Mommy's Night Cap". On the television, which was static-ey and broken, every channel featured a map of the state in the corner with the words "Winter Storm Warning" and large red spots beginning at the border of the next county. All anyone could talk about was the massive amount of snowfall. We turned the TV off and tried to sleep.
There were two beds, and since both dogs were nervous (they don't like hotels because they have no idea where they are and there are weird noises in every direction all night long) I suggested we each sleep in a bed with a dog. The b.h. said he would rather sleep with me, so first he and I got in the Left Bed together. Wyatt jumped up after us, and Kilgore wandered around the room whining nervously until I got in the Right Bed with him. Then Wyatt moved over to the Right Red and soon we were all asleep. At some point they managed to crowd me so much that I was overheated, so I climbed carefully out from under the covers and moved back to the Left Bed with the b.h. The next thing I knew Wyatt was back with me, and I was spooned on either side by him and the b.h. I fell back asleep. I woke up again when Kilgore started crying, but before I could register what was happening he stopped. I awoke again, still in the Left Bed, now with Wyatt and the b.h. was in the Right Bed with Kilgore, who was now quiet. When I finally woke in the morning, Kilgore and Wyatt and I were all in the Left Bed, and the b.h. was by himself in the Right. I have no idea how or when that happened. So, a good night's sleep for everybody then.
Despite all that activity, I felt totally refreshed when I woke up, and we were soon back on the road to Chicago. Though we were moving along very quickly, the roads were still quite messy in places and I was glad we had stopped for the night when I saw how many cars were stranded along the way. We reached my parents' house in just over two hours, and were soon enjoying another cup of coffee and some homemade chili for lunch.
For dinner, we went out to Louisa's pizza. This is a tradition whenever we go home, since for some reason there is nothing resembling Chicago pizza anywhere else in the country and since I was raised on it I miss it all the time. Louisa is 87 years old, and she used to work for the guys at Pizzeria Uno and Due (not sure if I spelled that right but I don't like their pizza much so I'm not worried about giving them proper credit) way back in the day. Her restaurant is run by her and her family, and it is full of over-sized photos of her children and grandchildren, and often features Sinatra blaring loudly from the speakers.
Louisa was in attendance that night, and when my mom told her that the b.h. and I were visiting and that we had had her pizza for Christmas dinner, she brought out a plate of shortbread cookies for the table.
"These were made by my Irish friend, but they're pretty good. I cut my hand so I didn't bake my Italian cookies for Christmas, but I'm making some tomorrow so if you come back later in the week make sure you call ahead and I'll put some aside for you. These here are Irish, but they're very good anyway."
And so we were home.

My friend Rebekah is an animal portrait artist. My sister and her husband had this done for the b.h. and me. Isn't it lovely?