I've never blogged after having two beers before. But tonight I was exposed to an entirely new form of socialization, of community if you will... even a new way to meet eligible, cute, "normal" men. The two beers were at a local sports bar that specializes in simultaneously screening at least four different sports games at any given moment. I used to think that sports had seasons, but judging by the fact that we saw baseball, basketball, hockey and football all in the same night, clearly the concept of "season" is obsolete.
At first, I was concerned that I might get bored watching hockey, eating fattening food and having the suspicion that I was playing second fiddle to a bunch of large men in uniform hitting each other. However, I soon found myself embracing this new way of "going out".
The first advantage was definitely the food. For eleven dollars, we had two pulled pork sliders, four bbq wings, fried calamari, and the coup de gras, garlic tater tots. Yes, that is what I said. Garlic. Tater. Tots. This goes beyond just delicious - it is practically poetic. Bars have great tater tots. Sports games have great garlic fries. So of course a sports bar should have... garlic tater tots!
The second advantage was what I immediately texted my single friends - go to a sports bar to meet cute and normal men in their natural habitat. After eavesdropping on a few neighboring conversations, "Yeah, Jeff, why are you still single? Great play, Kings!" I realized that this is an untapped market. Men you meet in traditional bars and clubs are generally only good for up to thirty minutes of small talk and maybe a free drink. No one should go to the Bal Mar looking to meet their future husband because that will be one very disappointing night. There might be some overlap between the sports bar and Bal Mar crowds, but after looking around, there are many more, how shall I say, wholesome men at the sports bar who wouldn't normally go the Bal Mar. Hence, the untapped market of men who are still normal, social creatures but wouldn't normally go to clubs looking for women. And I have a suspicion that you don't really need to know anything about sports in order to fit in in a sports bar - there are plenty of people who would be glad to explain it to you.
The final advantage can apply to anyone who goes to a sports bar. It's a very social place. Your first impression might be that this is an anti-social activity: sitting in silence, not looking at each other, eyes glued on the game. However, the social mores are much more complex and meaningful than they first appear. Occasional comments about the game can lead to a real conversation. People share a common goal in cheering on their team, so it's community building. That couple at the neighboring table might start out as strangers, but after watching your favorite hockey team get beat (in what must surely be a fluke caused by not wearing your lucky sweater) you start to feel a definite bond. Perhaps most importantly, pressure to make small talk is non-existent. If a lull falls over the conversation, it just means you go back to the game until something else comment-worthy arises. The best part is that if you're a non-sporting person, you get to learn a lot about sports from sporting groups eager to share. You might find out that it's actually worth learning: a lot of strategy and thought has gone into things like rules, names, and scoring. If you're not buying any of this, then just remember that the beer is cheap and plentiful, no one is paying attention to how many you've had, and garlic fries are one hybrid that actually improves on its original parts.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Princess's Urban Escape - by Annie
Annie wrote her own entry this week - enjoy!
Unlike the location of my sleeping, eating, walking, and playing preferences (pretty much anywhere will do for my favorite activities), I have high standards about where I like to poop. Ideally, it will be on a lush rectangle of grass approximately five by at least thirty feet, occurring between the sidewalk and the road, after five to seven minutes of intensive walking and sniffing.
This is why I love Ballard. Green grass bordered by sidewalks, trees and parked transport devices as far as the eye can see. Every day, I get to take my pick of whom to honor with my poop. Usually it doesn't have quite the intended effect because Mom always picks up my poop in a pastel-colored bag and carries it home. Now, I like stinky stuff (who doesn't?) and I do consider myself The Princess, but I still cannot understand why she does this. Is she going to roll in it later?
However, if one minute detail of the "outside" environment changes, suddenly all the joy goes out of pooping. When there was cold white frozen stuff (great for frolicking, not so great for sniffing), for instance, I only pooped once a day, and even then only because Mom got so stressed out when I seemed to be protesting.
Worse than the cold white frozen stuff, the greatest pooping challenge for me was the weekend we spent in a condo in Belltown. I love condos and I love new experiences (as long as they don't involve any gardening tools or skateparks), but when we got out of the metal transport device, I started panting out of anxiety. Not only was there no grass between the sidewalk and the parked transport devices, but the miniscule patches of dirt surrounding the pathetic trees had metal grating over them, which is something these paws never touch. I hoped we wouldn't be staying too long, because pooping was going to impossible. On the other hand, all the homeless guys did look like a great opportunity for barking.
I fell asleep fast my first night downtown, but I woke up about 2am needing to poop and get some attention. Panicked at the thought of not having my five-by-thirty-foot patch of grass, I started whining. After Mom finally took me outside, to my disappointment, the situation was just as I had suspected. "Outside" was still covered in cement, barely acceptable for number one, let alone number two! Add that to strange men within one hundred feet in the dark, and it was time for true panic to set in. If you didn't think a princess could growl and pee simultaneously, you would have been proven wrong at this moment.
After a few more hours of sleep, I really needed to eat. Maybe by now Belltown had gotten its act together and grown some grass? Mom wasn't necessarily thrilled and seem to grumble a lot on the way down the elevator and out the front door, but none of that mattered, as it seemed that there was still no grass! And it was breakfast time! Which means that it was poop time because poop always comes first to make room for breakfast! What to do, what to do. Apparently, there was no other option than to bark at everything that moved, which is quite a lot at 6:30am on Friday morning in Belltown. Now I've shown you, Belltown! Next time I come out here, you better grow some grass.
You might think at this point that Mom would take pity on me and drive back home ASAP, but instead we just went back inside for breakfast as if everything was normal. It wasn't normal. I mean, I was starving so I ate, but I was starting to hold a serious grudge against Belltown.
Finally, I pulled out the big guns. After breakfast, I started jumping and whining, a sure sign that I needed food or a poop. "You win, Belltown," I thought, suddenly certain that pooping would happen wherever it could and I wouldn't feel guilty about pooping inappropriately because Belltown deserved it. As soon as we were outside and at least a block away from the condo building, I squatted in the middle of the sidewalk and thought, "Take this, Belltown! Maybe next time you'll think twice about not having any cool, soft, green grass when The Princess comes to town." Now, let's go buy me an antler, Mom.
Unlike the location of my sleeping, eating, walking, and playing preferences (pretty much anywhere will do for my favorite activities), I have high standards about where I like to poop. Ideally, it will be on a lush rectangle of grass approximately five by at least thirty feet, occurring between the sidewalk and the road, after five to seven minutes of intensive walking and sniffing.
This is why I love Ballard. Green grass bordered by sidewalks, trees and parked transport devices as far as the eye can see. Every day, I get to take my pick of whom to honor with my poop. Usually it doesn't have quite the intended effect because Mom always picks up my poop in a pastel-colored bag and carries it home. Now, I like stinky stuff (who doesn't?) and I do consider myself The Princess, but I still cannot understand why she does this. Is she going to roll in it later?
However, if one minute detail of the "outside" environment changes, suddenly all the joy goes out of pooping. When there was cold white frozen stuff (great for frolicking, not so great for sniffing), for instance, I only pooped once a day, and even then only because Mom got so stressed out when I seemed to be protesting.
Worse than the cold white frozen stuff, the greatest pooping challenge for me was the weekend we spent in a condo in Belltown. I love condos and I love new experiences (as long as they don't involve any gardening tools or skateparks), but when we got out of the metal transport device, I started panting out of anxiety. Not only was there no grass between the sidewalk and the parked transport devices, but the miniscule patches of dirt surrounding the pathetic trees had metal grating over them, which is something these paws never touch. I hoped we wouldn't be staying too long, because pooping was going to impossible. On the other hand, all the homeless guys did look like a great opportunity for barking.
 |
| Why, Belltown, why? |
I fell asleep fast my first night downtown, but I woke up about 2am needing to poop and get some attention. Panicked at the thought of not having my five-by-thirty-foot patch of grass, I started whining. After Mom finally took me outside, to my disappointment, the situation was just as I had suspected. "Outside" was still covered in cement, barely acceptable for number one, let alone number two! Add that to strange men within one hundred feet in the dark, and it was time for true panic to set in. If you didn't think a princess could growl and pee simultaneously, you would have been proven wrong at this moment.
After a few more hours of sleep, I really needed to eat. Maybe by now Belltown had gotten its act together and grown some grass? Mom wasn't necessarily thrilled and seem to grumble a lot on the way down the elevator and out the front door, but none of that mattered, as it seemed that there was still no grass! And it was breakfast time! Which means that it was poop time because poop always comes first to make room for breakfast! What to do, what to do. Apparently, there was no other option than to bark at everything that moved, which is quite a lot at 6:30am on Friday morning in Belltown. Now I've shown you, Belltown! Next time I come out here, you better grow some grass.
You might think at this point that Mom would take pity on me and drive back home ASAP, but instead we just went back inside for breakfast as if everything was normal. It wasn't normal. I mean, I was starving so I ate, but I was starting to hold a serious grudge against Belltown.
Finally, I pulled out the big guns. After breakfast, I started jumping and whining, a sure sign that I needed food or a poop. "You win, Belltown," I thought, suddenly certain that pooping would happen wherever it could and I wouldn't feel guilty about pooping inappropriately because Belltown deserved it. As soon as we were outside and at least a block away from the condo building, I squatted in the middle of the sidewalk and thought, "Take this, Belltown! Maybe next time you'll think twice about not having any cool, soft, green grass when The Princess comes to town." Now, let's go buy me an antler, Mom.
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| I own you, Seattle Center |
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Isn't it ironic, don't you think?
After a stimulating conversation (actually, it was more of a debate) on "irony" with my coworkers post-happy hour (when all the best ideas happen), I realized that really, "ironic" has become a euphemism for "ugly." Let's look at a recent example:
80s clothes. Just because I'm old enough to have been alive in the 80s doesn't mean I don't know when something is ugly. Actually, I think it makes me even more qualified, as I have worn flowered stirrup pants, side pony tails, and off-the-shoulder sweaters (often all at the same time) UN-ironcially and lived to tell the tale.
So if you are on a fixed gear bicycle, no helmet, your hair is permed into how my mom wore her hair twenty years ago (can we say the post-Farrah 1982 tight frizzy curls with overly bright highlights and enough hairspray to burn down my apartment that my dad still thinks is sexy look), you are wearing tight colored jeans rolled up and a jean jacket with a kitten sewn onto the back, don't bother with the helmet after all. Please. And stop riding in front of the 44 bus because it already takes me more time than you've been alive to get home.
80s clothes. Just because I'm old enough to have been alive in the 80s doesn't mean I don't know when something is ugly. Actually, I think it makes me even more qualified, as I have worn flowered stirrup pants, side pony tails, and off-the-shoulder sweaters (often all at the same time) UN-ironcially and lived to tell the tale.
So if you are on a fixed gear bicycle, no helmet, your hair is permed into how my mom wore her hair twenty years ago (can we say the post-Farrah 1982 tight frizzy curls with overly bright highlights and enough hairspray to burn down my apartment that my dad still thinks is sexy look), you are wearing tight colored jeans rolled up and a jean jacket with a kitten sewn onto the back, don't bother with the helmet after all. Please. And stop riding in front of the 44 bus because it already takes me more time than you've been alive to get home.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Go Camo in the Skag
And we're back to the Skagit County, everyone's favorite home-away-from-home (in case you missed previous Skag posts, it's pronounced SKA like in "scat" and G as in "badge")!
Today's observation pertains to the alarmingly high per capita use of camouflage hats. While on a trip to Fred G Meyer in Burlington on Sunday afternoon, two men wearing camouflage hats were observed in the Fred Meyer Starbucks, chilling with their Caramel Macchiatos while their dutiful wives shopped. A few moments later, no less then two more men were spotted in the paint and plumbing section, also sporting hats appropriate for waging war and/or hunting live animals. Wow.
Four separate camo encounters in about twenty minutes in one single location had me reeling. So as we entered Super Supplements a few moments later, the sight of yet another camo cap gave me heart palpitations (and not in a Ryan-Gosling-without-a-shirt-kind of way). It was more of a flight-or-fight response. However, this particular cap was seated a little too comfortably on the head of a ten-year-old boy! Call CPS because this must be some kind of abuse. He's clearly not old enough to make his own decisions. Let's put it this way: would you allow your ten-year-old son to get married? To vote for president? I didn't think so.
Wearing a camouflage hat at such a vulnerable age could potentially affect your future even more than marriage or the future commander-in-chief. Wearing a camouflage hat in a non-ironic way (and trust me, no one does anything ironically in the Skag) says so much about a person. It says, "I am ready to kill Bambi at any moment," or "My mom shops for my clothes at the farm supply store," or even "I can't wait to join the army and kill people, too." Any way you put it, camo is not a decision that children are equipped to make. Another fail for the Skag.
*I apologize for the lack of photographic evidence to support my camo claims, but I thought that not only was taking pictures of strangers in public creepy, but also potentially illegal*
Today's observation pertains to the alarmingly high per capita use of camouflage hats. While on a trip to Fred G Meyer in Burlington on Sunday afternoon, two men wearing camouflage hats were observed in the Fred Meyer Starbucks, chilling with their Caramel Macchiatos while their dutiful wives shopped. A few moments later, no less then two more men were spotted in the paint and plumbing section, also sporting hats appropriate for waging war and/or hunting live animals. Wow.
Four separate camo encounters in about twenty minutes in one single location had me reeling. So as we entered Super Supplements a few moments later, the sight of yet another camo cap gave me heart palpitations (and not in a Ryan-Gosling-without-a-shirt-kind of way). It was more of a flight-or-fight response. However, this particular cap was seated a little too comfortably on the head of a ten-year-old boy! Call CPS because this must be some kind of abuse. He's clearly not old enough to make his own decisions. Let's put it this way: would you allow your ten-year-old son to get married? To vote for president? I didn't think so.
Wearing a camouflage hat at such a vulnerable age could potentially affect your future even more than marriage or the future commander-in-chief. Wearing a camouflage hat in a non-ironic way (and trust me, no one does anything ironically in the Skag) says so much about a person. It says, "I am ready to kill Bambi at any moment," or "My mom shops for my clothes at the farm supply store," or even "I can't wait to join the army and kill people, too." Any way you put it, camo is not a decision that children are equipped to make. Another fail for the Skag.
*I apologize for the lack of photographic evidence to support my camo claims, but I thought that not only was taking pictures of strangers in public creepy, but also potentially illegal*
Thursday, March 15, 2012
pi (not Pie) Day
No matter how hard I tried, I just could not muster the energy or will to bake a pie yesterday, 3/14, also known as "pi" day. I looked through both of my pie books (see previous "Pie Literature" entry) obsessed over one called a Black Bottom Pie that was promising because it was complicated AND I had all the ingredients for the pie already, precluding a trip to the store in the worst weather ever. Seriously. This is one step away from "natural disaster" bad.
While walking Annie in said "almost-a-natural-disaster-weather" this week, I took a few photos to express her joy in walking in the rain.
Finally, we gave up on all outdoor fun. Annie took a long nap and I read an entire book. However, I have a feeling the weather will be better this weekend for Annie's Princess Party at the Dog Park!
While walking Annie in said "almost-a-natural-disaster-weather" this week, I took a few photos to express her joy in walking in the rain.
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| Wow Mom, this weather is so depressing I can't even bark at that strange person. |
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| I will pose, but only because this weather has drained my will to jump. |
Annie was so upset (either because I didn't bake a pie or because of the weather putting a "damper" - ha ha - on all her outdoor fun) she tore up her Elephant Titus and then left the scene of the crime to nap on the couch.
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| If I can't have fun, no one can! |
Finally, we gave up on all outdoor fun. Annie took a long nap and I read an entire book. However, I have a feeling the weather will be better this weekend for Annie's Princess Party at the Dog Park!
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