I'll have it in my veins, please.

Dear People of the Internet,

Something wonderful has happened.

Saturday night found me behind the bar, slinging beers and the odd Toasted Almond (the smell of which gives me a hangover). I was all by my lonesome back there, so things were moving at a feverish clip when the Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter (fabulous beer, btw) kicked. Pretty hard, too. It nearly hit the ceiling and splashed merrily across the bar. Anyway, this prompted the old run to the beer cooler for a keg change, my first such foray of the shift.

Down the stairs I trot, fellow waitress Chelsea in tow (she was desirous of a Keg Changing 101 refresher course). I pull open the door, and what is nestled among the Harpoons, Pennichucks, and Magic Hats?

That's right. A whole keg of delicious Brooklyn Lager. Brewed, if my two times on the brewery "tour" serves me, in Brooklyn. Brooklyn Lager! From Brooklyn! In the beer refrigerator at my place of employ (while I'm not exactly a bar-hopper here in the great state of NH, I have yet to see my beloved Brooklyn beer anywhere on tap or in a store)!

Scaling back my hours at the bar has meant that I'm a wee mite out of the loop as far as what's coming on tap, what's leaving, what bands are playing, etc. So, when I do work, keg changes are kind of like Christmas morning.

On Saturday evening in the beer refrigerator, my excitement could only have been greater by walking into the beer cooler to discover Clive Owen, shirtless (naked would be just weird... I mean, it's a giant refrigerator), sitting atop the keg of Brooklyn Lager, clutching a giant bag of money with which to pay off my student loans.

Chelsea patiently watched as I hopped up and down, screeched, and then hunkered down to awkwardly hug the keg like a lost twin.

Then, ever the professional, I recovered myself and we transformed that Otter Creek Stovepipe Porter into Magic Hat's Circus Boy (a MH that I actually like...such that I've...*gasp* purchased it!). So the Brooklyn Lager is waiting in the wings for its big moment. We have the nice weighty tap handle and everything.

Happy Beermas to me!

Happy Opening Day!

Oh man. It's spring at last!

It's the little things, really.

Remember my affinity for the minutiae of daily life? Well, the love affair continues, and I'm going to subject y'all to it...again.

Many of my friends and associates are off gallivanting in various exciting places like Turkey, Jamaica, and the dirty South. Others, like Tobs and Bridget, are accomplishing things like master's theses. Hayley's getting into college and turning 18 (you lascivious 20-something wolves in my acquaintance can just wipe the smirks off your faces...I will cut you.).

But what, pray, have I been doing with my time lately?

Sunday, I enjoyed the company of three of my favorite people during a family outing to Boston's MFA. Hayley and I commiserated on always being ravenously hungry while perusing the MFA, which makes enjoying those still life paintings of fruit and whatnot really, um, visceral. Luckily, after taking in some cultchah, we concluded the day at Legal Seafoods. Blue Point oysters were consumed, among many other Legal delights.

Monday is when things really got bananas, though. I tend bar on Monday nights and for some reason, eleventy billion kegs needed to be changed during this week's shift. Unfortunately, of the eleventy billion, one was full (really fucking heavy) and another was half full (still pretty damned heavy). I enlisted the help of a coworker with the former, and managed to drop the latter on my foot later in the night. Not my toes, thank God, but the top of the foot, where that bone sticks out. This wasn't fun, mind, though I did happen to let loose a restorative string of expletives shortly after I hauled the damned thing off my poor foot. Then I limped around the beer refrigerator, cursing the person who sent back their unfiltered IPA for being "too cloudy." Granted, I don't think a beer should look like orange juice, but dammit we had a half keg left!!

The night wasn't a total loss, though, because I had a Monday NY Times and a few quiet spots in the shift to work on the crossword puzzle. I like Monday's NYT puzzle because I can finish it more often than not. This week was special, though, because I started and finished it... in INK. This was a pretty big deal, as I'm a mechanical pencil devotee. You might say the experience knocked me dead. I felt pretty grown up. I really should have saved and scanned the puzzle in question so everyone can get the full force of my triumph, but I used the page to wrap a birthday gift and it's now long gone.

I'm not quite ready to join the ranks of Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, and Ken Burns and use ink daily, but it'll do in a pinch on a Monday. I still have yet to finish a Wednesday on my own (someday I'll do it.. and it'll be awesome). And I doubt I'll ever time myself, as this person does (in part because I can't do them that fast).

Who says continuing on as usual (while other people do fun or productive things) isn't awesome?
Oh, I know. It's a nonstop thrill ride.

INK, people. Ink.

______
Those who don't want to pay for the Times puzzle and need the occasional fix should try out The Onion's puzzle. It's punny, full of pop culture references mixed in with the highbrow—an all-around winner. My thanks to Carl for bringing me around on it. I have survived many a slow afternoon in the office as a result.

Three cheers for Hayley.

Dear People on the Internet,

My baby sister (pictured to the right, in full patriotic regalia... you can see she's not really a baby at all, but I was 8 when she was born...) has been accepted to college!!!!!

She's the coolest girl ever, so I am naturally delighted for her, and for the venerable Boston institution that may find themselves with the pleasure of her well-dressed company come fall.

The losers in this scenario? Dickslap-lyan and Ass-deis Universities. Yeah, that's right you jerks. Stick it!

Also, I'll be very sad because she will take her awesome wardrobe to college with her.

Well done my darlin'.

What is "Who are the marketing wizards who came up with that one?"

It would seem that we're entering the part of boyfriend season when the mating dances are performed. Just when I thought it was safe to cease creepily reading about people with whom I attended high school (who now have spouses and children and are working on higher degrees and probably also have mortgages) and log out of StalkSpace, True.com hits me yet again with a remarkable bit of advertising.

I can't embed it, but I did find a permanent (I hope) link for your viewing horror. Go have a look...I'll wait.











....Ok. Did you give your eyeballs a good long soak in some lye? So, let us review together. "Jakeluv" is alone. In his bedroom. He appears to have "arty" posters of musicians behind his stereo. You are given the impression that he wants to talk to you. We know this because he lights a candle and dances.

Alone.

In his bedroom.

To the camera.

And then, the thing de la resistance, he points at you. You! You're the one he wants.

So why don't you talk to him? lol!

As Tobs might say, gentle fuck. Really? I don't think I really need to go into the necklace that swings as he cavorts about, nor the rapist/Matt Clement chin beard.

This is just insulting. Am I meant to find this appealing? Why, in the name of God would any reasonable woman ever be turned on by watching a strange man dance alone in front of his webcam? Creepy-wise, this is the Internet equivalent of being ground up on by a strange dude on a dance floor.

Which leads me to an anecdote from the weekend: Some strange dude came up to me from behind on the dance floor at a bar in Northampton. I believe he was desirous that we share a bump and grind. His fatal error was skipping past the conversation in which he asked my permission to approach me from behind and press his body against mine. I was therefore forced to elbow him in the chest (he was a bit shorter than I am), which sends the very clear "No touching!" message. You'll be pleased to learn that I managed not to spill my Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA during this maneuver.

All the news that's fit to drink.

I suppose you could say that I'm just now shaking out the cobwebs from a St. Patrick's Day bender. Last year I went all out with my St. Patty's post, but for whatever reason, didn't have it in me this time around. Before I launch into a very late roundup of the weekend's beer-related thoughts, please enjoy this video of the Dubliners playing "The Irish Rover" with The Pogues.


Shane McGowan. Wow. Just wow.... Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. I pulled a shift waiting tables on Saturday, which was at once fun and frustrating. Fun because people were jovial, frustrating because they wanted to be jovial and hang around while I waited for them to pay me so I could escape to the wilds of Northampton, MA to get MY beer on.

The thing that amused me most about the wannabe-Irish boozing crowd (no, it was luckily not like the UES wannabe Irish boozing crowd, well-documented here) was their drinks of choice.

Granted, there were a fair number of straight-up Guinness (or, according to Tobs, "Gayness") drinkers in the mix, keeping our lovely bartenders busy drawing shamrocks in the head. In my section, however, the most popular drink was by far the Black & Tan.

The Black & Tan, while a delicious beverage (and wrong as it may be for a stout to float, it is pleasing to the eye and ever so much fun to pour), is named for the paramilitaries who shored up the Royal Irish Constabulary when it came to squashing the IRA and Sinn Fein's declaration of an Irish Republic.

Now, while I'm aware that the common wisdom is that St. Patrick's Day has something to do with whacking snakes or something, I do find it a little humorous that people can shout "Erin Go Bragh" whilst hoisting the drink named for a group of people who did their darndest to keep Ireland under British rule. I mean, snakes aside, people like to celebrate their Irishness or wannabe-Irishness on that day by getting plastered (conveniently forgetting about the despair and so forth).

I considered suggesting these people opt for a Half & Half (Guinness and Harp Lager), but decided to keep the trap shut. I did manage to disabuse people of the notion that they wanted to drink Harpoon's Hibernian, so it wasn't a total loss. We also have Smithwick's on these days, and while I object to its color while you're pouring it (weird muddy brown during the "cascade"), it settles into a nice deep amber color and is quite tasty.

Win a Date with Some Weird Dude!

This ad (or one like it... there's also a dude with a knit hat and a dude with a lot of tattoos... covering their demographic bases, I guess) has been popping up a lot on my MySpace logout page lately.

Uh... Boyfriend season? I'm aware of the whole "springtime-is-coming-so-make-with-the-flirty
-like-in-Bambi" business, but for some reason I'm getting some funny images in my head regarding the season for those elusive boyfriends.

Firstly, I am from New Hampshire, so when I see "___ Season" my line of thinking turns toward weather and/or hunting. In this way, boyfriend season comes before/during Mud Season and dissipates by the end of Black Fly season? Or is it still boyfriend season during Mosquito Season? I mean, they obviously hibernate during the winter, so that's out...

Then there's the idea that it's boyfriend season, as in you can hunt them with perhaps a bow and arrow (oh, how classical!) or high-powered rifle. In which case, how does one stalk the creature? On horseback, riding behind a pack of baying foxhounds? Do you set up in his house under a pile of clothes/boyfriend detritus and wait for him to show up and lick up the salt (or, you know, beer...Fritos, what-have-you) you spread on the floor?

The thing that really creeps me out, though, is how similar it seems to the dreaded "Bathing Suit Season." And, knowing MySpace, it seemed just as likely (before I saw the True logo) to be advertising some manner of diet pill. "Get those winter pounds off, ladies! Boyfriend season is around the corner."

Either way, the Match.com and True.com full-frontal MySpace assault is weirding me out. Match has these bizarre little videos of "regular guys" receiving titillating messages from "regular girls (or so we would assume)." One of these guys appears to be 12. The other, reads a message whilst removing a button-down shirt and stroking his five o'clock shadow (don't worry, there's a t-shirt underneath). Both smile creepily, and the camera angle makes it seem like they're looking right at me. I find I am neither intrigued nor titillated by this (this spoof video, however, is hilarious) so much as uncomfortable and a little intruded upon.

I certainly don't frown upon online dating (whatever works...or provides the best emotional scars/stories to tell your friends at the bar), but I thought MySpace already had that function built in...for free...so why would I be inclined to pay someone to hook me up with the likes of Lil' Fella and Scruffy the Date Rapist?

The final thought on the matter is that I'm obviously in a demographic that gets thrown these ads (due to being young and a lady). I am therefore curious what other information MySpace uses to place the ads. My "single" status" Do my "interests" indicate that I would be more likely to click on Scruffy the Date Rapist's little home video?

I hope that it's not that sophisticated a system... but at some point it could be, and isn't that fun? So, I turn it over to you, bloggy folk. Do those of you "In a Relationship" end up with these disturbing videos? Are you free of the "boyfriend season" blight? And guys - what do the ladies look like?

Meanwhile, I've heard it's time to dust off that high-powered rifle and/or start popping dexatrim and running in place late at night. Boyfriend Season's just around the freakin' corner.

Ahem.

Happy Birthday Claire!!!!!

By my calculations, this is the 8th time I've said that to you. I've known you for a pretty long-ass time.

Remember this?















I look forward to being in Brooklyn for this year's Birthday Bowl-Stravaganza. I will pour a celebratory Rolling Rock on your head and you can tackle me for old times' sake.

Is it spring yet?

We might also call this post "Staving off the Stir-Crazies," because, while it is now March, there is still snow on the ground and I still have to wear a coat (that is a magnet for dog hair...oh what a Sisyphean task it is to roll the sticky lint thingy over it before I leave the house) when I go outside. I mean, sure, sledding with your pals in the front pasture is a rockin' good time, but now we're in the dirty-snow phase of winter. But, oh, wait. We're supposed to get a fresh 3-5 tonight.

So, in an effort to not go out of my mind, I'm enjoying the little things. For instance, it is currently February vacation 'round these parts, so there is a blissful dearth of rush-hour traffic. For Gil, it's a good parking space, for me it's a commute at more than .05 mph. Normally, this would be another sign of growing up, but before I got on the road this morning, I was awoken by my mother (it's not a normal thing... I had forgotten to set my alarm). There I was, in pink flannel jammies and retainer, blinking groggily as she opened shades and threatened to sing "Rise and Shine." This was actually kind of fun in a "whoa-I-just-woke-up-in-the-wayback-machine" sort of way.

And the other small pleasure that I find sustaining is the ability to find pretty much anything on YouTube. I'm just a few search terms away from reliving the glories of the World Cup, which can do wonders to banish the cold. But today's big YouTube score is the following short film called Foutaises, by Jean-Pierre Jeunet. Its English title is Things I Like, Things I Hate, and it features Jeunet's cult actor Dominique Pinon (brief sidebar: I once saw Pinon at Zuerich airport. He is very short and, um, distinct-looking). It's all about small things that one hates and likes, a theme that found its way into Jeunet's Amelie and A Very Long Engagement.



It's only about seven minutes long. Enjoy. I'm off to pop some bubble wrap.

For anyone who's interested (mostly Josh)...

We have Harpoon Hibernian Ale on draft at the bar.

My review..... meh.

Predictable, really, considering Harpoon's tendency to occupy the gross-to-meh spectrum.

If you want a real Irish-style red ale, I'd avocate seeking out the Pennichuck Engine 5. It's delicious.

Sneak in all quiet-like. Like a fish.

It seems to be in fashion to choose an official fish these days.

Therefore, I hereby declare the awesomely-named Patagonian Toothfish (fuck those assholes who renamed it "Chilean Sea Bass") the National Fish of my blog.

Not only is it a delicious mercury-steeped treat (I know, I know, I must lean toward vegetarian fish), but it is in part responsible for the landing of a record-breaking colossal squid.

Calamari rings the size of tractor tires. I imagine those would be a bit on the chewy side...

Whoa there, Wild Thing.

Hey kids! This post marks the official beginning of Sheena's Opining About the Red Sox Season. We are 39 days and 53 minutes away from Opening Day. I'm sure y'all are just as excited as I am.

Anyway,Boston.com (and indeed the whole region) is all a-twitter over "Dice-K," but for me, the matter at hand is Jonathan Papelbon's hair:


Yes, he's going for the "Wild Thing" association, which I dig, but somehow it doesn't fly as well during spring training. Here he just sorta looks like a rapist trucker. I think the mojo-enhancing power of weird hair should be reserved for the regular season, but that's just me.

Meanwhile, observe the clever conversion of a Damon jersey.

Stay tuned through the season to read more about my thoughts on Red Sox grooming habits and occasionally the manner in which they play the base-ball.

She's a squirrel-crushing, deer-smacking, driving machine!

This month finds me at a new job (in addition to twice-weekly beer spilling), parked at a desk and delighting in spreadsheets, invoices, and trying to get rid of phone solicitors. I know, you're wondering how I can handle all of the glamor in my life. I tell ya, it's rough.

The fun thing about living in the country, aside from the lack of good pizza or New York Times delivery, is that you must drive. A lot. To get anywhere. The bar is about 30 minutes (as the Sheena drives) from home. The new office is across state lines in Massachusetts, just a stone's throw from Boston. Ginger and I are going for some sort of Volvo mileage record.

I usually take Rte 93 all the way from Manch-Vegas to my office. This way, while I must counterintuitively drive north in order to go south, I can usually haul Volvo ass once on the highway.

This morning, I had an appointment too far to the south in NH to justify the north-then-south route. So, I manned up and went from 101A (lots of lights and assholes), to Rte. 3, to 95/128 (New England's most confusing highway). From there, I planned to hop onto my good friend 93 to get to my office. I had never done this on purpose before, but I figured that if 93 North has an exit to get onto 95, I could certainly get to 93 S from 95 north of Boston. Makes sense, right? Or, at least it makes sense to a non-Masshole who's not yet a full cup of coffee into her day.

As it turns out, getting to work is overrated. Why drive to my destination when I can burn a whole lot of the gasoline I purchased yesterday by taking a jaunt through the Metro-Boston area? What is a Wednesday morning without driving the length of the Tip O'Neil tunnel south to north? A wasted Wednesday morning, that's what. I was thisclose to picking up the phone, calling in stupid, and going home to pout.

I guess I'm not yet the commuting champion I thought I was. I suppose it was an instructive experience, but when you've already spent an hour in the car, it becomes difficult to correct your navigation error patiently. I did, at one point, scream "What the fuck is going on?" as I passed an exit for Walpole, which is south of Boston. This is the second time 95 has bested me (the first time, I drove to Waltham on my way to Beverly from NH (trust me, it was stupid)).

I suppose the more time I spend tooling around the commonwealth, the more likely I'll be able to realize my potential for asshole driving. I look forward to the day when I can blithely make a left-hand turn around someone from the right.

The troubling thing? I think watching the needle edge further down the tank might be worse than getting felt up on the N train. Is that weird? Yeah. Thought so.

____
In case anyone's wondering about the photo and title theme of this post, I had the Canyonero song stuck in my head during a pitiful daydream that involved piloting the mighty Hubertus over the highway median.

Nothing says "I love you" like a dead rodent.

Today, I received the best valentine ever. His Gusness killed a mouse and laid it at my feet. It was very romantical. I plied him with Greenies, and he spent the rest of the afternoon lolling on his favorite perch looking pleased with himself.

I'm pleased that Gus is taking another crucial step towards becoming a real cat. We'll be working on the outdoors business more when it gets warm again. There's no convincing him to go out in the cold, much less the snow.

Oh yeah, we've had a metric shit-ton of snow. I don't know if anyone heard any excitement over the mystifying appearance of winter weather in February. It came, saw, and bitch-slapped us around a little. The snow is all light and feathery, which makes for easier clearing, but it's been falling fast pretty much all day.


Even more exciting than the first proper blizzard of the winter, is the first Brooklyn-New Hampshire visit of 2007. Carson has dusted off his best black turtleneck sweater in anticipation. I expect there'll be a fair amount of eating, drinking, lounging... and perhaps a little romping in the snow?

And I think I speak for everyone when I say that we'll wish Toby were her.

Oh la la! C'est super-cool!

It seems likely that I'm going to get some back-sass on this, but I'm firmly of the opinion that everything is cooler in French (and in France in general, those folks know how to live, talk about the War all you want). No, it's not some kind of Stockholm Syndrome after years studying French. I do not wake up in the middle of the night screaming "Où est la bibliothèque?!"

So, it's no surprise that I'll play and replay "C'est la mort" by Stereo Total because I like the nonsensical lyrics... in French. Nor should it surprise you that I'm a devotee of Clotilde and her blog, Chocolate & Zucchini. First of all, the subtitle of her soon-to-come book is "Daily adventures in a Parisian kitchen." Now, THAT sounds cool. Mostly because the implication is before the adventures in the kitchen, there are adventures in the Parisian markets which are wonderful and embody everything that food shopping should be (tactile, local, daily, social... I could go on. Now imagine talking about some neat purple carrots with a vendor... in French. See? Automatically cooler.). Of course, in my head, Clotilde is cooking in the kitchen from Amélie, and shit, I wanna do that (even though I currently cook in the most rockin' kitchen in which I've ever had the pleasure to wield a Wüsthof, it's not, you know, in France).

Clotilde's recipes allow me to indulge the crazy on a few levels. First, she tends to title recipes in French, which gives me permission to write them in The Book of Greatest Hits as such without feeling like too much of a tool. Second, when baking her cakes and whatnot, I bust out the old metric digital scale, thus engaging in a deliciously precise baking process (Seriously. Fuck cups. When are we living? Le Moyen Age? I cannot tell you how crazy I feel scraping sticky ingredients out of cups for recipes; "But. If. I. Don't. Get. It. All. Out. The. Finished. Product. Won't. Be. Right." And then my mother doses me with a glass of Malbec and I forget to set a timer and it's all ok.).

But more than anything, it's just that culinary terms are so much better in French. My favorite example is the bain-marie. It's the hot water bath in which you bake your crème brûlée . It's the pan of boiling water that melts your chocolate. It's also, very poetically and awesomely derived from an alchemy term, according to Wikipedia. I previously thought it meant "Mary's bath" as in the Virgin, but I guess I was wrong. It turns out that it's awesomer, invented by an alchemist called Mary the Jewess.

Now, you tell me, would you rather bake a crème brûlée in a bain-marie or a hot water bath? While we're at it, is not crème brûlée more appetizing than burnt cream? You may argue that the French makes it all seem so impossibly grandiose, but I think that's what makes it so great. You think that crème brûlée is some insurmountably difficult dish, but it turns out it's just a soft custard baked in a hot water bath (it's the torching that makes it fun and grand, and gives you that wonderful crack when you break it with a spoon).

Today's awesome French culinary term, as learned from C&Z: abricotage. This is the method whereby French patisseries get the pretty shiny glaze on tarts and whatnot. It apparently involves heating some apricot jam with a little water until it's thin-ish and spreadable. The combination, aside from adding a pleasant fruity flavor, sets up and makes the confection look like a work of art.

Abricotage sounds so much cooler than "paint with melted apricot jam," no?

So, in honor of abricotage and the bain-marie, and because it uses both, it seems that I'll be attempting this cake for Sunday dessert. Thanks Clotilde!

For a good time, please don't call me.

Message received at my MySpace account on Monday at 8:10am:

"Subject: hi

Body:

24 m concord nh , new to the concord area but going to be leaving soon and wanting to get together with a nice gal before i leave for boot camp. your very cute i'd be willing to pay over a grand to hang out with you for an hour or two and i'm dead serious"

My first thought: "I could sure use a grand."

My second thought: "Agh!"

It doesn't seem to be spam. I'd rather not get into the particulars of the dude's profile, as I fear he'll find and kill me. But Jesus H. What, exactly, about my silly MySpace profile indicates that I'd be willing to "hang out for an hour or two" in exchange for money? The unmitigated gall! And don't you try to prey on my patriotism, sir. It'll get you nowhere. Furthermore, if I were to be a hanger-outer-for-an-hour-or-two for hire, I certainly wouldn't deign to "hang out" with a man who doesn't punctuate.

In conclusion, I do not own very cute.

PS. How much more than a grand?

PPS. Just kidding, Mom.

How to Pick Up Your Bartender

It's a full-service establishment around here, and don't you forget it.

Allow me to tell you what to do (and what not to do) when you find yourself smitten with the barmaid (I suppose it could work for the barman as well, but most of the anecdotes that spawned this list are from my experiences and my sister's tales of working behind the bar in Scotland, and we're both ladies, y'see).


First off, I suppose it warrants mentioning that since men seem to find women in the beverage service industry very appealing (guys, correct me if I'm wrong here, but this is what I've heard), so you should probably keep in it in mind that she deals with a lot of douches throwing themselves her way, so you'll need to work pretty hard to prove you're not one of said douches. There are a few easy ways to do this.

1.) Be careful with the tipping. Too little and she thinks you're an asshole. Too much and it seems like you're trying to buy her attention. Always tip fairly ($1 per drink, maybe more for cocktails. Probably lots more if you order sissy cocktails.), with the occasional sympathy over-tip if you go in on a really busy night and feel bad for her. This is something a bartender appreciates over time, which brings me to...

2.) Cultivate status as a "regular." We like regulars. They are comforting. We know they don't get out of control, we know they don't run out on bills, and they're not going to go for the reach-around if we run down to change a keg (all of those things are unappealing in a dude, by the way, so don't do those things). Also, a bartender is much more likely to chat with a regular than some one-off dude who waltzes in and throws a wad of money on the bar and then expects she'll take him home. Also, being a regular means coming in for non-busy hours, which is more conducive to chatting with a non-busy bartender.

3.) You are what you drink (in that we remember what you drink). Don't drink sissy drinks. Nothing with "Breeze" in the name. In fact, you should get into the theme or specialty of the establishment itself. Some young men once asked me to select their beers for them, which was great. It allowed me to nerd out about Julius Echter and Fuller's ESB. Chances are, the bartender enjoys a tipple herself, so it's a nice icebreaker to ask her opinion on a beverage selection. There really is nothing worse than rattling off the tap list and getting hit with the old "I'll just have a Mich Light." I, in my growing beer snobbery, have begun to expand my disdain toward guys who unadventerously go for the Bass Ale... yes, it's a solid beer, but c'mon! Live a little!

4.) You may notice the spot where she's spending a lot of time washing glasses. The sinks may necessitate bending over at the waist. Do not sit in front of that spot. You will be able to see right down her shirt. She will know that you can see right down her shirt. She will find that it creepy if you sit there.

5.) No matter where you're sitting, don't stare. You won't be able to will her into conversation with you. You'll only succeed in augmenting the feeling of being a caged animal. Wait until she comes by to check on you to make light conversation. Once you cultivate the regular status, familiarity will grow and you'll be in business.

6.) Don't get wasted and ambush her. Don't get wasted and stay as she's closing the place down. Don't leave your number unsolicited. If you get wasted, you should probably keep to yourself, because she's going to remember the idiot things you said even if you don't. This harks back to my cardinal rule for picking up chicks: do not be more wasted than she is if you really want to score. This is tricky because bartenders are stone-sober. Or, they're supposed to be (at least in N'Hampshah).

7.) Take a friend. Become regulars together. This will help you to avoid sitting at the bar and silently waiting for her to talk to/look at you (which is creepy.... at all times, you want to avoid being creepy.). I don't tend to engage men who are solo at the bar (fearing the creep factor), but a pair or small group is manageable.

Above all, I think the important thing is that you must crawl before you can walk... befriend before you go for the digits. There are plenty of guys who hit on lady bartenders in alarming ways. Don't be that guy.



As an extra special bonus, I have a few important "Overheard From Behind the Bar" guy-to-girl pick up (or take home) lines that I'd like to share as a cautionary tale (be ye not so ridiculous):

"Mmmm. You smell fertile. No, seriously. That's a compliment."

(I am not making that up. I really overheard that. I very nearly puked into my sink. The sad thing is, the dude had only had two beers. )

"You're gorgeous. I just want you to know that."
"We don't need to have sex. We could just hold each other."
"I'm not just a one-night stand. I need love to get erect."

(These gems are all from one very wasted dude. I am also not making them up. It should be noted that in the latter line, he sort of pronounced it "luuuv." You'll be pleased to know, however, that the gentleman went home alone.)

My opinion matters.

In descending order, my favorite winter ales:

1. Smuttynose Winter Ale - Oddly enough, I first tasted it in Brooklyn. I fervently wish we had it on tap at the bar, but alas. We already have two winter ales, which leads me to...

2. Long Trail Hibernator - Great one. No weird spices or flavorings. We've had it on for a while, and it's consistently popular.

3. Woodstock Inn Brewery Wassail - Not too bad. Again, no flavorings commonly associated with fancypants winter ales. It tastes strong, though the abv isn't on the barrel, so I can't confirm how strong it actually is. I definitely prefer other Woodstock offerings over it, like the Red Rack Ale and Old Man Oatmeal Stout.

And now, the yucky winter ales:

Harpoon Winter Warmer - Ick. Too sweet. I am, for the most part, unimpressed with Harpoon. I really dislike the IPA (I had an awkward moment last week when I ranted againest the Harpoon IPA to a ground of friends and they all looked at me like I'm nuts, because they all inexplicably love the stuff.). It kind of reminds me of Rolling Rock, in that it tastes like beer-flavored soda.

Magic Hat Roxy Rolles - Automatic disdain for being from Magic Hat (though I do like Fat Angel). A customer described it as "tastes like hops and that's about it." This proves my theory that Magic Hat beers are by and large one-note.

That's right. All of the tea.

Jeez. It's pretty chilly out there. Am I right?

I have to say, I hate being a slave to the car, but it sure makes the recent frigid temperatures a little easier to take.

Anyway, you should all congratulate me on surving my bout with the Norwalk Virus, or as we of Harlow's have come to call it, "The Double Dragon" (I'll allow you to explore the possible genesis of that name on your own). It was pretty fucking horrible. Hayley nicknamed me "Corpsey," and everyone in my family offered sympathy and bottles of Coke, all whilst vocally hoping to avoid infection themselves (thanks Mohans!).

"But wait Sheena," you say, "Isn't Norwalk Virus that terrible gastrovomititus thingy that people get on cruises?"

Yes. Yes it is.
"But you're in New Hampshire, right?"

That is correct.

"WTF?"

Well, children. New Hampshire is a lot like a cruise ship. Except fewer people, warmer clothing, and fewer Broadway medley stageshows. Also our soundtrack isn't Iggy Pop.... Yeah, I don't know why Norovirus is running rampant through Southwestern New Hampshire. I expect that I got it because the dirty dirty public comes into the restaurant and spews their diseases all over innocent little me. And then they leave me a lousy tip for my trouble. My handwashing vigilance has increased hundred-fold in the aftermath, let me tell you.

After spending several days weak as a kitten and exhausting all of the HBO OnDemand offerings, I was back in action in time to bowl very badly at our staff holiday gathering (late because we serve the rest of y'all at your staff holiday gatherings) and drink several very restorative Molsons. Between frames, I watched those Pats lose spectacularly in an almost Red Soxly fashion. I hear some people in New England were upset for a few minutes, but now we're mostly all over it. It's my understanding that many of the Patriots were suffering from the Double Dragon whilst preparing for the game against the Colts. If that's true, I must say I feel sorry for them. It was a Herculean labor not to weep like a child when faced with climbing a flight of stairs, so I can't imagine attempting to play that there "American football."

In other news that matters just to me, my iPod has recovered from the iNorwalk iVirus or some such. The cure? Bridget hit it. A lot. And then it came back to life. Huzzah!

Stay with me and next week you'll find a long-overdue post of the instructional variety.

40 lashes with a wet oak leaf... please.

I am back in New Hampshire after a delightful trip to New York. Getting home was a bit of an adventure, involving a dead car battery, AAA, and four and a half hours with non-functioning heat or radio.

Surprisingly, not even the sight of my hands frozen into gnarled blue claws on the steering wheel could get me down, because I started 2007 with The Platza (insert dreamy sigh here).

Tuesday afternoon found me at the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village with Claire and Erin. It was Erin's maiden voyage into the public bath (I'm a big fan), and we two veterans were eager to show her a good time and perhaps sweat out some of those New Year's Eve poisons in the process. We have discovered, in recent months, that the platza is the difference between a good time in the Baths and a superlative bathing experience.

The best thing about the Russian and Turkish Baths is its unfussiness. The changing rooms are separated by a partial wall (such that a dude once called out "God Bless you" when I sneezed), the towels are a dull beige and the staff a somewhat surly bunch of Russians. You can decide whether you want a massage or scrub or whatever when you get into the Baths.

The relaxing unfussiness translates into the treatments as well. The platza is a treatment whereby you allow yourself to be gently beaten with a bunch of soapy oak branches in an extremely hot stone room. Sounds fun, right?

The first time we did it, Claire and I both found it somewhat unpleasant (in a very pleasant way, if you catch my meaning) while it was happening, but fantastic once it was over. You're in the hottest room in the baths, facedown with a towel on your head. The towel is cold, which helps you breathe, but you aren't able to see what's going on and whether the Orthodox Jewish men in there are watching you get scrubbed up and bent around like a pretzel. And the heat. It's so incredibly hot in the Russian sauna, if you take too deep a breath, you wonder if you're going to cook your lungs, and just as you're about to leap up and run screaming away from the bossy Russian man of Mongolian extraction, the hot room, and the voyeurs, the aforementioned bossy man pours cold water over you and you are restored. He cracks your back, scrubs you with leaves, and drags you around the place by the hand like a petulant child, and you let him. It's an overheated, sweaty kind of Stockholm Syndrome.

We knew it'd be different last week when the young man who approached us to offer the treatment smiled. He was barrel-chested, tattooed, and sporting a big gold cross around his neck. We wondered if perhaps he intended to [gently] beat the fear of God into us. We prepared Erin for the torturous element of the Platza. The bossing, the bending, the possibility of burns. Then we sent her in first. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, mouth agape.

I went next. Instead of bossing, this fellow barely spoke. The same frantic feeling came over me after a few minutes in the heat, followed by the same relief upon a cold dousing. He was gentle at the right times and rough at others. It was all quite.... intimate. Except for an audience of old men.

Reduced to a limp heap of contentment, I found myself wishing I could say "So, can I call you sometime?" in Russian.

When Claire emerged from her turn, my suspicion was confirmed. This guy is the Platza King. No, there is no "happy ending" on offer at the baths. He's all business... but with a smile. And a giant gold cross around his neck.

Praise be.