Trivia Nerd

I have a friend who comes down from Alabama to visit his family and when he does, we make plans to meet on Wednesday for Trivia. The last two times he was in town, we won overall, which is a $20 bar tab.

So I head to the bar and run into a couple of friends on the way, one of which decides that she will join me for trivia. I expected my friend to be late, so the two of us are answering the questions by ourselves until he arrives.

The first round of questions ends with us winning. The winner of each round gets a pitcher of beer, which is a nice, free way to get your drinking done when you are as poor as we are right now. Of course, 2 glasses of beer later, we find ourselves the surprise winners of round 2. We guessed on at least 3 questions and didn't think we got the 30pt questions correct, but we did. Total guessing. That's another pitcher of beer for us and my friend has yet to show. Because we are so anal about not looking as if we're cheating, we usually leave our phones alone, but I check to see if he's left a text. He has. He's going to be much later. It's the final round, how much later is he gonna be?

He got there for the final jeopardy style question, well after the 3rd round. We got it wrong, but if we'd listened to him, we would have won it all! I only had one more free drink after that because that was all I needed, but it turned into a hell of a party, even with the dj being as lame as he always is.

I like drinking beer and having fun with my friends, but I have the most fun when I'm playing trivia. Maybe it's because it reminds me of being in college, when we would go to the Red Dog Pub in Cambridge and play NTN trivia. A bunch of us would walk over from Boston, grab a booth and a drink and we would try to outnerd all the other nerds in the place. The trivia I play now is similar, but we've all developed a camaraderie that is nice. Friendly and competitive, we talk smack but are okay if the other person wins. It's almost a family in a way. We expect to see each other every week, we complain about the questions, but we always enjoy getting together every week and trying to be the biggest nerds in the room.

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.

Sheer Exhaustion

I had a party Saturday night, a birthday party to make up for my actual birthday, which was spent driving back from Boston. It was a blast and a half. It was supposed to start at 8, but it kind of started at 6pm with my first guests arriving at 8:30. Of course, all it took was for one specific guest to turn the evening around.

I have a friend, let's call him BigBen. He's the kind of person that tells these stories and you wonder how he came up with what seems like these great whopper of a tale until you realize he lived them. Lived them all. When I talk about him doing contract killings, I'm only halfway joking. If you need property destroyed or a way to make someone start paying, I'm pretty sure I know the guy. The criminal element in my life, the weapons loving, multi-knife carrying, "pull a gun on a muthafucker that pulls a gun on me", tank stealing element that sits at my party table, plays bass for my fake Rock Band, drinks up all the gin punch and makes sure no one lays a hand on my pretty little head - yeah, I met them all through BigBen. And if I somehow met them through other means, they all just so happen to know him. Heaven help any fool that tries to mess with me because the beloved criminal element type that's got my back (I'm surrounded by a great cloud of them starting with my husband, sandwiched by BigBen's, topped by my uncle and cousin) would kill them. In that, I'm not joking. But I digress.

BigBen is this giant Nordic looking person with an innocent-ish face who is, most times, pretty laid back. That's a facade. Inside, he's seething with energy and scams. Don't get me wrong. He's a good guy. He protects the weak and innocent (sorta), he looks out for other people (kinda), and he always protects family (the one he claims, not necessarily the ones he was born with). He has a high moral code - it's just a little left of center in concept. Yes, BigBen came to the party and it took a turn.

It all started out innocently enough. Shots with the birthday girls, that's me and A., who's actual birthday was the previous Tuesday. They were harmless, sweet shots of irish cream and butterscotch schnapps. We were having fun. A friend gave us a gift of moonshine* and when BigBen learned this, he made us take a birthday shot with him. Those of us who took that shot were hit pretty hard, but we didn't feel the effects until about an hour later, when we had forgotten all about taking the shot and were in the middle of our Rock Band 2 World Tour. I was on drums because I'm oh so good at them* when suddenly, I was really very good at them. I look over at the others and BigBen is slowly sinking between the couch cushions. A. quickly lets us know that the bathroom was calling her name now. Now. RIGHT NOW. I think we almost broke our television and I'm not sure, but I think someone killed a bird. Someone tried to smoke the lit filter on their cigarette, I broke at least one cigarette because NOBODY should smoke, and passed out in near exhaustion once everyone was on their merry way. Don't worry, those who weren't staying over had designated drivers and those who were staying kept themselves from puking in our apartment. Well, on our apartment.

Now, three days past this weekend, I am still exhausted. I've been getting by on less than 5 hours of sleep a night for the last two weeks. That, with this party, has created one tired little southern girl.

Drunk Texting in a Pub in the New Year

So we drove to Boston for New Year's Eve, which is a sight further than driving to Atlanta to hang out with BigBen and watching a concert. Because I thought he'd be killing someone up in South Boston, I didn't invite him to come along because I swore we would meet up, but his contract killing got cancelled. Sorry, BigBen.

Instead, we all piled into the rental car and did the 19 hour drive in 18 hours 59 minutes. It was a thing of beauty. By the time we got through all the boring parts of the south (we mapped ourselves away from toll roads and thus, big, beautiful cities), it was too dark to see if we were driving through scenic beauty or boring, Texas-like, stretches of flat emptiness. It didn't matter. All we really wanted to do was go to sleep, but we only had a few days in the city to do it all.

It began to snow as soon as we got into Quincy, MA. It was beautiful, a blanket of white to welcome us. We drove in the first fresh fall of it, before it became a hazard, at the point when you are still thinking maybe you should try to do a snow angel, before the chemical salt goes down and it is a dirty mass of ice scooped to the side of the road. Of course, we didn't reach our goal of doing it all in the city. We went into Boston and ended up shopping because I forgot that canvas shoes are no good in the snow. By the time we made it to Prudential Center, the back of my heels were frozen and I was sure I would never feel my feet again. I ended up buying rubber shoes in a high gloss grey, shoes I will never wear until I'm once again back in Boston.

We headed back to Quincy to eat and drink, to drink and eat, to drink and drink. We went to a bar where we listened to true Irish accents and a cover band that wasn't bad, but wasn't good either. They had several Sam Adams on tap, but no other stout beers to speak of outside of Guinness, whose flavour has been reducing for the last few years. We ran over to a sports bar, fighting the biting wind, where we found blueberry beer that was like drinking a spring day and a clam chowder that we forced the girl allergic to seafood to try. Because it was that good. Whatever happened would be worth it. She agreed, even after whatever happened. We tried to go to another bar, just a bar, but it was too full for what we wanted, a quiet place to sit and talk and drink as we ushered in the New Year in a different city. We left that bar quickly and decided to brave the alleyway to check out places on a different street and came to a bar that was just what we were looking for. We ordered shots, played pool and as midnight crept up on us, the management passed out hats and tiaras and noise makers and offered us meatballs and sausage to snack on. Apparently, people will eat anything when they've been drinking. After Ryan Seacrest and Dick Clark brought in the New Year, champagne was passed around and both our table companion and the guys a table over went crazy with the noise makers, we called a cab to drive us the two miles back in the snow to our hotel. It cost $10.

And the drunk message I typed to all and sundry with cell phone and texting capabilities? Happy time wasting New Year! You all are great and I love you all, from a bar in Boston. Don't ask me about the champagne. I didn't get any.

This went to many people, some who didn't have my number anymore and one of the messages even crossed over into Africa. It was nice to wake up to a ton of message either wishing me the same or asking who I was.

It was a good NYE, a good night of food and drinks and camraderie. An excellent road trip and a brilliant start to the new year. Drunk texting and all.

I haven't had a drop to drink since I left Africa. Now, granted, that has only been five days as I write, so I feel sort of like an alcoholic saying that, but then, who doesn't feel like an alcoholic when they've spent nearly 41 hours in a state of inebriation because of the stress of traveling.

I may have mentioned once or twice about traveling surrounded by kids.

Okay, so I went to look in the fridge just now and was about to grab a glass of red wine, but something stopped me. I don't know what it was. Maybe it is the thought of tomorrow night's party. The word "copious" was used to describe the amount of alcohol and it's possible that my new favourite drink, Amarula (thanks, Ian), will be the drink of the day. Every time someone says it, they have to take a shot.

Drinking. My father was an alcoholic who smoke and as a result, followed numerous people down the chemotherapy path of throat cancer. It was not pretty, but in order to survive, he had to stop drinking. I remember thinking that I would never be like him.

My first taste of alcohol came as quite a surprise. Imagine a seven year old amidst the cast offs of her parents party. Finally able to come out of her room because the adults are gone, she goes in search of something to drink. Seeing a half full glass (to this day, she only sees half full) of clear liquid, she greedily grabs it and takes a big gulp. To her very unpleasant surprise, it was not the water she was expecting.

I never thought I would like gin after that. After that taste, I explored every bottle of alcohol until I smelled the bottle from which that monstrous drink had come. Seagrams Extra Dry Gin. I remember the small, heavy glass and the gleaming gold label to this day. I remembered because I wanted to avoid it. I never thought I would like gin, ever, until I was on the second leg of my flight, from London to Barcelona, and our British seatmate suggested a gin and tonic. We, wooed by her accent, ordered and our drinking life has not been the same since.

I know coffee. I savour coffee. I like trying to learn the tastes of beans from different regions. I have a friend who is not a coffee fan who is slowly learning the merits of coffee. In return, he is teaching me to appreciate liqour, which in many ways, I still don't. He poured a finger of Jameson's for me to taste and I could not think of any other way to describe it except olive oil. He was very disappointed.

Gin is the closest I've come to actually enjoying straight alcohol. For all my non-girl like tendencies, none of them extend to my drink. Yes, I like to taste the alcohol a bit - there is something about the flavour that other sweeter, more palatable liquids bring out - but for the most part, make my drink taste like anything but alcohol.

Which is why I like Amarula. I thought I'd seen it in the stores before going to Southern Africa, but I didn't know what it was and I'd already tried my fair share of Irish Creams liqeour, so I skipped it. However, as a pre dinner drink, it far exceeded my expectations on first taste. Silky, sweet, with just the right amount of bite. Mmmmmm.

I abstained from alcohol for many years past when I could have gotten some because of my father. He was an mean drunk or a self pitying drunk, neither of which is pretty on a Friday night. I won't ever become what he was, but I have to keep tabs on myself so that won't happen. It's not a matter of feeling I am better than him. It's a matter of being vigilant. I won't ever become what he was.

The party tonight will be interesting. If there is Amarula and the host has fallen under my persuasion powers, I will be able to enjoy amarula followed by a few gin and tonics. Just like in Africa.

Nice!