More Drunken Chats

This was a Facebook chat conversation I had last night, around ten, as I was getting ready to go to bed.

former coworker: hi

i miss you panda

me: yeah, i've been laying low.

how are ya?

fc: magical

very very intoxicated

i miss your sweet ass

come to bubbas tonight

cut the floors with me

me: thank you! but i'm opening the coffeeshop tomorrow, so i'm going to have to pass.

fc: awwwww

i love reading your blog

ps

This was what I said to Mandy the morning I showed up at the dentist for my broken tooth. She thought it was really funny. Did you also know she calls me panda? Privilege granted to few...

Stoli Razz and Soda, Please

I've been really lucky when it comes to jobs, and that's especially true at Bayside Bowl. I can't say enough how great it is, everyone I work with is awesome, my customers rule, blah blah blah. One of the many perks is that I get one free meal for every shift I work, and I'm  usually compelled to wind down with an adult beverage once I clock out. If you, my readers, haven't already gathered that I drink a lot, I'm telling you now: I drink a lot. My lifestyle lends it self well to this sort of behavior.

At Bayside Bowl, we take our liquor seriously and our attitudes about liquor even more seriously. Our beer selection is extensive, featuring tons of craft beers, from here and away, but also favorite imports like Guinness, Heineken and Corona. As far as liquor, we have plenty of scotches and bourbons, as though bowling is such a sophisticated business. We probably sell more Courvoisier and Tuaca than any one bar in the entire state. But for me, even more enjoyable than a Shipyard Export or a Bulleit bourbon, is my dress size. From time to time, if I'm having a drink for the purpose of relaxing, I'll grab a vodka-soda, the low-sugar, low-cal, less-gross alternative to light beer. Even better than a vodka-soda, though, is a flavored vodka. I don't get all crazy with the blueberries or the passion fruits, just a simple Stoli O or Razz from time to time.

This was a secret from everyone at Bayside Bowl for a long time. It took us months to start carrying Stoli Razz, and that's only because it was insisted that we carry it for a private function. Before that, anyone who tried to order a flavored vodka was met with (thoughts of) pity or contempt. I would secretly sympathize, offer a splash of cranberry juice or a margarita. Then, last Friday, I went for it. I ordered a Stoli Razz and soda. I asked Nathan, the Handsome, Talented Photographer moonlighting as Awesomest Bar Manager Ever, to be cool about it. He knows I'm not a Midori-sour kind of a girl, he knows I'm cool when it comes to brews, but he can't help but totally make fun of me, extremely loud, and I don't blame him. "AMANDA! HOW IS THAT STOLI RAZZ? ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR STOLI RAZZ?" All of a sudden I'm no longer hip-staff member charming customers and coworkers alike, I'm that girl asking, "Do you have blueberry vodka?"

My drink is awesome. It goes down fast, as I'm telling a new coworker all about my recent lovelife drama. The owner asks me if I want a refill, and I nod, cringing, "OMG, does he know that I got the Stoli Razz?" (Yes, I speak to myself in acronyms from time to time.) And he goes, Tanqueray and tonic? And I'm like, yessss! He doesn't know.

At this point, I decide that I'd really like to bowl. (I usually bowl alone.) And I also decide that I'd like one more Stoli Razz and lemonade, which I ordered through my laneside server. This is what came:

It was so ridiculous, so many garnishes, I couldn't even look at it, let alone drink it. 

The rest of the night consisted of a few bowling games of diminishing scores, despite encouraging cheers from the next lane over. I called a cab, since it's not safe to walk home alone at one o'clock in the morning, let alone tispy on gin and flavored vodka.The cab seems to be taking longer than normal, so I go back inside to use the restroom. When I come back out, a group of drunk people are trying to get into my cab and I find myself yelling and running down the stairs, "NO! NO! NO! Get out! That's my cab! No! No! Get out!" Luckily, for me, they did, because those girls were a lot bigger than me. The cab driver and I laughed about it and tipped him well.  

Havana Nights

This is from the "live blogging" session I told many of you about, which took place outside of 51 Wharf. Enjoy!

On my way over, I saw a girl in a LBD and five in heels half walking half jogging. She rolled her ankle five times. So I’m here, and I’m already kind of freaking out. I have to be OUTSIDE. Vulnerable to everyone’s.. stares and voices. I have a huge LL Bean Boat and Tote bag. I feel ridiculously out of place.

11:17 It seems like there is a line, but that some people are in fact VIPs. There’s a dance party errupting in the line.  Two old northern Maine couples just walked out. They must’ve been lost. You gotta stand out- gold disco ball minidress dress. Hard to miss. Leave that Little Black Dress on the rack and go bold. $5 vodka red bulls. Mistake.

11:19 SUPER creepy man from the bus, about 45, long black hair, scowl, multiple facial peircings, tons of army surplus gear.  He didn’t talk to me. First piggy back of the night. If you can’t walk in your shoes, don’t wear them. People on the phone outside of the club, craning their necks, trying to figure out if their friends are already in, scared to venture in alone.

11:30 More lost old people. Pack of men, seemingly no alpha-male making decisions- they’re looking lost.  Camo hoodie guy- probably  isn’t getting any tonight.  Just saw the back of Kurt Cobain. Take a shower, man. I hear the DJ say something about ladies and shots. Troubling.

11:38 KILT!!!!  Some guys is wearing a kilt. Smart girls wear wedges. DJ is playing Rhianna. Maybe sending the wrong message about violence against women. Some dude walks by holding a wine bottle.  Inside the club I see a bottle of liquor on fire with a sparkler sticking out, and a cocktail waitress going around with blinking test tube shots. The noise level is rising.

11:44 Bachelorette in pink sparkly western hat almost wanders away from the rest of her party. Narrowly rescued. I accidentally make eye contact with a guy sporting a half sleeve tattoo. Embarrassing. PREGNANT LADY, NOOOOO!!!! Goatees abound. Girls trying to walk on this road is like they’re doing an impression of crabs walking on eggshells, which is directly related to how many cape cods they‘ve had.

11:50 Some girls in minidresses get escorted to the front of the line. I realize that hanging out here you’d never know Maine is one of the least diverse states, so many minorities everywhere.  Now the music from Oasis and 51 Wharf are competing on the sidewalk. Who needs eardrums? I HEART BACON T-SHIRT! First barefoot woman. Inside the club, I see a bottle of liquor on fire with a sparkler sticking out, and a cocktail waitress going around with blinking test tube shots. The noise level is rising.

11:51 The line at the Oasis and the line at 51 Wharf have been alternating in length all night. I might be the only person out here wearing glasses. I’ve spotted a NorthFace bubble vest on the same night as short shorts and flip flops. I wonder how long into the season these girls will endure the cold. Someone almost talked to me, close call. You know a girl is drunk when she stumbles on her heels and she’s standing still.  Noise Level is definitely rising. More confused New York hipsters, looking lost.  Small Indian? man of about 60 in line with son? Old guy and son just switched shirts. Don’t understand. Is there a dress code, where you can’t have cut off sleeves and be old? Old man and son just seemed to have switched ids. Like the door guy won’t remember them from ten minutes ago? Old guy, who was apparently with young guy, got in the club and now young guy is wandering around. Very strange.

11:52 Kilt guy is back. Some hipsters going in, guess they have to dance it out, too. That’s the woman who flashed me her turquoise underwear last week. Over the knee boots chick is turning some serious heads. Don’t understand why she hasn’t just gone in yet. All of a sudden the line is full of really unattractive people.

12:01 Cops are circling, same cops from last week. It’s cooling off, so I go inside. The people at the table next to me are also gawking out the window. Disco ball dress chick is back, also turning heads. People are getting drunker and drunker stumbling out.

12:05: MECA student, spotted!

12:06 MECA student, walking swiftly in opposite direction. Lots of people smoking at this point. Really touchy Jamaican man with waist-length dreads who I waited on once walks by. Doesn’t see me. Cute couple, him with a blazer, her with a white button down, skinny jeans and a hobo bag… I want to tell them to get out of line because bad things will happen in there.

12:17 “I could never imagine wearing that in my entire life” overheard next to me. I decide to take off, even though I know there is serious madness to ensue. But I was tired and could only stay up if I had another beer but did not want another beer. So I went home. Then I missed some drunk dude asking the door guy at Havana Nights asking if Obama was in the building- because the door guy was wearing one of those ear pieces (I assume) the Secret Service wears. THEN some drunk girl gets arrested for punching a police officer in the face, and I missed that too.

Stay tuned for the related column in the Free Press.

 

Best Brunch and Where to Find It

I had to be out of my Gilman Street apartment by noon on the first of July. It took me right up until 11:59 to throw the last box down the stairs, sweep and find a piece of paper to leave a note with my new address. The first of July was a Thursday, and we had advertised a huge 4th of July cookout for that Sunday. This gave us exactly two days to unpack, organize, clean, hang pictures, etc. One of those days being Angela's birthday, and all of us working in some capacity on one or both of those days. There wasn't very much time, and honestly, I kind of freaked out.

The biggest job, by far, was the kitchen. I started Saturday morning, and balls to the wall, unpacked everything. Much to my discouragement, this is approximately what I found: five coffeemakers (four percelators and a press,) two blenders, two food processors, two mortar and pestles,  two dish racks, at least two, sometimes three containers of every spice imaginable, seven wooden spoons of various shapes and sizes, eighteen pint glasses, twenty mugs, five whisks AND  an old school crank mixer AND a Kitchen Aid mixer, two full sets of china, a partridge and a fucking pear tree. I was feeling stressed, and opening another box and finding another double or triple was making it worse. Especially because hardly any of this stuff belonged to me, and how was I going to decide whose things were kept and what went into storage? But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking to myself, "Amanda. It's going to be alright. They are going to use these magic kitchen devices to feed you incredible meals and you're going to be happy."

I was right. This morning Rebecca had some friends over for a brunch/bluegrass jam session (yes, that's what they call these things.) I was treated to the following: crepes with either homemade pesto cream cheese or a strawberry rhubarb sauce (strawberries from Rebecca's garden, rhubarb from the farm,) sliced mango and peach, homemade pain au lait bread, (baked by one of Rebecca's friends the day before, kind of tasted like pound cake,) a crab/avocado/cream sauce of some sort over a poached egg ON the fresh baked bread, coffee, bellinis, and sun-dried tomatoes. But I don't even know where the sun-dried tomatoes were supposed to go. And we ate on the porch. It was amazing, and I didn't do a goddamn thing. I'm seriously going to have to do some hardcore cleaning, grocery shopping and sweet talking to be able to hold up my end of the roommate bargain. Anyone on a quest for the best brunch spot in town, look no further. My house!

Oh, and to top the whole thing off, I'm sitting in my living room, checking my email. Rebecca is bustling in the kitchen, preparing for her guests to arrive. I hear a motorcycle pull up, and I run to the window. I decided way back in our days of frequenting Bentley's that one of my summer goals is to get on the back of one of those things, along with skinny dipping and Moose River and Great Falls Balloon Fest. I've had a few leads, but it'd be awesome if he ended up being my neighbor. Then I realize, the guy that gets off the bike, no jacket, no helmet, is kind of hot. He stands there for a second looking at his phone, and I run to the kitchen to get Rebecca. "REBECCA, get over here." (The sixteen year old in me lives on.) She's like oh, I know that guy. He's here for bluegrass. "Hey! C'mon in!" He walks in, I shake his hand, and realize that he looks like this guy, only younger:

The Ancient Japanese Art of Karaoke

For the past few Saturday nights in a row, a few friends of mine and I have been going out to karaoke night at a former gay bar called the Flask Lounge. And it's amazing. I don't understand the social stigma that comes with karaoke- every time I've been to this particular night it turns into one big giant dance party. Journey, "Don't Stop Believing;" Mama's and the Papas "California Dreaming;" any number of Bruce Springsteen songs; Fleetwood Mac; someone always does You're the One I Love from the Grease soundtrack... There are a few 'regulars' who are truly karaoke masters, who shine in the spotlight, tear it up, if you will. Other times the song isn't quite the right choice or the stage presence isn't there, but that's when you talk about the next song you're doing, get a drink, use the bathroom. In fact, I'd go so far as to say karaoke has been my sex substitute as of late- singing, dancing, my heart rate goes up, I start sweating... And no babies!

I've only ever sang once at karaoke, and it was... painful for everyone involved. My own boyfriend didn't even suck up and tell me that I did okay. It was Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which sounded good in theory, but in actuality was really difficult. In my mind, the key is to pick a song that you already know some of the words to. I've been picking out the perfect song. It has to be something that everyone knows, gets excited about, and isn't too vocally challenging, because I'm rather tone-deaf. I'm thinking it's going to be a Violent Femmes song, but my ears have been open. Once, my friend Hillary tried to convince me that I should be in an all-girl band with her and Mandy- I was like but Hilla, I don't PLAY anything. She said it's okay, you can sing, you have the look! I'll try to remember that next weekend.

Oh, and there's this guy, who gets in on all the action with his inflateable guitar. He gives the term 'air guitar' a whole new meaning...

Homecoming- A Night to Remember

When I found out that Space was throwing an all out Homecoming Dance, I got really, really excited. The only thing I could do to not jump out of my skin with excitement was listen to Meatloaf's 'I Would Do Anything For Love' on repeat, for an hour. I picked out my date, started shopping for a dress, and decided that this would be the end all be all of dances- to make up for all those dances gone wrong in high school. Like the time Annie ran over Renee's foot with the car. Or when I asked this college guy, and he still came, even though he was totally into someone else and I was resentful all night. OR when I went to Mandy's prom and everyone at her school thought I was her lesbian lover.

But a week before the dance, the 'date' I had picked out and just wanted to be friends, in perfect unpredictable fashion. So Mandy and I had a re-do of her prom in '03. On the big night, I went over to her place to get ready- pick out shoes, fashion elaborate updos, and inexpertly apply mascara. Two Sex and the City episodes later, we headed out in our three inch heels, ready to dance the night away.

And basicly, that's what we did! I danced, danced, danced. All the girls looked really pretty, and all the boys looked really handsome. I mean, we're not the kinds of people who exactly put on 'going out' clothes, you know? When we arrived the band formerly known as Cult Maze was getting ready to go on, and I was unbelievably happy- they were one of my favorite local bands until they broke up. They covered Feel Like Makin' Love, My Boyfriend's Back, and much to my utter delight MEATLOAF!! It was prefect. I could not stop smiling. The last time I'd felt that happy had to have been the This American Life live show, when Mates of State played. From then on the night was pretty dream-like, including photos, and even an onstage dance party started by yours truly and my Mandy. Some girl told us we were the 'hottest bitches in Portland.' I danced myself nauseous in three inch heels.

At some point, I happened to tell Mandy that I thought a boy was cute, she proceeded to tell his brother, and I spent the rest of the night coyly making eye contact from across the room. But in true high school fashion, I was too shy to actually let him come over and risk letting something happen (not even after a little liquid courage in the form of bottled PBR.)

We ended the night taking the Limo Taxi home to the Hill. I only wish I would have seen the faces of everyone milling about when the limo pulled up and we got in. There was no Red Hot 95.9, but he only charged us five bucks, which would've been less than an actual cab!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

WARNING!
I'm about to discuss Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

After about 72 hours of intermittent long reading breaks, I finished the seventh and final installment of the Harry Potter series. This is important to note- I've been waiting for this conclusion for six years. Laura, Courtney and I once even had a birthday party for Harry (it was actually a creative excuse to eat cake.) We finally find out the secret to Severus Snape, and it's by far the best part of the book. "Will Harry defeat Lord Voldemort?" (who, to my pleasure, Josh refers to as Lord Baltimore) is a much easier question to answer with an educated guess than "is Snape totally evil or totally good?"


Which Harry Potter Kid Are You?

I just couldn't help myself! Asking the question which Harry Potter kid you think you're most like is sort of the same as asking which Sex and the City character you think you're most like. The answer that you want to say is always Carrie, but not everyone can be the star.

The short list of happenings in the last few days:

I ridiculed a coworker for writing a check for a sixty cent toll on the highway, then had to do the same thing myself after I unexpectedly had to take the highway.

Josh and I went to Rebecca's for a party, brought a sippy cup full of booze, and talked about bad dates and This American Life.
T
Before I go any further, let me explain that the White Stripes used to be my favorite band. I was once even Meg White for Halloween (it would've been a much more clever costume if I had a Jack.) They played in town last weekend. Seeing them wasn't a priority, since I've already seen them twice, and tickets were way more than fifteen dollars. But get this. Jack White, being the incredibly ridiculous king of the hipsters, stopped by Bull Moose Music. Mandy, being Mandy was there. Jack White, after browsing the store for a few minutes, told her that he liked her dress. But that's not all. She inherited the dress when I moved out because I didn't care for it. She sure showed me I was wrong.

And lastly, Josh just had a story air on Weekend America, a syndicated radio show. He recounted to me what happened when his family called to tell him how great it was. His mom, dad, sister and sister's new boyfriend were all at home in New York. When Josh didn't answer the phone, they left a long, pass the phone around voicemail. Sometime later, while he was listening, Josh got so wrapped up in the praise they were showering him with, he forgot it was a message and started to talk back. It went something like this, "Josh, you're so great, we loved the story, you're the best son ever, blah blah blah." "Oh, thank you so much, I'm glad you guys enjoyed it." "Wait, here, let me give Dad the phone." And it wasn't until the message was over that he realized they were not actually there.

Spirits

I'm on a mailing list for Allrecipes.com. In case I needed more reasons to sit on some patio at two o'clock on a Saturday, I just saw this article. And if I needed more reasons to spend my livable wage on frivolousness, these are their instructions on how to have a well-stocked bar.

Tonight, I find out Who Killed Laura Palmer.