St. Paddy's

Wednesday nights are trivia nights, and occasionally - or maybe a little more than occasionallly - followed by Ladies Night. Ladies Night is the night when ladies drink for free at a local bar.

Ladies Night fell on a St. Patrick's Day this year. Double Trouble.

Not only were there ladies getting drunk as hell, but the drink specials convinced the fellas to do the same. Normally, this isn't a problem, but there must have been a full moon or something that night.

The music was the same. Lame. We usually sit through the music for the free drinks, but 2 gin and tonics and a couple of 12 oz beers later, I knew I was gonna get on the dance floor, even if I also knew I wasn't going to have any real dancing fun.

My thing is dancing. Oh, I dabble in televison (and I know a lot about television) and I knit and spin yarn, and I love to write, but give me a good dj, some music made for dancing, and my feet will hit the floor and I won't sit down. I start dancing as soon as the music is up and won't sit down until it's over. I don't need alcohol to dance, like some people do, but it never hurts to have it.

The time on the dance floor started out like any other with this particular DJ. Dance for 2 minutes, stand on the dance floor holding my drink for the last 3 minutes of a song he'd decided not to change. During the second song, however, I was joined by a friend. By friend, I mean some drunk frat guy, a little taller than me with about 50 lbs. on me, who decided that instead of dancing, he would simply back into me. Putting my hand in the middle of his back, I gently, but firmly, pushed him away from me. He didn't acknowledge me nor did he do that thing that most people do when they bump into someone on the dance floor. Apologize. Even though it's unnecessary, it's a common courtesy thing that is welcomed. Rudeness aside (and he was pretty drunk), I kept dancing. The next thing I know, that same dude is backing into me again. I push him away again and this time I give him a dirty look. His friends get him off the floor.

Cut to about 20 minutes later. Little Sister is swing dancing with a guy we know when our friend from earlier decides he needs the dance floor, and he needs the space where Little Sister is. She pushes him away, but this time, he turns around and tries to start something with the guy. Little Sister steps in front of the guy to confront our friend. Usually, that makes a guy back down. Who yells at girls?

Drunk ass frat boys, that's who.

Of course, with this idiot yelling at my sister, I drew myself up to my full 5ft11in height, moved Little Sister out of the way and politely screamed that if he loved life, he'd better not get in my sister's face again. He then proceeded to tell me he was a man and that I couldn't talk to him that way. I told him that as long as he kept yelling at my sister, I was gonna talk to him however the fuck I pleased. We continued our repartee nose to nose for nearly two minutes before his friends pulled him away while I stared him down. He resisted, hoping to fight me I assume, and to be honest, I wanted to punch him myself, but I did the responsible thing. I watched him until he was pulled away then searched for the owners. They were nowhere to be found. So, on a cocktail napkin, I wrote, "There is a guy, blue shirt, khaki trousers, who is drunk as hell and bumping into girls on the dance floor. I just thought you'd want to know just in case I need to kick his ass." I passed the note when I got my drink and two seconds after I got on the dance floor, the bartender I'd passed it to was there to make sure that asshole didn't mess with another girl.

I avoided the guy, but Little Sister said that our friend kept staring at us for a bit. She said it looked like he considered coming back to start something, and while he started towards us a couple of times, he always thought better of it.

Both my maiden name and my married name is Irish. It's always been a joke that I'm more Irish than my husband, who has the most Irish name I know. A "black" Irish joke is usually imminent. Wednesday night, I almost got into a drunken brawl, and it's the most stereotypically Irish I've felt since the last time I wore my Kiss Me, I'm Irish t-shirt. Which was a long time ago.

Trying Not to Revert

Remembering to write is not as easy as you might think, even for someone that's a writer.

I mean, I'll eventually get words onto paper or finish a story at deadline, but remembering to visit this site to put down a few words... yeah, sometimes I forget.

Also, I've been a bit morose of late. Things get you down and it's hard to come back up from that. So you take part in pursuits that have no enduring value to the things you want to do just so that you're not reminded of life's shortcomings. I just have to remember, I'm not the first going through this, nor the last, and others are right there with me right now.

I can see why people become mommy bloggers. Kids do crazy things all the time. I've been fighting the urge to write about the cats - well, at least not write much. We have two cats. One is sweet and just wants to be cuddled. One is into everything and just want to know what "that" is. Oh yeah, "that" is everything. I want to get good video of her playing with her toys. It's the funniest thing that you will never care about.

Even though I have scaled back on some social activities to concentrate on writing, I'm still going out an awful lot. Well, this week, little sister is visiting, so I'll be out. That means I have to finish my articles because she's going to be taking up my non work times. Even though I'm going out a lot, most of the activities I engage in are nerd activities. Trivia on Tuesday and Wednesday nights at different bars. Cocktail Hour at different houses on Thursday nights. This week, a free concert Friday celebrating Anti-Valentine's Day (oh how I love this!), a friend is putting out a free album Wednesday, another friend is playing a small concert at a local bookstore on Tuesday - Not sure what is going on Saturday, but I'm pretty sure friends will try to get me to go out Thursday night to a college bar that I feel too old to even look at and Saturday night to sit in a smoke filled room drinking and listening to somebody's southern rock and screaming over the noise. I hope somebody brings a banjo.

The street I live on is putting on a block party and I think the Honey and his friends are going to play it. I don't think they're going to be the main form of entertainment, but it will be interesting to see him performing in front of a live audience. He's been in bands before. I know he doesn't have anxiety about it - I mean, no more than normal - and he must like the work or he wouldn't have let anyone else hear it. To me, it's fantastic. I already have the melodies of some of the songs in my head. I wish I could remember the words. He hasn't given me a copy, but then again, I haven't asked.

I got into a long conversation with a friend about our connection to Africa. She said she grew up feeling an emptiness that she felt might be filled with knowing her African roots. I said I never felt that calling, as if a part of myself were missing. If, by some miracle of records keeping I were to be able to actually trace my roots to country of origin, I would definitely want to see where I would have grown up should I have survived birth, but I think the complete me is what I am today. Even knowing my bio-dad's family wouldn't offer any form of completion for me. But I remember being on the Zambezi River with the wind flowing through my hair and being very touched by where I was, but also very satisfied with what I'd seen. Not too satisfied, mind you, but enough.

I had my tarot read the other day by a friend who's been dying to do so. The cards think we'll be okay. And who can't trust the cards?

The Hills Are Alive

I'm learning how to play guitar.

It is an ugly, ugly thing. My fingers are sore. No. Sore is an understatement.

They hurt like hell. Even as I type. Particularly because I'm typing.

I can play Smoke on the Water in the wrong key and one string at a time, which is an accomplishment. A major accomplishment.

The Honey asked me why I wanted to learn to play guitar... As I watched him go through song after song, doing with several notes what I can barely do with one finger on one fret. It's interesting, learning how to play. I haven't quite figured out what this will mean for me. Will I learn to be better and bust out the guitar when my musician friends start playing around? Will I start my own band? Will I just fiddle with the guitar in home only and around close friends? I don't know. Is this my third life crisis? I started knitting when I was 28. I start guitar now that I'm 34. What will I start 6 years from now?

Is there something about getting old that leads us to reinventing ourselves? I know that I'm not always happy with who I am. I want to change. My hair, the languages I know, my sense of style, my "fount" of knowledge, etc. There is almost an aching need to know more, to move past the old boundaries that existed in my mind. I sang karaoke for the first time, although sing might not quite be the word. I'd like to convince myself that my cold was to blame, but who am I kidding? The thing is, I did it. I embarrassed myself in front of a room full of children and it was liberating. I felt invincible. Now, another goal is before me and I can only respond to the sound of music.

Oh, and it doesn't hurt that I actually know what fret means now.