Tag Archives: drinking

photo friday: no, thank you

21 Aug
HFS, this stuff is awful.

HFS, this stuff is awful.

Swede and a friend got it in their heads recently that we should all get together and drink Malört.

I’m pretty sure they were drinking other adult beverages when they came to this decision, because there is no way a rational, sober person would not only come up with this idea, but also think it is one upon which he should act.

But get together we did, and the Malört was poured out, and we all did a shot and it was as terrible as you think it will be. Why someone once acted on the idea to distill liquor whose main ingredient is wormwood is beyond me, but my guess is that other adult beverages were involved in that decision as well.

If you’ve never had Malört, the best way to describe it is as a taste combination of:

  1. The most bitter cucumber peel you’ve ever eaten
  2. Acetone nail polish remover
  3. Aquanet hair spray

And honestly, that’s kind of handle-able. It’s the fall that will kill ya. Immediately upon swallowing the Malört you’ll feel a burn in your chest, and you’ll think, “Okay, that wasn’t quite as bad as I was expecting.” And then 90 seconds later there’s a follow up burn that you certainly weren’t expecting, and you didn’t even know it was possible for your sternum bone to spontaneously combust, but there it goes, and holy shit, should someone call an ambulance? There’s a bit of concern that your body has just imploded in revolt. Once you’re reasonably sure that you don’t need emergency help, everything does settle down. But then you’re left with a lingering, non-negotiable taste of dirty, spoiled…I don’t even know. Gym socks? Rhubarb? Soiled felt from a seat on the red line?

Chugging water doesn’t help.

Diet Pepsi doesn’t help.

The only thing that appears to help is another adult beverage, preferably one that is not foul. The only problem is that the adult beverages are what started this whole episode to begin with.

So probably your best bet is to run, if Malört is ever mentioned in your presence. Run far, far away, and don’t look back.

Just be careful that all that running doesn’t further fan the flames of your spontaneously combusting sternum.

photo friday: happy hour somewhere

12 Oct

I traveled to Ireland with two of my three sisters, and this photo right here represents…..



I was going to get all thinky and philosophical and be all, “It represents our bond of sisterly sisterhood and etcetera and so forth!”

But really it represents this: We went to Ireland. We had some dranks. They were good, so we had some more.

photo friday: the glass half full

20 May

Bridgeport is an area of Chicago I’ve long known about, but seldom have spent a large amount of time there outside of Sox games.

I have a feeling that could be about to change, now that I’ve visited Maria’s once or thrice.

And especially now that I know just what Maria’s Bridgeport Shandy tastes like.

(Hint: summer, delicious and tantalizing, all in one glass.)

when the cat’s away

19 Jul

Sometimes your main squeeze leaves early for a trip, which leaves you with a completely free weekend—nowhere to be, no plans on the docket, nothing. It’s not an easy situation to handle, but pull up a chair, Interwebers, and I’ll walk you through the coping process.

First, flip open your iTunes and put on some Shannon McNally, warbling at the top of your lungs as if all the pain and suffering and pining in the world doesn’t hold a candle to your heartache, “When will I see my oh-oh-only one?” and completely disregard the fact that only a few hours earlier you said to your main squeeze, “How can I miss you if you never leave?” as you cheerily waved him off at the airport. Mope around in circles for awhile annoying your neighbors with your singing. And maybe pretending you are in a very arty music video and wonder why YOU haven’t become a singer, because damn, girl, you can sing along with this song like nobody’s fucking business.

Next, pull the vodka out of the freezer. Invite your friend HO over with promises of lemon drop martinis. Ask her politely to pick up an extra lemon.

Gather the ingredients, and thank your lucky stars that you paid attention when your friend Consuela at the golf club told you how to make a lemon drop.

Slice the lemons, and run one lightly around the edge of your martini glass. This helps the sugar stick to the rim. Turn your glass upside down on the pile of sugar, and voila! A sugared rim. Which is key to a lemon drop. Okay, maybe not key, but it’s yummy and it looks fancy and sometimes you just need a little fancy.

Pour vodka into a shaker, and squeeze in the juice of about half the lemon. (More or less depending on how lemon-inclined you are.) Add a little bar sugar if you so desire, and if you don’t have bar sugar, add in table sugar, but don’t be alarmed when it all clumps at the bottom of your glass.

Realize that you don’t have a martini shaker.

Look around fruitlessly for your main squeeze’s Amazon.com water bottle that you’d previously used as a cocktail shaker, only to realize that you actually returned that to him at some point. Shake your fist both at yourself and your main squeeze, who has not one but two cocktail shakers and wonder why he couldn’t leave THAT at your apartment instead of a half-empty carton of chocolate soy milk that was yours to begin with.

Spot your main squeeze’s coffee travel mug that you brought him from your Alaskan adventure.


Decide it can totally double as a cocktail shaker.

Resume making cocktails.

Shake the cocktail over the sink, just to be sure that nothing leaks. Because maybe you forgot to close the sipping part of the lid.

Pour the drink into your sugared rim martini glass and sip. DO NOT GUZZLE. Otherwise, you’ll be drunk before you know it and you’ll do something stupid. Don’t try an deny it. Everyone does stupid shit when they’re drunk. And if your main squeeze is out of town, it will probably involve him and then in the morning you’re going to have to explain why you sent him 14 texts with all the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven. Instead, sip, and enjoy the company of HO while you discuss Very Important Topics that can’t be discussed when your main squeeze is around, like her insane job, and the breakfast menu that you’re going to make the morning of Everyone Needs a Julie’s wedding, and how you got a massage that morning and felt like you got beat up by the time you were done. In a good way. Not that your main squeeze doesn’t enjoy hearing about these things, but he’s heard about them a million times and is probably tired of it. Best to have these conversations with your girlfriends who have the capacity to talk about these topics ad nauseum.

Repeat the above steps for a second cocktail before your friend HO pulls herself from the couch to head home. Wave goodbye, and gently close the door. Call your main squeeze and think about bragging about your lemon drop martini-making skillz and be all, “You missed out, suckah! You in Chicago!” then realize that he probably doesn’t care because he spent the evening drinking German beer and eating German food. Be mildly bummed that you didn’t drink beer or eat schnitzel, but cheered by the fact that you at least have your lemon drop making skillz. Say goodnight.

Spy a couple of limes that you bogarted from your main squeeze’s house on the way out the door to the airport. Think about making gimlets tomorrow night.

the fairest of them all

23 Jul

MirrorThe main reason I went home to Chicago a couple of weekends ago was because my best gal, Mare Beh Beh, was having a shower thrown for her in honor of her upcoming nuptials. She told me that even though I am a bridesmaid I was in no way whatsoever required to fly in for the event. But then she told me that there would be wine and that I wouldn’t be responsible for cleaning up the detritus of party madess we left in our wake and I said sign me up, babycakes, This Girl is coming home.

biting dust

6 Jul

Eastern Ave

For reasons and decisions I’m none too clear on – I’m actually not quite sure that the people who have the reasons and made the decisions are too clear on them, either – my fun and fabulous freelancing in Baltimore is no longer. We won’t be our own site, rather rolled into the Sun’s entertainment section, and what this means for my boisterous adventures in Charm City is yet to be determined. Could continue in some sort of capacity, could also not continue, only time will tell. But no matter what I will always love the fact that among the many surprises I encountered when I moved out here, Baltimore was the biggest surprise of all.

On the Roofdeck

19 Jun

StellaI don’t see the guys very often, being that RHW lives in Texas now, and Pep is all the way out in Arlington, but they came over the other night for pizza and beer on the roofdeck. All manner of important topics were covered,  including books to read, why I shouldn’t live so far from the metro, home-brewed beer, the Iowa State Fair, and the top 5 greatest moments of all time in college basketball.

So yes, the stuff memories are made of, essentially.

Today It Is Not Simply A Beer. It Is a Pint.

17 Mar

To look at me, you would immediately think: She’s Swedish!

No, that’s a lie.

As my high school principal once told my dad, “She has the map of Ireland written on her face.” I was alarmed when Dad relayed this to me, for a couple of reasons: (1) How did Sr. Mary Paul know my name? and (2) what the hell does that mean? Now I know, but if you do not know, I am not going to tell you. But I will tell you this: no, if you connect the dots it does not form the outline of the Emerald Isle. However, playing connect the dots on my leg does somehow always end up looking like a bunny rabbit and was one of my favorite pastimes during boring classes in high school. And now we’ve come full, wobbly, oblongy circle. Good times.


The point is I have a hefty dose of Irish heritage in me, which you can tell by simply a glimpse of my mug.

But no, to answer your next question, I’m not going to full-throttle celebrate my heritage today. I’m happy to be Irish on this most sacred of American Drinking Days, but pushing my way into an already packed bar is not my idea of a good time, so I’m thinking I’ll just enjoy my pint at home. Though would that I could transport the bars from Western Avenue (I’m talking to you, Keegan’s) to here in DC, and teach this city what it means to pull a pint.

My question for the day, however, is this: How did St. Pat’s become such a huge drinking extravaganza in the U.S.? By all accounts that I’ve known, it is not as such in Ireland. I’m under the impression that in Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day is more like a holy day, celebrated with reverence and respect, rather than parades, green beer, and flashy T-shirts encouraging people to make out with one another. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. From birth until mid-20s I religiously attended the South Side Irish Parade to celebrate St. Pat’s.) I wonder when the shift happened, exactly, and why? Especially when you think about the fact that when the Irish first came to America, they were seen as the lowest of the low on the totem pole, pariahs worthy only of the dirtiest and bleakest jobs, relegated to the smelliest, most wretched parts of the city. The Irish were nothings, they were nobodies, and few cared if they lived or died.

And now? Now to be Irish is a source of utter pomp and pride, particularly every March 17th.

Hello, 180!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite glad for the change of overall heart, but I’m curious as to what sparked it.

But let’s hold off on those deep discussions for a moment, and instead, enjoy your St. Pat’s, and raise a pint of Guinness in cheer. Cha deoch-slaint, i gun a traghadh.*

*Translation: It’s no health if the glass is not emptied.