On Philosophizing

This is the beer I had last night.

Love.

On Hereditary Alcoholism

I'm not an alcoholic. Not even close. But, my mother and father are both recovering alcoholics (my dad is more than 20 years sober, my mom, maybe 5). It follows then, that my sister and I would enjoy the occasional drink. We're related after all. Though three years ago, we barely spoke to each other. Hardcore sibling rivalry in our teens made us enemies for years. Serious enemies, like HATE isn't a strong enough word.

Anyway, all's well now. Once or twice a month, we meet up for drinks at the Brewer's Art and hang out for a few hours. Our most recent trip was Tuesday. We met up earlier than expected. As I was taking the light rail home, she got on at a stop along the way. It was all "fancy meeting you here!" tho I would not say that out loud.

We made a quick stop at my house (had to pick up some jeans for returning) then headed to the Inner Harbor for a little consuming at Filene's (is it not our patriotic duty to stimulate the economy in these times?) and a quick pomegranate margarita at Cheesecake Factory (a place I only go to drink, never eat).

After the jaunt at the Harbor, we made our way back up Charles Street on ye olde number 61 (Baltimore City public transport - yes, in fact, we roll like celebrities). The bus brought us to the corner of Charles and Chase. We made our way down the steps and into the cellar of Brewer's Art.

It looked like a slow night, though it was only a little after 8. The bar gradually began to fill and we drank and talked and made eyes at other bar patrons. We planned out an elaborate scheme in which we might take this guy's cheeseburger. She told me stories about going out with a friend and the crazy things that happen to them. My favorite of the night:

This older man offered to buy them a shot. The friend (already drunk) slurred/asked the bartender for the best tequila they had. The bartender obliged, but when the man found out, he was livid. After yelling that he couldn't afford that and therefore, would not buy it, the bartender asked him what to do. And he grunted "Give 'em half of the best and half of the worst."

So they were presented with a tequila cocktail. I don't remember whether or not they drank it.

As these outings are becoming somewhat of a tradition for us, the night could not end without us going to XS for breakfast. As always, we ordered most of the sides and shared them tapas style. I made sure she got a cab home and got to bed a little after midnight.

Our relationship has changed so much over the years. We are in a good place right now and growing closer and I wish we hadn't lost so many years feuding. But if it took all of that to get here, I don't think I'd change a thing. I went to bed drunk and full of pancakes, thankful I have a sister to share beer and late night breakfast runs with.

On Falling in Love in Fall

Because cold weather lends itself to blankets and throws and flannel sheets, so many things are more easily accomplished under the covers.

Large hot chocolate is better shared because sharing is fun and sharing calories is better.

Another shared fall delight is colds. What's more romantic than exchanging microscopic varmints via close contact -- coughs, sneezes, keeeses.

Hugs are a plentiful necessity for warmth and cheer.

On Befriending Plant Life

A few weeks ago, while waiting on the number 27 bus with the boyfriend (J), I befriended a leaf called Mortimer. I suspect that his name was not always Mortimer, but I called him that and he did not protest. Mortimer is an autumn leaf, brown and crisp, one foot step away from being many Mortimers. Had I not saved him, he'd for sure have returned to the earth "from whence he came." It happened that the boyfriend and I were headed to a garden center to check out some herbs and flowers and such. Mortimer was along for the ride, but not without precaution. He insisted on being set between the pages of my used copy of Lolita -- oh literary leaf!

30 minutes later, Mortimer, the boyfriend, and I safely arrived at the garden center. Mortimer emerged from the pages intact and the 3 of us browsed the various greenery, with Mortimer perched between my thumb and index finger. We sniffed mint and basil and rosemary; admired the mini evergreens (charlie brown Christmas trees, I call them); and saw the biggest terracotta pot I've ever seen. Mortimer loved it at first, getting to see all his long lost cousins. And such variety, noted. I reminded him that there is no need to feel ugly when nothing looks the same. We came to the rose bushes on which not one flower lived, not even a rosebud and Mortimer thought, perhaps realizing for the first time, "I will dies soon like them." And he will. I could say nothing to change this. I returned Mortimer to the pages (once leaves like him and now reincarnated with ink and letters), our trip was winding down. The boyfriend bought some potting soil and after a brief meal and Guinness at a nearby tavern, we returned home.

Mortimer sits on my nightstand next to the stack of books that is constant flux (I can't read just one book at a time). I'm never home to give him the attention he needs. He's alive, pensive and small. But I do not think he is lonely, the books are there for his company and comfort. They died, too, just as he will. Their fate will not be his. But, rarely is the end the end. A cherry seed named Randal told me that.

On picking fights with strangers

I'm applying to grad school and had been, until now, dreading a question from overstuffed applications and daft admissions officers: What is something no one would know just by looking at you?

Answer: I'm the only person I know who makes at least one enemy a day. Why not, when it's so bleeping easy? The strength of my middle finger is becoming legendary. It turns potential suitors and other unfortunate assholes into circus animals. Smiling, tame puppets one moment, then growling, gnashing predators the next.

I laugh. I laugh and wave my finger some more. I throw it up behind me and let it linger until the traffic light changes (and they speed off in anger/disappointment) or they get tired of yelling my favorite of all obscenities and my de facto nickname -- You Bitch.

It's not even 4 and I've already made an enemy, despite being chained to a desk. This one is virtual and a stalker. Not my stalker, but my sister's. *cut to Robert De Niro or Mel Gibson or some tough guy sneering "Now it's personal."

She's my little sis (by two years) and more than capable of taking care of herself. Where she will ignore the problem -- hell she won't even consider it such -- I go on the hunt. Vendetta. However, This cyber-stalker just peeved me. Making comments on every picture of her. Quoth the stalker "sexy/mysterious."

Ick.

So, I found all the pictures of hers he commented on, and made comments about him. I've dubbed him "Creeper."

We'll see how this campaign goes.

The best advice I can give on picking fights with strangers is to be sure you're 1) bigger than they are; 2) of a different sex; 3) utilizing a different mode of transportation than you (i.e. you're walking, they're in a car); 4) prepared to fake a seizure or madness should they attack.

I have the small dog mentality. I bark and yap at bigger pups just to assert my dominance. True, my dominance is imagined, but isn't fun to make-believe?!

I'm looking forward to later, 5ish. Not only do I get to leave this ad agency hell, I get to have dinner with people I truly like and respect and am in awe of, S and B. I'm keeping my eye on the clock for din din in Hampden with my lady-friends.

That was not intended to rhyme, but it's delightful it turned out that way nonetheless.