Royal Pain in the Neck

I had my Botox treatment on Wednesday, as I previously blogged.

"How was it?" a couple of people have asked. "What was it like?"

Answer: I have no idea. I was out like a light. Dr. Pain is kind enough to heavily sedate his patients before injecting them with botulinum toxin.

I know I said I would receive 21 injections of Botox, but I was wrong.

I got 31.

A few of them are bruised, but not badly, and fortunately not on my face. And, yes, I can move my eyebrows, though not as high as they used to move. The muscles of my upper forehead, however, are completely inert, and only move when rudely shoved upwards by their lower counterparts.

I don't know if it was because I slept in a funny position, last night, or what the deal is, but my neck is killing me today. It hurts like a sonofagun, and I either have to let my head drop completely, or hold it up perfectly straight. Anything in between is agony. I bet it's a Botox/bad-sleeping-position one-two punch.

The good news is that I was pretty much completely recovered (until this morning) within 24 hours of the procedure. No, I haven't noticed whether it's caused a decrease in my migraines. I did have one this morning, though.

In other news, I went to my grad school orientation, along with all the other newbies. There were about 16 of us there, and half seemed to be in the Level I program (a three year course of study), and half of us were in the Level II program (a two year course of study).

I'm a Level II.

I was also the only one who had worked in my chosen field. At all. No one had even done summer internships!

As a consequence, they all clustered around me, asking me questions about what it's like in architecture offices (um, not like studio), whether architecture is a stable field of employment (I had to fight to keep from laughing), and where I worked.

When I dropped Oldsmobile's name - usually an attention-getter - nobody blinked.

And did I mention that I was old, compared to my fellow students? Because I am. Very. Most of them are 23-ish. I did not share my age, but at the youngest, they had to calculate that I'm at least 26 (I'm 28, soon to be 29).

And they also seem to be under the delusion that there is no partying involved in architecture.

One lovely young lady was completely shocked when I told her of the typical routine in my undergrad days:

All-nighter Thursday.
Studio Jury Friday.
Bar immediately after Jury.
To a friend's house immediately after bar (with more booze in tow).
Pass out on said friend's living room floor with several other architecture students.
Wake up at 10 Saturday morning.
Get food.
Go back to studio.

Poor little advertising student: she wouldn't have made it with my undergrad crowd.

We would have eaten her alive.

Bryan Street Tavern

Friday's Happy Hour extravaganza took place at Bryan Street Tavern. It was my first experience at BS Tavern, and I have to say, I liked it.

The waitress was just attentive enough to keep my beer filled, and they had Guinness on tap, so I can't complain too much. The Ladies' Room was also in good shape, which is downright miraculous for an East Dallas bar.

That, and BS Tavern gave me the chance to say five little words I never thought I'd utter in seriousness and without a trace of fear in my voice: "I parked on Peak Street."

Peak Street. The street where women do not jog alone.

It's conveniently located no matter where you are, be it hoity-toity Highland Park (just zip down Fitzhugh, and you're there) or in Downtown (I don't know how to get there directly from my office, I went home to change before venturing out). With the exception of the masses of black flies that swarm around the pleasantly shaded patio, the outdoor congregation spaces were pleasant.

I'm going to chalk the flies up to the park-like space next door and their poor plant choice. And you don't notice them as much after you have a beer (or two) down the gullet.

The atmosphere is decidedly relaxed, with picnic tables outside, along with a dangerously oversized game of Jenga (I recommend steel toe boots), pool tables and sitting tables inside, and, as previously stated, the cleanest Ladies' rooms in any bar... heck in Dallas, let's be honest.

They made a good impression, okay?

As far as the food goes, I had a pizza, pepperoni (not feeling to adventurous), and it was okay, but a tad on the spicy side of for this wuss.

Maybe next time I'll order a super-healthy appetizer portion of mozzarella sticks to soak up the Guinness.

Coming Soon to a Theater Near You:

Ms. StrainedConscious: The Movie!

I was telling my gentleman caller about my day on the construction site - or perhaps he read about it on the blog? - and he mooted the idea of action figures that I could market on my blog. Which got me to thinking about what, exactly, each action figure would be.

Construction-Site Ms. StrainedConsciousness: Accessories include work boots and a roll of construction drawings. Fill a reservoir in her head with salty water, and watch as she grows increasingly damp and starts to smell like stale sweat. Pull a string in her back, and she says things like "They're dropping that concrete from too high," "Who left that piece of metal there? I could have killed myself!" and "God, I need a beer."

Migraine Ms. StrainedConsciousness: Comes with a bed. Accessories include bottles of pills and a book, along with an extra pillow to put over her head. Pulla string in her back, and she says things like "Ungh," "Blargh," and "Damn, my head hurts. When will the agony end? Doctors are useless."

Couch-Hunter Ms StrainedConsciousness: Comes with a Minivan and Sidekick SuperMom. Accessories include a purse, good walking shoes, and a 32 oz. styrofoam cup of iced tea from Chik-Fil-A (oh! Marketing tie-ins!). Pull a string in her back and she says things like "$160 per yard for velvet? Seriously?" and "Have you ever seen a more hideous couch?" and "Why do all stores sell sofas in muddy fabrics? I guess that's middle America for you!"

Opera Ms. StrainedConsciousness: Comes with Date Night Gentleman Caller (he'll get a nickname eventually). Accessories include stiletto heels and a clutch. Pull a string in her back and she says things like "Oh my God it's f-f-f-f-freezing outside! Why did I wear such a short skirt?" and "Now I remember why I don't wear stilettos anymore. My feet are killing me!"

Now, with the marketing tie-ins out of the way, we can get started on a script, right? Right?

You Say It's Your Birthday!

Well, it's not mine, so congratulations if it's yours. Actually, there are two awesome birthdays, today. Oldsmobile turned 458, give or take a few, and one of my friends/family members had a baby! When I told Olds that my friend had a 10 lbs. 5 oz. baby, on his birthday, his reply was, "That's a wonderful birthday gift." He seemed pleased that someone I love was born on his birthday.

As a consequence of Olds turning 543, today, we celebrated. All day long. Mrs. Robinson decorated his office with balloons and yellow streamers - he was positively delighted - and we took him "somewhere scuzzy" for his birthday, as per his request. When we told him last week we wanted to take him to lunch for his birthday, his request was "somewhere scuzzy." We jokingly told him to bring lots of $1 bills, at which point he remarked that I would need a blind-fold, since my eyes shouldn't be subjected to such horrors.

Where was "somewhere scuzzy?" Adair's Saloon, as mentioned in my May 17, 2009, post (yeah, I had to check to see which one it was. I'm not that OCD). We ordered 2 pitchers of Shiner Bock and hamburgers all around (there were 6 drinking, plus one elderly non-drinking driver - not Olds, thank goodness, but his chauffeur, who is still pretty darned old). Radio, Pacman, and Scooter seemed to think it was amusing to have me drink more than anyone else at the table because I was just doing interior elevations. Thanks, guys.

We returned to the office and ate canasta cake, courtesy of Mrs. Robinson. I think she makes her buttercream icing with Crisco instead of butter, though. It was still delicious, and we all entered a carb/alcohol coma following the meal + drinks + cake. Oy.

I actually accomplished quite a bit of work following the lunch/binge, seeing as we have marketing mailers to send out. The firm for which I work has never sent out marketing materials, before, but we are, next week. As a result, I have 100 mailers to seal after I finish writing this entry. Hooray, work! I don't mind, actually, since I can get through 50 in about 10 minutes. It's just sticking a little sticky tab over the closure. I did 150 at work, today, while I waited for drawings to print.

I'm just good like that.

Then this evening, we had a cocktail party at one of Oldsmobile's friend's homes. So we all left work at 4:45 - a full 3 hours after we finished lunch/drinking - and went and had wine and "horse dervers" at her amazing home.

Her dining room is orange lacquered. The whole thing. I covet her dining room. And, yes, I told her as much.

I met a couple of lovely people at the cocktail party, managed to make them laugh (score!) and then had dinner with Radio, because everyone else had dogs/kids to get home to. Actually, Radio has a wife and son, too, but his wife and son had already eaten, so we grabbed some food. And, because we're in the architectural profession, another beer.

Yay, architecture.

A World of Hurt

I've taken up pilates. Yes, pilates (and note to the spellcheck, that is TOTALLY a word).

It all came about when I realized I could no longer comfortably fit into a couple of pairs of jeans I own, then reviewed the past four months' eating habits - and let's be honest, drinking habits - and realized that I was going to have to exercise and eat better or buy some new clothes.

I don't have the money to buy a whole new wardrobe, so guess which option wins?

I dug out an 8-year-old pilates DVD that I had never even prised from its packaging, but had moved a bazillion times, and went to it Sunday afternoon before going to meet some friends for Japanese food.

I thought to myself, "It's only a 30 minute work-out. And I'll do the Level One exercises - with modification - so I won't strain myself. How hard can it be?"

I think we all know where this is going.

I am rediscovering muscle groups I'd forgotten I possessed. I'm also kind of proud to say that I can name them.

I found:

Obliques

Abdominals

Delts

Biceps

Triceps

These had all been missing for a while. I also found my hamstrings and my calf-muscles - oh dear God, did I find my hamstrings! - and now I'm reveling in the soreness that comes from a second day of exercise. It was infinitely more painful, Monday evening, seeing as my poor widdle muskles were already sore, but it will be totally worth it when I can get back into those jeans...

The black ones...

With the slits up the ankles.

Yeah.

Those.

To An Abnormal Degree

To an abnormal degree: that is how much I've been socializing this week. Thursday evening I entertained an international guest - dinner at Cowboy Chow and then a trip to the Gingerman - and Friday I went to a going-away lunch for a friend who is leaving us for Washington, D.C.

Friday night, I decided not to go out, because I am going out Saturday night to celebrate a friend's birthday.

One pitiful and heavily-foreign-accented voicemail later, I capitulated and went to Happy Hour, albeit at 8:30.

I stayed out until 4 a.m.

I kind of want to die, right now, but not enough to keep me from going out for my friend's birthday! So now, I'm getting ready to get dressed for the gala, and I don't know what to wear, but that's okay because I still have two hours until I have to be there.

It seems as though I'm forever stuck in "I have nothing to wear" mode. Ok, I have clothes to wear, but the shoes I used to wear them with are either A) forbidden by my doctor if I'm standing for more than 30 minutes or B) old and ruined and seemingly irreplaceable.

So I have tons of great clothes for going out, but they don't have pants/skirt to match, or the underpinnings required are either not manufactured or are $300, which I didn't realize before I ripped off the tags.

You get the idea.

I know I have something to wear, and I know I will figure it out when I get home. But now I'm kind of wishing I'd done some laundry at 4 a.m.

On a side note, last night's Happy Hour took place at the Londoner in Uptown. Would I recommend the Londoner? Yes. Why? Beause the waiter was a hot Australian and he called me "Lovely," as in "here's your cider, Lovely." I will definitely be back.

Abject Apologies

I would like to apologize most sincerely for failing to write an entry last night. I was distracted, you see, by a gingerman with a yen to play trivia games - not trivial games, mind you - at a bar, and really, how can a girl resist?

As a result of last night's shenanigans, I earned the nickname "Betel Nuts." No, it's not a sick reference to inappropriate acts committed with Beteljuice, but the name of a nut chewed by residents of the Middle East and the Subcontinent that has a stimulant effect - I believe it's a mild narcotic. Betel Nuts happened to be the answer to the question: Name the stimulant nut that, when chewed, will cause you to hawk red loogies.

I knew the answer. I was the only person in the bar who knew the answer. I feel smart, now.

I will be making a repeat appearance at the same bar next week.

That's "play," now on to work.

I've spent the past few days drafting interior elevations of the bathroom that's going into the house I'm working on. Yes, DAYS on this bathroom, changing joint lines in the limestone wall surface, adjusting reveals in the wood paneling on the bathroom walls (!), thickening walls so medicine cabinets can be tucked discreetly behind mirrors in the wall.

It's kind of tedious and it takes forever to do, but every hour I complete is an hour towards my Intern Development Program requirements. On top of that, I am learning a ton about how buildings fit together: all those little details that you don't learn in architecture school.

That's one of the things that is sort of overwhelming about my job: every little detail requires me to go through the construction drawings of a previous project to fish out the details so I know how my boss likes things done. And, as I said before, the school I went to was a "big picture" school; I've met several people who've all commented on the fact that my fellow graduates tend not to be the construction document people, but are placed straight into design departments.

That's what my alma mater groomed me to do: design, and hand off the Construction Documents to "plebes." That mind-set, although it creates competitive students with above-average design skills, can be detrimental in the workplace, because a psychological divide is set up between the Construction guys and the Design guys. So I'm glad that I'm now at a firm where I'm simultaneously designing and doing construction documents: I don't have to worry about losing my design "edge" but I'm also honing my decidedly dull technical skills.

(Creative Commons Attribution licensed image found at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Village_People-01.jpg, courtesy of Flickr user Jackie... yeah, follow the links from Wikimedia to her page if you want more info)

Sort-of Happy Hour + 100th Blog Post Extravaganza!

Saturday night, I went on my 2nd date with... we will call him Emilio, since that is what my dad calls him for inexplicable reasons. I enjoyed myself, for the most part. Emilio is an incredible gentleman - we're talking opening car doors, walking between the lady and the street, fetching water and a chair for his date when she almost faints prior to dinner...

Yeah, I almost fainted, and not because I was swooning with joy. Nothing so Scarlett O'Hara for this gal. Oh, no. Best we could figure out it was a combination of wine + plein-air + standing = "Are you okay?!?!?!"

On the plus side, as soon as I answered, "No. No, I think I'm going to faint," I was ushered to the nearest empty seat (which was fortunately at a table just cleared for us - excellent timing on my part), and a glass of water was hastily retrieved from the bar for my drinking pleasure. He was all concern and attentiveness, and the fact that he acted quickly as soon as I said, "I think I'm going to faint," was reassuring. No standing around debating what to do.

The rest of dinner - at Coal Vines on Cedar Springs in Uptown Dallas - went off without a hitch. We still went to Ghost Bar at the W Hotel afterwards for a big party and to join some of his friends who were VIPs for the evening.

Ah, Ghost Bar. I hope that my first visit will also be my last. For one thing - get ready for some design snarkiness - the interiors are already outdated, they were that trendy. I read on a fellow snarkster's blog that the interiors resembled nothing so much as a modern furniture emporium with scantily-clad sales-girls.

That's a pretty appropriate summation. The waitresses - whose skirts hardly covered their derrieres, and DIDN'T cover their derrieres when they bent over right in your face - "Why hello, Lacy White Thong. How are you today?" - were uncomfortable for me, at best. I kept thinking they were going to start stripping at any moment. Weird.

I had been all worried about what to wear to this big event, and as it turns out, one other girl and I - I could have been friends with her - were the best dressed gals at the whole thing. Most of the women seemed to be wearing bandeau bras for skirts and had bought their clothes at the local sex shop. It was truly appalling, and I'm not exactly prudish. In fact, the dress I wore was rather low-cut - ok, really low cut - but it was tasteful, with no chance of wardrobe malfunction. My tasteful brown linen dress vs. girls whose underwear - or lack thereof - was painfully obvious due to the shortness of their skirts. It was kind of depressing, really. Ok, very depressing.

But entertaining in a "watching a car wreck, rubbernecking" kind of way.

And DJ AM is decidedly over-hyped. Tiesto is infinitely better, and I know that they're different types of musicians, but the guy that spins on Thursdays at the Slip Inn is better than DJ AM.

Or maybe that's just because I usually have a beer in hand at the Slip Inn, but opted not to imbibe further after my "OMG I'm going to fall flat on the restaurant floor and split my lip open" episode.

Maybe, but not likely.

Friday Happy Hour - The Gingerman

Friday was awesome. I was the first person at the office at 8:30. Oldsmobile showed up at 9, and the receptionist arrived soon after. The first half of the day working on interior elevations for the project I'm working on. Around 10:30, Olds left the office to go have lunch and take a nap. He told me I could leave if I ran out of work to do. I told him that Pacman had provided me with plenty of work, and he said, "Oh, okay," and went home.

I met some friends for lunch - they're all former coworkers - and we had a good time. It was miserably hot walking to the food court, though, and I felt like I was about to pass out by the time I got back to the air conditioned office. Trekking halfway across Downtown Dallas to gobble some Chik-Fil-A is nowhere near being fun when it's 97 degrees Fahrenheit. At least I got a respite by walking the last 1/3 in the shade of the highway underpass.

Around 2:30, after installing Office for Mac, fruitlessly attempting to set up my email using Entourage, and working on the aforementioned interior elevations, Oldsmobile came back to the office. To pick up his NetFlix. At this point, he all but ordered me to go home, and within thirty minutes of his near-command, I found myself emailing a friend to request his company while I imbibed pints of Ace Pear at a pub in Uptown.

The pub is called the Gingerman. My drinking companion is a gingerman. It all worked beautifully.

In fact, the rest of the day went just swimmingly, up until about 10 pm when, after picking my dad up at the airport - from his non-flight to Jordan via Chicago - and ingesting a delicious slab of prime rib courtesy of that wonderful gentleman, I was struck with a smashing headache. At that point, I realized that I had A) released quite a bit of sweat during my walk at lunch and during the outdoor pint-drinking session; B) I had ingested alcohol, which is not exactly re-hydrating; C) I had not compensated adequately for the purged water by drinking more.

You would think I would know better by now...

(Creative Commons licensed image courtesy of Flickr user Aidan-Sally may be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/sally-aidan/3264829683/)

Quasi Happy Hour @ Cowboy Chow

The Happy Hour coordinator was out of town Friday, and so there was no official Happy Hour, per se.  However, a couple of my intrepid adventuring friends and I made the trek to Deep Ellum to partake of the chow at Cowboy Chow.

GO TO COWBOY CHOW.

They bill themselves as a "wedding chapel and tacos" place, attested to by the extensive listing of tacos on the menu and the veiled and top-hatted buffalo heads on the wall.  For those of you who dislike mounted animal heads, take heart: they are obviously fake.  I want one.

In the spirit of the evening, I partook of the buffalo tacos (for those watching their waistlines, they're 500 calories for the whole meal) which were amazing.  Tacos are served with a side of beans, which are something of a cross between pinto beans and baked beans, and a bed of rice that catches the delicious juices that dribble out of the tacos and onto your hands.

Cowboy Chow specializes in braised meats, and to this end you will find all sorts of braised beef and pork (REAL cowboys don't eat chicken).  My compadres in comiendo both ordered the Dr. Pepper braised ribs (beef) and liked them, although they thought the ribs should be served with some form of Dr. Pepper reduction sauce.  Mashed potatoes have corn mashed in with them, so don't get all up in arms when you see "corn" on the menu, and it isn't served in a neat yellow pile next to the taters.

There are three grades of beer at Cowboy Chow: Texas and Mexican Beer, Good Yankee Beer, and Cheap Ass Beer.  Seeing as I'm unemployed, I drank a cheap ass Pabst Blue Ribbon, but for those with more - ahem - refined palates, you can order a Blue Moon or a Buffalo Butt (?).

A good reason to eat the low-cal tacos di bufala is the dessert offerings: homemade ice cream sandwiches, peanut butter brownie smores, or a warm-baked cookie (which should be ordered at the time you order your meal so they can bake the cookie for you).  The waiter informed us that the ice cream sandwiches are about the size of a hockey puck.

He lied.

They're bigger.

And before I forget, let's go back to the beginning, where you eat appetizers and such.  They have the most wonderful invention on the menu: fried green tomato lollipops, served with 3 cheese ranch dipping sauce.  They're $1 each.  They're heaven.  Get one.

So, as a recap for those of you with short memories: GO TO COWBOY CHOW AND CHOW DOWN.

You will not regret it.

(Creative Commons Licensed image courtesy of Flickr user tkksumers may be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/tkksummers/3472731686/)

Happy Hour etc...

Two of my friends and I opted out of the usual Happy Hour gathering, Friday, in favor of someplace with less expensive fare.  Where did we go?  Adair's, a rockin' little country dive-bar in Deep Ellum.

Adair's is all about atmosphere.  The walls are covered in permanent marker writings - as are portions of the ceiling (!) - executed by patrons over the years.  If you ask nicely, the bartender will hand you a marker for your own personal use.  Seeing as I am in the design profession, however, I always have writing utensils in my purse, and so I was not forced to beg for a felt-tip, like other patrons.

The burgers at Adair's are some of the best I've eaten.  Big, greasy, wonderful concoctions, cooked just how you want them.  If you order the Texas Fries, beware: they're a wee bit spicy, but still delicious.  I say "wee bit" because I'm a wuss when it comes to spiciness, so for the vast majority of Texans, they're probably downright bland, but I was gulping beer after every fry.  And they're big fries, too, not like sissy McDonald's fries.  They put other French Fries to shame.

As for beer listings, there's not a whole lot of choice, but we didn't go for the vast encyclopedic beer knowledge, we went for the cheap beer.  And boy, is it cheap.  If you order Lone Star, Lone Star Light, Pearl Light, or Pabst Blue Ribbon, your beer is less than $3.00.  If you're so snooty as to order something imported, the price goes up.  Regardless, though, bring your coozie, because the most of the beer is served in cans.  What I spent Friday night on food and drink is about what I typically spend just on beer at the normal Happy Hour haunts (of course, my PBR was about $2.50, and most places sell Guinness for $5-6 each, so...).

There's almost always a band playing at Adair's.  Friday night's wasn't particularly memorable, despite the concert posters proclaiming that it would be otherwise.  If you sit towards the front, where the stage is, you can count on watching a bunch of people country-western dance.  If you sit in the back, where I was, you can count on 50+ year-old men making passes at you and asking to take pictures of your feet.  Their requests were denied, needless to say.

Friday was awesome.  Saturday morning around 6 a.m. not so much.  See, I woke up at 6 with a rumbling stomach, fled to the guest bath at my friend's house, and proceeded to be violently ill.

At first, I figured it was food poisoning.  We'd finished "breakfast" around 3:15 a.m. (bacon, eggs, cinnamon toast, green tea, heaven!) and I'd gone to bed feeling a bit queasy, but chalking that up to too much grease in my diet, that day.  At 6 a.m., I got sick.  I still felt bad Saturday evening, and so subsisted off strawberry Jell-o, 7Up, and saltine crackers, which was difficult enough to keep down.  After discussing with my mother, we initially came up with the idea that the tea was what had made me ill.  But when my system was still a wreck 12 hours later, we decided I must be sick.  The fever and chills tended to lend evidence to this assumption.

I'm better, now, and successfully polished off a turkey meal from Boston Market a while ago with no foul repercussions thus far.  Hopefully, I'll be back to my chipper old self by 9 a.m. or so; I want to drive down to look for the potential employer's offices and to scope out the parking situation before the interview Tuesday.

Getting lost + being late = no job for Ms. StrainedConsciousness.

(Creative Commons Licensed Image courtesy of Flickr User Derrick Davis.  Image may be found at http://www.flickr.com/photos/ddphotography/3014143903/)

Tonight on COPS

Friday's Happy Hour shenanigans once again took place at City Tavern.  As happened once before, the fellow in Victorian attire made an appearance, which made my evening.  But there was a new element of excitement to the evening:

THE CITY OF DALLAS HAS BANNED SMOKING IN BARS.

The ban went into effect a couple of weeks ago, I think, and it has made bar-hopping noticeably more comfortable for those of us with, say, raging topical allergies to cigarette smoke.  At the Elbow Room last week, I could actually see the ceiling, and not through a cloudy blue haze!

Why was the lack of nicotine-laced smoke exciting, apart from a dermatological viewpoint?  Because the City of Dallas Police are out in full force, writing tickets right and left to those who violate the ban.

Consequently, after a member of the band slated to perform at City Tavern entered the bar and proceeded upstairs, cigarette firmly planted between his lips, a host of policemen, and a plainclothes policewoman, swarmed into the bar.  After the initial excitement died down, I proceeded to the Water Closet, and was surprised there by the plainclothes woman, who sniffed the air as I informed her there was a short wait to use the facilities.  She ducked back out, at which point I noticed the badge clipped to her stylish belt.

Because the happy hour group consists almost solely of those in architecture-related fields, and because there is a high proportion of architecty people that smoke (and drink), the happy hour crew ended up sitting outside in the cordoned area of the sidewalk "belonging" to City Tavern.

You could tell this caused some consternation amongst the non-police downtown security guards, as they tried to decide whether or not it was worth it reporting the smokers, who were failing to keep at least 25 feet from the door of the bar, as required by the city ordinance.  Of course, in downtown, that would put smokers in the middle of the street, so the security forces, when made aware of the fact, opted not to report the sidewalk smokers for tickets.  The police were kind enough to overlook the transgression, also.

I know some people in Dallas will claim that the smoking ban will keep smokers away from bars, but I, for one, won't miss it at all, and I'm more than happy to accommodate my smoking friends by sitting outside in pleasant weather.

It's just too bad my face also breaks out because of pollen...

A-Loft

Saturday night, I went to dinner with a couple of friends in Plano, Texas.  We went to The Keg, a steak restaurant that I had previously avoided because of the mental image of a bunch of swollen-bellied men in wife beaters that the restaurant's name evoked.  Despite the fact that I knew it was a nice-ish steak restaurant, I couldn't get the beer guts out of my mind.  That, and the fact that my mom mis-steak-enly (wah-wah) informed me that it would cost me $80 to eat there.

The steak was better than most other restaurants that are comparably priced, in my opinion (it cost me $40 to eat there, including my glass of iced tea and the server's tip).  Unlike many restaurants who mistake "mushy" for "tender," the meat at The Keg actually was tender, and cooked to medium-rare perfection.

Afterwards, we wondered where to go.  Should we drive up to Addison?  Should we go to one of the two brewpubs in East Plano (the other side of town)?  The newest member of the Cult of the iPod whipped out her trusty sidekick and quickly found that there was a hotel nearby with a highly rated bar: the A-Loft.

So, to the A-Loft we went.  It's a hotel chain owned by the W brand of hotels.  Once upon a time, when I was still employed, one of my clients put forth the idea of having an A-Loft on the property we were developing.  It didn't pan out, but it exposed me to a new type of hotel.

This ain't your Holiday Inn.

The bar was more of a lounge, I guess, with lots of banquettes and low tables.  The TV screens over the bar showed the baseball game, a UFC fight, and some other sport that obviously didn't make it onto my radar.  Board games were scattered around (Scrabble, chess, checkers, you name it).

In short, there is a cool bar in Plano, and it has fairly classy patrons, if you don't count the coconut-bra-ed Parrot Heads that invaded after the Jimmy Buffett concert.

I also discovered that, according to my friends, coconut-bra sporting men are only tolerable if they are slightly chubby college boys or chubby middle-aged men.  Muscular college boys in coconut bras need not apply.

HH Double-Header

Happy hour was a nomadic affair, Friday evening.  The official Happy Hour Coordinator, PK, decided that we should all go to Frankie's so those fellas who were so inclined could watch basketball.  College basketball, to be exact.

Frankie's is a sports bar, and that about sums it up, really.  Lots of televisions mounted near the ceiling, lots of guys in identical shirts jumping out of their chairs and screaming in unison.  The temptation to compare it to synchronized swimming is tempting, but I think I'll let that alone.  Might get beat up for insinuating that those armchair-point-guards (in their identical embroidered button-down shirts) were anything but macho.  As one of my fellow (female) HH-goers commented, "I know it's Uptown, but there are a lot of d-bags here."

I didn't eat at Frankie's, having already eaten at a mediocre catfish joint (If you're a catfish joint in Texas, you'd better have good catfish.  They didn't.)  But I did once eat there, and I remember the food being okay.

I know I'll go back to Frankie's from time to time, if only to watch sports.  It's exactly like any other sports bar, though.  Nothing special.  Its location is the only thing that recommends it.  Why?  Because, after the game is over and you've grown tired of the terrible almost-pints of Guinness, you can head over to...

 The Quarter Bar at Breadwinner's.

The 1/4 bar also has its share of, ahem, cheesey fellows.  But it has something else to recommend it: character.  It's in an older building and is two stories.  On the first floor, there are velvet upholstered slipper chairs scattered around the warren of rooms for your seating pleasure, or you can stand in the middle of the room and keep people from accessing the bar.  I'm not sure which I prefer, personally, because I always go upstairs.

The second floor tends to be less crowded, although there are fewer steam-punk chairs in which to loll.  The wood floors are delightfully off-kilter, so ladies in heels, watch your step.  Or just fall strategically to the side and grab onto one of the handsome fellows (in an embroidered shirt, natch) that is probably occupying the patch of floor adjacent to you.

The Guinness at the 1/4 Bar isn't draught on the second floor.  In fact, it's out of a can, but it's still better than the bitter swill Frankie's tries to pawn off as that oh-so-blessed of quaffs.  The second floor also closes about 30 minutes before the ground floor, so be prepared for bartenders to start herding you towards the door at 1:30.  They will initially be quite genial about the whole thing, but by the second or third round of "finish up, it's time to go," their encouragement to leave has reached more of a "chug it and go the f*** home!" attitude ( and yes, that is a direct quote).

Ah, Fredericksburg

My mom had Spring Break this past week, and she asked me if I would like "to go on vacation" with her.  After laughing because, at present, I am on one heckuva extended vacation, I agreed and asked her to where she would like to go.  She requested Fredericksburg, TX.  I instantly agreed, visions of biergartens dancing in my head.

I was not disappointed.

We arrived in Fredericksburg on Wednesday and drove around a bit.  It took us longer to get to F-burg than we'd originally thought because we opted to take "the scenic route."  No, not "the scenic route" as in "we got lost and had to find our way to where we were supposed to be" but "the scenic route" as in "maybe there will be wildflowers and lots of baby cows!"  There were, indeed, lots of baby cows (calves, I know, but I like "baby cows" more) but nary a bluebonnet in sight.

Wednesday evening, I had a hankering for some German food, so we went to Silver Creek Beer Garden, where I chowed down on the German Wurst plate with 3 kinds of wurst, pickled cabbage, some delicious mashed potatoes, and sauerkraut.  Not a huge fan of sauerkraut, but the cabbage was awesome.

And the beer.    Spaten Premium for starters, and then on to Great Divide's Yeti Imperial Stout.  All 22 oz. in the bottle of GD's Yeti Stout.  It was good, but had a bit of a rough edge to it, perhaps because it was 9.5% ABV.  Yep, that'll do it.  And since we're rating things, how was the service at the beer garden?  Terrible, for the most part.  Our waiter was far too important to bring me my Yeti Stout (we waited about 15 minutes before he even acknowledged our existence when we first seated ourselves).  Fortunately, a much more attractive and competent young man came to my rescue by taking my order, delivering my stout, and engaging in some light banter.  He got a bigger tip than our "real waiter," suffice it to say.

NOTE TO WAITERS: knowing how to flirt with a girl without going overboard and bringing her order in a timely manner will garner BIG tips.  Having a cuter waiter save a girl from beerlessness will ensure your tip shrinks exponentially, even if her mom's the one dishing out the dough.

If your taste runs more towards haute cuisine, I suggest the Navajo Grill, if you can get over the fact that there were no Navajo Indians in that part of Texas, which I just barely managed to do.  I'm glad I did, as my steak was excellent, the dessert was fantastic - for once!  A creme brulee that isn't too egg-y! - and the salad served pre-entree was superb.  Bacon and sunflower seeds on top of my salad?  Heaven!  Utter heaven!  Granted, the Navajo Grill isn't exactly cheap, but it's well worth the price.  And they have a fairly broad selection of wines, for you oenophiles.

AND you must stop by Rather Sweet, if you're in the mood for something, er, sweet.  Excellent muffins, danish, cookies, and cakes!  We ate there three times!  Eek!  Also, excellent sandwiches served on some of the best bread I've ever eaten.

Incidentally, you'd be surprised how many "beer and cake" photos you'll find on Google...  In the end, I decided to go with the classier "bluebonnets and brahmas."

State and Allen

Friday's Happy Hour was at State and Allen Lounge.  Maybe it was because of the seating arrangement (RIGHT in the path of travel for everyone) or the fact that my allergies were bothering me, but...  Ok.  I'm picky about bars.  Perhaps if I'd sampled their food (which is hopefully better than their Guinness) I would have been more impressed, but as things stand, it doesn't merit a spot on my list of "favorite bars."  Sorry, PK.

One thing I did find amusing at S&A Lounge was that all the guys, with the exception of those at our table, seemed to be dressed exactly alike.  All were in white shirts with blue stripes, jeans, and flipflops, with one or two exceptions.  On the upside, patrons are welcome to bring their dogs, so long as they obey the "Rules for Parents" posted on a chalkboard.  It was fun to see all the people out with their aminals (misspelling intentional, ya'll), particularly the weimaraner puppy.

Me: You tackle the girl, and I'll grab the puppy and run.

Kathy: Deal.  One, two, three, go!

I also must confess that I was only there for 1.5 hours, and as everyone knows, bars typically get better the longer you're there (and the more alcohol you consume), so my sobriety might have also clouded my judgment.  Regardless, I'll probably go back to State and Allen once more, if only because two of my friends live right nearby and it could be a good meeting place.  And I am curious to try one of those hamburgers...

Gimme Some Elbow Room!

<= Rasputin: Creepy Guy's Ancestor?

Friday's Happy Hour was at the Elbow Room on Gaston.  I like the Elbow Room.  It has a nice low-key vibe, and there's a good mix of hipsters ("I know that guy!  How do I know that guy?  The one with the tiny mustache and fedora?  Howdoiknowhimdoyouknowhimiknowhim!") and unhipsters (such as myself).  After 11 pm, there are also ridiculously good-looking guys playing...that game... with sand on the table... and little round things you send zinging across...but not too far across...the table...

I was about to fall into a rant about their Guinness tasting funny, but I just remembered I had eaten a peppermint before we showed up, so that might have something to do with why the first pint'o tasted a bit like Robitussin, but the ones following were A-OK.

I have decided that I love the Elbow Room.  Why?  Because the waitresses look out for you.  And so does the manager.  And the doorman.  Towards the end of the night, myself and my friends Kathy* and Frankie* and I were sitting at a table with Creepy Guy.  Creepy Guy is, in a word, creepy.  He looks like an oily werewolf.  He's creepy.  Frankie was ready to go, and I whispered to him not to leave until Kathy and I tabbed out so we wouldn't be left alone with C.G.

I then went over to the waitress and asked her if she could hurry our tabs out, as we didn't want to be left alone with "the creepy guy in the leather jacket."  She looked concerned, and a few seconds later brought me my tab and whispered in my ear that she had notified the manager about the creepy guy and that the doorman would be making sure we got to our cars ok.  Wow.  On the way out, the manager stopped me, asked which guy was the creepy guy (I didn't want him to think Frankie was C.G.) and spoke to the doorman.  Awesome service.  It was nice that they showed such concern for their female patrons.

So, I say, "Go to the Elbow Room.  Good beer.  Fun games.  Concerned waitresses."

* Names have been changed... in case my friends don't want to appear in my blog... cuz some of them are spies, they say...

The Liar's Den

This past Friday, the HH crew met at The Liar's Den on McKinneyAve.  It's fairly new on the bar scene.

Pros: good food (beer-battered fish'n'chips are quite scrumptious, tho not nearly the best in Big D); they show Friday Night Fights (heck yeah!); they're a "trendy" bar in Uptown that serves Guinness (albeit in bottles, and the waitresses don't know that Guinness Draft and Guinness Extra Stout are two entirely different animals).

Cons: Around 11:00 on weekends, they confiscate your chair if you're not sitting in it; the jukebox stutters occaisionally; the waitresses aren't the most attentive.

I'd been once before with the Friday Happy Hour Bunch (refused to go before because I think the name is a ridiculous attempt at sounding like a pub while still being "wicked" and hip), but I had yet to explore the upstairs area.  Yes, they have a separate dance club upstairs (which negates any claim to pub-dom that it might otherwise have).  I'm not a huge fan of dance clubs, as a rule.  In fact, I think the majority of the HH bunch doesn't go out to dance.  Last I remember, the only people that left our group expressly to go dance were some interlopers that have yet to reappear.  But maybe that's just my perception of things.

After about five minutes spent crammed against the bar, waiting to get a drink (thanks P.K., I owe you one this next week) two of my comrades and I fled for the hills.  There's a nice little wooden fire escape that runs along the outside of the building, but you can't really stand on it, because it's blocking the escape route in case of a fire, which is ironic, because I'm sure the dance club section was over capacity.  We went onto the roof deck to brave the cold.  I'm sure the roof deck will be infinitely more fun when it isn't 40 degrees outside.

Until our experience upstairs, the shivering trio had been happy to sit and drink at the bar.  The club just about did us in, though.  Consensus when we abandoned ship altogether 30 minutes later was that we were not fans of the Liar's Den.

Overall ranking: eh.  Despite the protestations of my HH friends, I infinitely prefer the Gingerman and Capitol Pub - even City Tavern - to the Liar's Den.

Pub with a Capitol "P"

The fellow that usually directs my architect-y buddies on their weekly pilgrimage around the watering holes of Dallas fell down on the job Friday.  His excuse?  He was in Arizona.  Personally, I think it's a lame excuse, but four of the devoted pooled our resources and ventured forth, to the East side of Central Expressway (U.S. - 75 for the non-Dallasites).

Originally, we intended to go to the Old Monk.  They pour one of the best pints of Guinness in town, according to regional lore.  So we went.  In two separate cars.  And they didn't have valet.  Now I'm no parking snob, but if you don't offer valet on a Friday night on one of the busiest drinking streets in Dallas, you're going to lose business, especially when your parking lot is the size of a postage stamp and you know you'll get towed if you park on one of the nearby residential streets.

So the Old Monk did NOT get paid for a grand total of a zillion drinks.

We ended up instead at Capitol Pub.  It's at the intersection of Capitol and Henderson, just FYI.  I love the bar.  I've gone there since it first opened.  I know the names of all the regulars (even if they do just refer to me as "the pretty short-haired girl") and the owners.  But Friday night was - well - loud.  Louder than it's been since the Dallas Rugby Club showed up after their last game from last season (and that was LOUD).  Usually, there's the din from people talking and laughing.  But they were louder this time because the music volume was set to make-their-eardrums-bleed.  We ended up sitting outside because it was so loud.  And it was cold, too, so I had to get the poor valet ($5 after 9 p.m., free before 9) to run back out to my car to get my coat for me (thanks adorable valet guy!).

Eventually, not even my 3/4 length wool coat could keep me warm (and my friends were shivering in their Burberry Anoraks and insulated vests), so we went inside and commandeered the nearest empty-ish table we could find.  And then yelled at each other across the table for the next 2 hours while we alternated our drinks between beer and water.

I'm planning on going back to Capitol this Wednesday for after-dinner drinks (Read: Beer) with one of my friends, known to the Pub owners as "the short-haired girl's friend" (no kidding).  Hopefully, it won't be so loud, and if it is, I just might have to say something to one of the ridiculously good-looking owners.

Friday Happy Hour

Happy hour this past Friday was at the City Tavern in downtown Dallas.  It's on Main Street, right next to this really sketchy looking club called Plush (hootchies + glowing purple doors = avoid at all costs).  I enjoy the Tavern.  They have one of the better pints of Guinness to be found in Dallas (albeit not the best) and a rockin' grilled cheese sandwich (that you can get with a side of mac'n'cheese, if you're feeling extra cheesey).

But, if you decide to go to City Tavern and you're female, you should be forewarned: you will be hit on by weirdos.  WEIRDOS.  And not the quirky-neat-cool brand of weirdo, either.  The type of weirdo that tries a line on a girl, fails, and moves on to the next girl, only to try THE SAME EXACT LINE.  Or, when a fellow makes a pass at you and your friend simultaneously (and trust me he's OLD enough to know better), and you inform him "We're getting ready to leave," he responds "Can't your friend answer for herself?"  Nothing like being rude to put the cap on being old, overweight, and unattractive.  Yup.  Makes me want a guy every time.

Granted, there are some of the strain of quirky-neat-cool almost-but-not-quite-weirdos at the Tavern, such as the gentleman and his lady who came in wearing Victorian garb.  He carried a cane, had enormous mutton chops, a top hat, and was wearing a frock coat (as opposed to the more ostentatious cutaway).  She wore a scandalously low-cut day gown and I'd be willing to bet money there was a corset under there (no woman is that thin, naturally).  Kind of made me wish I had Victorian clothes to wear around town.  Maybe I'll whip some up in my spare time.