To the Bar!

I did a good deed.

I am rewarding myself with a Happy Hour appearance in approximately 30 minutes.

What did I do that merits a bit o' beer in my tummy? (Apart from losing weight and freaking out my physical therapist who prescribed cookies to cure the rapid weight loss?)

I found an iPad. It was on the sidewalk in my apartment complex last night at 9:00 when I went to check my mail. I picked it up and decided I'd turn it into the complex office today.

En route to the complex office, I saw a sign that pointed to approximately where the iPad had fallen, and it listed a phone number to call if anyone found the touchscreen contraption. I called. No one answered. So I left a message and went to physical therapy.

The owner called back, and after I went grocery shopping, I returned the iPad to the incredibly grateful owner, a stunning young Russian woman who hugged the iPad to her chest as if it was a lost child. There are three of them - the young woman, her little sister, and their mother - living in a sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment.

Still basking in the do-gooder glow, I am taking myself off to Happy Hour at City Tavern.

In the words of Maxminimus: Onwards, to the bar.

An Intimate Dinner

For one.

I had planned to go to Happy Hour, this evening, to watch the baseball game and pretend to be a Rangers fan along with the rest of the normally apathetic architects, but when I checked my account balance - it was pay day, after all, and I needed to make sure my money was deposited - I discovered that I'd paid more on my credit card bill this month than I realized.

Quite a bit more.

On what? Well, replacing the clothes that fell apart (and which I will be paying off for a couple of months, it seems), but mostly on... you guessed it: Doctors' bills. $600 worth.

Woohoo! Yes! $600 in one month! So I stayed home and watched "North by Northwest" on the DVD and ate a meal comprised of random food from my refrigerator, cobbled into a "wholesome meal."

Awesome!

Almost as awesome as being accused of "ganging up" with the contractors against Oldsmobile, today. Who accused me? Oldsmobile. My cohorts in this gang? Pacman and Connie.

Hmmmm.... Neither Pacman nor I like Connie. We both have a low opinion of him.

Why was I accused of "ganging up" against Oldsmobile? Well, the contractor ordered the wrong stone, we think, for the house. The contractor pointed to the mock-up of the stone and said, "But it's the same color under all that dirt. The mock-up's just dirty."

During a discussion with Connie - at which Oldsmobile was not present, because he had to leave - Pacman and I requested that the mock-up be power-washed. But only half of it should be power-washed. Then, we could compare the stones properly.

We - Pacman and I - were attempting to explain the logic of this to Oldsmobile, and he began accusing us of colluding with the contractor to prove that the stone on the site was the correct stone.

He would not let us explain ourselves.

He left for an appointment in a snit, as he is wont to do, and returned later, even angrier, because his appointment was delayed by a lax employee at the City of Dallas, and he started in on us again. When we tried to explain, he cut us off, accusing us of colluding.

We finally stopped trying to explain.

We let him tire himself out roaring at us, accusing us of deception, trying to change his opinion, conspiring with the contractor (who we don't like or trust, mind you) against him.

And then when he was good and out of breath, we explained.

We are somewhat back in his good graces.

I have a feeling, however, that I am no longer seen as an innocuous presence in the office; that I have become "one of the guys" at last, meaning that I am finally to be subject to the same fits of temper they are subject to regularly.

I'm used to high maintenance employers. I excel at high maintenance employers. But they're usually of the benevolent kind, who are high maintenance in a "I carry granola bars and spare pens and pads of paper in my bag to keep them fed/supplied" kind of way. The kind who expect you to wipe Wite-Out off their face before meetings.

That kind of high maintenance. Not yelling, accusing high maintenance.

Maybe I'll keep my head down for a few days. Beginning Tuesday. Because Monday, we go look at the stone again.

Which brings me back to my original point: I don't get paid enough for this job.

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.

Okay, I Need Another One...

The weekend is almost over. In fact, it's essentially done for.

And I could really use one more. Right now. That would be great. Thanks.

Friday night, after skipping Happy Hour, because it was in Ft. Worth, of all the inconvenient places to host Happy Hour for a bunch of architects from Dallas, I came home and worked for a while longer. Because really, what else was I going to do? I'd had a migraine earlier, so I couldn't drink, anyway. Stupid migraines, with their stupid "no drinking alcohol after taking this medicine" medicines. Psh.

After transcribing Uncle Moneybags' existing floorplans from their 1958 hard copies into digital copies (loads of fun, let me tell you), I got an itch to organize something. That never really bodes well, because it usually means a couple of hours of organizing, but I decided to go ahead and run with it.

So I reorganized my bookshelves, in anticipation of what will henceforth be known as The Great Living Room Rearrangement of 2010. If there's another living room rearrangement this year - which I highly doubt there will be - then I will append a month to the second one. For posterity's sake.

This coming Saturday, if all goes as planned, my dad will assist me in moving one very large steel book case from one end of my living room to the other. At the same time - okay, on the same day, obviously not completely concurrently - my TV will move from one end of the apartment to the other. I'm swapping the TV and the book case. It's going to be epic.

I really hope I like the way the layout works... I'm pretty darned sure I will, though.

I failed to get more than 5 hours of sleep, Friday night, not because of an overage of organizing, but because I simply couldn't sleep. This has occurred multiple times this week, and I'm chalking it up to migraines keeping me awake (yes, they can do that, if they strike at night). So I slept poorly, woke up later than intended Saturday morning, and then showed up later than intended at my parents' house where I discovered that...

My dog had been bored to tears at some point and found a nice mushy pile of mud and set to churning it, perhaps with an eye towards profiting by starting a brickyard. Because it seriously looked about like a mudpit in a brickyard. Amazing.

And he tracked a good deal of it inside, of course, where it dried into the carpet. The carpet which, in an hour's time, a host of males would see while they retreated to my parents' house during my sister's baby shower, which was being hosted elsewhere.

I got out the vacuum, wearing my cute little "I'm going to a baby shower" outfit, and set about cleaning up what I could, and then picking up the larger chunks, while the world's greatest brother-in-law took the dog outside and washed his paws off with a hose. I secretly think it was my dog's way of retaliating for my sister's failure to bring her own red-headed pups to visit. He's usually very sweet, but he has his moments, and he's something of an ornery old man, these days.

My mom and my sister arrived at the house in the midst of the grand clean-up (my BIL Swiffered the floor while I touched up my make-up post-vacuuming), and then we jetted to the shower, spent three hours there, got back to my parents' house, rested for a little over an hour, then hosted my BIL's mother, aunt, and cousin for dinner. I drove home that evening and tried to crash. Again, I failed.

This morning, I ran a couple of errands, then met the family for lunch before my sister and BIL departed for Houston with their baby swag. This baby will be the best-dressed baby ever, just in case you were wondering. And then I ran a couple more errands (Container Store! Oh! How I've missed you!) and came home. I intended to go to the grocery store, and to Target, because I need light bulbs and food. But I decided that, heck, I had enough stuff to make pancakes, and I really needed to use those ingredients anyway, so I'd just eat pancakes for dinner.

Pancakes are kind of like men: they can be a lot of fun at the time, but then there's a huge mess to clean up, and you totally regret them later.

Heh. Heh heh. Heh.

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.

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)

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/)

Goes Another Round

If you're a Foo Fighters fan, then hum the melody along with the song title for me.  If not, that's your loss.

Happy Hour Friday was at The Gingerman.  I like the bar, even if some of the Happy Hour Gang holds a grudge against it for its location in Uptown - horrors!  Whatever shall we do, surrounded by professionals who - gasp! - like people!  Quick, get me to a misanthropic dive bar!  Stat!  And put James Brown's "Sex Machine" on the juke box, or we'll all go into shock!

Anyways, the Gingerman serves a mean pint of Guinness, or Ace Pear, or Wyder's Peach, or whatever your poison is, and an even meaner turkey sandwich with a side of heaven.  Supposedly the roast beef sandwich is pretty good, too, but I'm a creature of habit, so I stick with the turkey.

If you can "deal" with the attractive young denizens at The Gingerman and you like a bar that serves GOOD beer with a cheerful atmosphere, knock yourself out.

The real news, however, is that I received a job reference.  One of the fellows from HH was laid off from his job around the same time that I was downsized, albeit at a different firm.  He asked me if I had found a job, yet, and I said that I hadn't, but that I was considering starting my own business.  He then suggested I apply at his place of employment.  He works for an AWESOME small architecture firm in Downtown Dallas, which means - if I got the job - I would have an excuse to move back down to Dallas!

So now, I have to work up the nerve to cold-call the firm's principal (that's architecture speak for "owner" or "partner").  Hopefully, he'll say, "Well of course, if so-and-so suggested you come in for an interview, I'd love to meet you," or something equally encouraging, and then it could all be a matter of mere formalities before I'm employed, once again.

The thing is, I'm scared to death.  Just like I was last time I applied for a job.

I've never cold-called someone about a job, before.  Part of me says, "Oh, just email him," but that seems chicken-livered.  The other jobs for which I've applied were all as a result of my emailing a resume through some automated system, or having a former employer call up a guy and say "Hey, you're hiring this girl because she's the best damn designer you'll ever find" (no, I'm not exaggerating on that one, but aforementioned former boss had ulterior motives in trying to flatter me, so...).

How do I do it?  I don't know.  My mom was supposed to give me her friend's phone number, because her friend pretty much helps people do this for a living.  Unfortunately, we didn't get home from our Mother's Day dinner until around 9:30, and I wasn't about to call the woman at 10:00 at night to start asking her questions about how to interview, and all of that.

Part of me says, "Ok, call her friend Monday after she gets home from work, and then call the firm on Tuesday."  And that same part thinks that's a great idea.  Another part thinks that plan is just a chicken-livered way of just putting things off.  And another part of me is just running in circles screaming "Oh crap!  Oh crap!  Oh crappity-crap-crap-crap!" with a busted-up shopping bag from Banana Republic over its head.  I'm listening to this last part a wee bit too much, but that's also the part that told me to go get the last of the coconut gelato out of my parents' fridge, so I kind of like that part at the same time.

So by Wednesday morning, you'll know what plan of attack I adopted, and hopefully I'll have good results from that plan and the inevitable merciless slaughter.  Hopefully, the battle's outcome will be for the better.

Sorry for the lapse in writing, Monday.  I was busy pretending I was in "Flight of the Navigator", but in a Toyota Avalon, and I didn't actually do any navigating, because my dad (pilot) received a Garmin Nuvi from us for Christmas.  Not much intergalactic space travel, but interesting, in that we discussed such topics as the use of torture on Guantanamo inmates, the economy and the degree of interference the current administration is taking with aforesaid economy, etc., etc., ad adendum, ad infinitum.  I enjoyed myself immensely.

The reason for my whirlwind road trip was, technically, to keep my dad company while he drove from one business appointment to another.  I, eco-shamefully, waited outside in the car, air conditioning cranked up, either sleeping or doing calculus; sleeping in a company's lobbydoesn't really make the right impression, either on potential clients or their customers.

The real reasons for the trip were: 1) to see my sister (trip was to Houston) and 2) my mom decided I needed to get out of the house, because I'm going a wee bit stir-crazy from boredom and a certain "caged animal" feeling I get when I've been living with my parents too long.  Remember when Mumble was put in the zoo, and how he got all dopey-eyed and sad and just sat around all day eating sardines?  Yeah, that's me, except with Cheddar Bunnies instead of sardines.

Several interesting things happened, apart from in-depth discussions with my sister, her husband (who makes finding a boyfriend impossibly difficult, now...  He's totally ruined dating for me), and my dad.

Interesting thing #1:  My dad presented me with a potential business plan (for me) that I think is viable and that, with some help from my dad and a couple of his contacts, I think I can get off the ground.  It is completely unrelated to architecture.  I also have a name for the aforesaid potential business.  Now I need a logo, a website, some business advice (from those in the know), and a little certificate saying "Okay, you can call yourself that and be a business."  The business idea is one to which, in theory, I could devote a limited amount of time while earning more than $20 per hour.  It would help me get off the government dole, too.  I hate taking handouts (unless they're in the form of shoes, purses, or pretty shiny baubles, in which case zip me a comment, and I'll send you the address to which you can mail them).

Interesting thing #2:  I learned more about my dad's business, how personal financial statements are developed, and discussed logical reasoning behind a couple of my dad's recent business decisions.  He also dissected the psychological reasons for contextual comments he makes during phone calls with potential clients.  Fascinating.

Of course, as I've earlier discussed, dinner at my sister's house was AMAZING.  We had pork spare ribs (from happy pigs that grazed in an oak and walnut forest before, being slaughtered).  To accompany the wonderful pork, we had a salad of mixed baby field greens with avocado slices, huge pieces of heirloom tomatoes, and feta cheese crumbles.  Everything's betta with feta!  For dessert, we had pound cake with blackberries and strawberries, and I went to bed full, happy, and having eaten more at one sitting than I typically do in two, which my doctor says I shouldn't do, but she's never eaten at my sister's house.

Alas, I couldn't drink any beer, because I am on ridiculous antibiotics as a result of a local infection at the site of the surgery I had ALMOST A MONTH AGO.  For this reason, and also because I didn't want to miss out on prime sister-schmoozing time, I backed out of a proposed "beer and catching up" session with a boy I went to college with and with whom I worked at the university newspaper.  My sister appreciated that, the more so because she knows I love the ginger men (although I usually end up dating Central Americans.  Go figure).

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.

I've been better but...

I've also been a hell of a lot worse.  I had surgery over a week ago, and I'm having some complications.  It stinks.  I should be pretty much recovered, by now, able to sit up like normal people, drive myself places, get through a day without popping prescription painkillers, but none of that is happening.  So.  There goes my plan to start aggressively looking for work a week or two after my surgery.   Woe is me, and all that.

I spent the weekend in Houston with my sister, her husband, and their two adorable dogs.  One is a little more than a year old, the other is 13 weeks old.  It was all I could do not to wrap up his wiggly little body in dirty clothes and stuff him in my suitcase to take him home.  I bet he would have stayed quiet in there, right?

I typically do Happy Hour review on Monday, but I didn't do Happy Hour, because I was winging my way to Houston.  Instead, I will say this much about my gastronomic experience in Houston: if you ever get the chance to eat at my sister's house, jump on it.  The woman is probably one of the best home cooks I've ever encountered.

We had steak, green beans and asparagus, and roasted fingerling potatoes Saturday night for dinner.  It was such a pleasant dinner, with the gentle music of whining puppies creating the perfect ambiance for our en plein aire dinner.  We were sitting there, eating, and my sister was dissecting her food preparation decisions, almost as a soliloquy, saying "I should have added lemon zest to the beans and asparagus."  That's the type of person she is: always strives to make things better.

Sunday brunch, though, was the real kicker.  Cheese grits, asparagus (again, but we all love it), ham, and big-as-yo-face-biscuits served with fig preserves or honey (the type with the honeycomb still in the jar.  The best kind.) and plenty of butter.  I didn't eat everything on my plate, but that's only because I have a small stomach capacity.

Almost every meal my sister has cooked for me has been something wonderful.  So, like I said, if you ever get the chance to eat at her house... make sure you take me along as your date :)

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.

Happy Hour = No Posting