That's What She Said

Ah, Thanksgiving! The time of year when I get to swallow not only my body weight in sweet potatoes (with the family looking disapprovingly on) but also my pride. I can get all soft and squishy about the things I'm grateful for and no one can say anything about it. Plus, the food coma usually kicks in shortly after my emotional outburst of the day. Feelings? Without consequence?!

Thank you:

1. Scrabble on Facebook. Decreasing my productivity at work by 1000%, but increasing my overall satisfaction with sitting at a desk all day. Also, expanding my vocabulary with trial & error words like "wangled" and "nixie." As in, "I wangled my way into that nixie's fantasy pants."

2. TBS for putting The Office on for 3 hours a night. JIM. Everytime I decide to turn on the TV.

3. My impending layoff, for getting me motivated to find another job, though it my just be another big soul-suck. I'll take my chances, and a few unemployment checks too.

4. Boat Captains. Future profession?

5. An amazing term at school that reestablished my confidence in my work. It is right and good that I'm doing what I'm doing, though...more school? On to an MFA? Delay my life a little bit more? I will take the American Literary Canon by storm...one day.

6. The impending education of my youngest brother in the ways of The Pixies and 30 Rock. Holy shit, I have only hours to accomplish this, but I will succeed. Commence indoctrination!

7. Technology, though grudgingly. Back on the Facebook bandwagon, Twitter, etc. I'm turning into just another social media whore. But this turn of events has rendered some good, from the obvious "getting back in touch with lost friends" stuff to discovering the naughty potential of Skype. The tiny eyes of Jesus on the crucifix above the dinner table this Thanksgiving will burn straight into my black, unrepentant soul. What Grandma? You want to read my novel outline? With the homeless chick giving a blow j? Well sure! Note the dog-eared pages, where the sexiest stuff happens.

7. Lastly, to my urban family. The last year has been a bit of a soap opera in the best and worst ways - weddings, break-ups, moving in, moving out, deaths, babies, disownings, scary diseases, losing jobs, trips, risks, etc. But nary a betrayal. If I had to put my heart through this paper shredder o' life all on my own, God only knows what kind of human wreckage we'd have on our hands. We chose each other, most importantly, and I wouldn't change it.

Tryptophan - activate!

Reason #2: I really love music. I really do. And the music that I love should be loved by everybody because it's that good. I'm not one of those people that throws out the overused "they're early stuff was better" rebuttals, contrary to what some would have you believe. I'm just passionate about discovering a new sound, listening to a perfectly constructed album, showing up at a concert and dancing my inhibited white girl dance for awhile before the beer kicks in and I do my uninhibited white girl dance. So yeah, I see how me getting drunk and lauding the many glorious works of Dan Auerbach all over your face might make you think I'm a hipster. Maybe. But I won't stop. Dan Auerbach is the beardy god of soul. Listen.

Here in the city I've reached the Golden Age of my concert-going. I have the means to spend a little too much on tickets and I have so many shows at my fingertips any day of the week. In a place where it's easy to get lonely and easier to just melt into your coffin-sized apartment, there are places to go and feel something extreme.

So call me a hipster. I will not be ashamed of preaching just how fucking much the Pixies rocked a few days ago. (Rocked so much, in fact, that I've been wearing the tshirt for something like 4 days now and blathered at a Trader Joe's cashier about the details of the concert well after my transaction was completed.) And I will also not be ashamed to tell you that you should be going to see Brighton MA play at Lincoln Hall tonight. Do it. I know what's good for you.

Oh, and please accept my gift of a playlist. It's been a beautiful lazy weekend. Folk Lite.

There have been a lot of questionable products married with bacon. Bacon Vodka. Bacon Jelly Beans. Bacon Air Freshener. (speaking of, one of these should be floating around my apartment...) But here is one that is oh-so-right: Jalapeno Bacon.

A) You can eat it.

I'm on a roll with the posts this month. And no, it's not because I enjoy this with all my heart. It's because there is a grade contingent on my compulsive internet usage. And you thought you were special.

We here at TWSSC have a great fondness for alcohol. Most of our waking hours are dedicated to learning it's ways. So when I saw this, I nearly wept with joy. Who knew so much could be gained by watching anything posted on YouTube? (See the magic around :55!)


Get this man a medal.

There is only one thing I have unequivocally excelled at in life: heavy drinking. And now, one year into my tenure in Chicago, I look back and admire the truly great places that have rendered me happy and incoherent. You have all been cruel lovers of mine; this one's for you!


Best Cocktail
You've seen it here before. The unparalleled gimlet/margarita at The Matchbox. There is no pleasure like the pleasure of sipping a long series of these. Say what you will about the bar; call it cramped, call it uncomfortable, call it inconvenient; you will COME to this bar for this drink and you will find it hard to leave. Zest that motherfucking lime
What you drink: How many times do I have to say it? The goddamn margarita.

Best Beer Selection
I would like to remind everyone that this is a purely subjective list, that these names are only from personal experience and tastes, and once I find something I like, I rarely deviate. So, in what is assuredly a contentious category, I give my vote to Quenchers Saloon. Located near my place (bonus points!) and hosting plenty of live music, Quenchers isn't just an inviting dark place to put back a few, but houses a selection of over 80-some odd domestic and international beers, including the beloved official beer of this site, Bell's Two Hearted Ale. Good God.
what you drink: The specials are always a good place to start; one of the only places I know with Quilmes readily available.

honorable mention: The Rock Bottom Brewery. I have a serious fondness for micros and any beer that aims only to fuck your shit up. See the seasonal beers and drink yourself retarded.

Best Bar Food
No competition whatsoever, Skylark. A bar that looks nothing at all like it tastes, it's a large innocuous place with a few mangy hipsters hanging around. When I was told I was in for the mac n cheese of my life, naturally I scoffed for I am a macaroni champ. And then I shut up and ate/drank my dinner. Glorious, holy, and unfuckingbelievable. Go there and eat, brethren. Spread the gospel of Skylark.
what you drink/eat: Another honorable purveryor of Bell's Two Hearted. Do yourself a favor and go decadent: Bell's, tater tots that will blow your mind, collard greens as you've never tasted them, topped off with the macaroni n cheese. If you die, it will be in the most complete, sated happiness you've ever experienced.

honorable mention: Not actually a bar, but no less dear to my heart, Won Kow is one of the oldest dim sum establishments in Chinatown. $2 Tsing Tao and some of the finest tasting dumplings. For best results, get there early on Chinese New Year and tie on a serious buzz with friends before hitting the parade.

Best Music
God help me, another category bound to get me lynched in this town. But for sheer awesomeness of acts, atmosphere, crowd quality (see: ratio of hipsters to me), and fucking affordability, I give it to Schuba's. My heart has been broken twice now in the space of a month having missed the likes of Elvis Perkins and Dan (holyshitareyoufuckingkiddingmetheguyfromtheblackkeys?i wouldmakeallhisbabies!whyyyyyyyyyamimissingthisshow?!!?!iwanttodie...) Auerbach. Couple these allstars with the fact that my friend's band has also played there on numerous occasions and drawn a crowd, and you have yourself a refreshingly unpretentious venue. Ignore the fools with their Ginsberg beards and PBRs. You are here to rock. And no one is going to stop you.
what you drink: Keep it simple. Bottled domestics - the waitress will be good to you while you dance your little heart out.

Best Atmosphere
I am a lover of novelty and deviance. You know these things; you're no stranger to my scribblings, Dear Reader. So this category goes to The Old Town Ale House. It's a close, dark dive (as all these bars are) with every inch of available wall space covered in portraits. The paintings are done, I understand, by the owner, and the subject matter ranges from frequent patrons to political figures. I arrived on the doorstep of this bar when word spread (circa the last election) of a scurrilous nude portrait of Sarah Palin. Buyer Beware: human paint-flesh is in no short supply here, and if you're some sort of uptight fascist, you should stay away. But if you too have imagined the ample breasts of Ms. Palin as she grins and clutches a rifle (Freud? Are you listening?), then I suggest making the trip.
what you drink: Standard fare here. You come for the happy crowd and interesting eye candy.

honorable mention: On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, we have Guthries. Going to Guthries is like stepping into someone's living room. The place is warm and lamp-lit. Small tables covered in red-checked tableclothes. More board games than you can handle waiting to be played. Quiet winter evenings were made for a good round of Trivial Pursuit and some fine bourbon, neat.

Best After-Work Dive
Brando's is hidden in a quiet spot in the Loop, beloved of long-gone deranged capitalist alcoholics who would sooner escape into the bottom of a glass than suffer another minute in corporate hell. As I am pretty much the opposite of this (for now), I come to Brando's with the expectation that I will be leared at, but not bought a drink; be the subject of an overloud hateful accusation directed at women (those bitches), but offered protection or an apology should some out-of-line outsider make a move. The place looks to have been remodeled with the hope that the clientele would be escorting high-class hookers. Abundant red velvet and blue lighting. But these hopes must have faded, since there is always some basketball game on tv and lovelorn Springsteen in the air.
what you drink: There are some wicked martinis to be had in these parts, but I stick to the whiskey sour or some kind of assy Budweiser product to remind myself I don't want to be here in 5 years' time.

Best Overall - The Bar All Bars Should Strive to Be
An easy pick for me - Delilah's. I have loved many bars, but none so well as you. Shall I name the reasons? Dark and intimate. A rotation of local artists' works on the walls (last I saw, a collection of unicorns doin it). Amazing punk and rockabilly music all the time at volumes that make your eardrums beg for mercy. A bartender that looks like James Dean. Zombie movies on in the afternoon. Draft beer that will give you a hard-on. A whiskey selection that will make you straight fall on your knees and declare your undying devotion. Oh, and the occasional promotional event in which they hand out free scotch. Free Scotch! I'm no scientist, but I'm pretty sure free scotch cures cancer. And AIDS. And did I mention the many-tattooed James Dean bartender? And I shall name my first born, be he male or female, Delilah.
what you drink: Bell's Two Hearted, when it's available. Piraat, if you're in a beer mood (this shit will kick your ass; i imagine this is what licking a Belgian pirate would taste like); whatever the shot of the month is; absinthe; whiskey/bourbon/scotch.....really, you can do no wrong here.

Starting around the end of April I began to dread the upcoming Summer of Quality Time With Myself. And when I say dread I don't just mean that heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach when you think about whatever you are not wanting to happen. I mean I was near tears when I thought about the TEN WHOLE WEEKS that stretched before me OHMYGOD and I was a constant ball of anxiety (because I like to sweat the small stuff). I even had myself a little drama queen moment when I actually - out loud - admitted to Zack that I was angry at him for leaving. Leaving to go off and do something necessary for his career. Where he would be making us lots of money. For me to spend. See how this is a little (or, you know, A LOT) of crazy to be all stored up in one person?

Cue over-acted dramatic flailing.

Now that the ten-week separation is coming to a close, I find myself feeling absolutely fucking ridiculous for making such a big deal out of the whole thing. Granted, we ended up seeing one another every weekend save one when we thought we'd only be able to afford to travel every second or third weekend. That helped a ton. It never felt like the separation was TOO overwhelming except that one day when my dad left town, my sister moved across the country, my grandparents left and my husband went back to Minnesota. That day sucked pretty hard.

So Saturday marks the end of this experience and I have to say that everything everyone told me was true. I did learn to value a good dose of alone time. I did not die because Zack was not around for ten weeks and I managed to keep the pets alive and even add a couple of basil plants to the mix (which, seriously, who wants fresh basil? because I have some pretty prolific basil plants flourishing on my porch).

People keep asking if I am nervous about having Zack home after "all this time apart". And the answer is "eh, not really". It's not like we'll need to readjust to one another because we've seen each other every five days. We talk multiple times a day. While I now know I can appreciate coming home to an empty house and cooking whatever I want for dinner without argument or compromise (and grocery shopping, I will miss you!), the apartment feels empty without Zack in it. Even the animals are different: needier, more clingy. We are all better when Zack is around, but we can survive a few weeks when he has to be somewhere else (as long as plenty of visits are involved, apparently). This summer has made me more aware of my own independence, which is never a bad thing. I missed Zack terribly when he was gone, but I also came to understand that I WAS OKAY ANYWAY. I could miss him and still get along alright by myself. Who knew?!

I was delighted/horrified when a friend described me on a whim as follows: "You make a joke, Erin makes a sex joke. That's all you need to know." So is it any surprise that, over mostly empty bottles of red wine, one of our very own bloggers suddenly posed a Who Would You Rather Do It With question?

This:

No disrespect MJ. Moonwalk in heaven.

Readers, bloggers, friends, brethren. It's a shit day. It's drizzly. It's dark. It's putting everyone in a foul/somber/utterly depressing mood. For reasons related to my inadequate computer skills, the most I can do for you is provide a link. A golden link. A link that will lead you to the greatest 2 minutes in cinematic history. Minutes so frought with sexual tension and dirty southern excellence you will immediately pack your bags and head off for New Orleans in search of the great American lust fulfillment. Go forth and watch.

I love bacon. Bacon bacon bacon. I love bacon on everything. In everything. Bacon by itself. Bacon with breakfast, swimming in syrup. Bacon in salads, defiling their purity. Bacon on a sandwich, delicately woven into a perfect bacony meaty patty. Bacon is a gift to humans, a salty, fatty delicious gift, and no one should ever refuse such a gift.



Lately, however, I’ve had to grapple with the idea of giving up meat. It’s that whole we’re-destroying-the-world-and-there-is-something-we-can-do-about-it thing. Read any article that’s serious about helping the environment and you’ll find that decreasing the amount of meat you eat has a more positive impact on the earth than recycling plastics and driving hybrids combined. And ya know, it’s good for your body and stuff too.

FROWN. But what about baaaaaaaacon? I’m the girl who on a recent trip to Vegas, where buffets rule, wanted nothing more than to stand in front of a giant catering tray filled with the fatty meaty strips. It’s all I could talk about. I can’t give up bacon. “Just say no” to bacon? HA! The mere idea of it is difficult to resist, and we’re not even talking rejecting it when the smell is wafting ever so enticingly from a nearby griddle. I mean, what chance do I really have?

Still, bacon-obsessed and forced to consider betraying my true love for reasons greater than I, an inner conflict rages over the thought of forsaking this porky delight. I feel guilty that I don’t even want to do it (sorry Mother Earth). And then that guilt mixes with the always present guilt of eating bacon at all (you know that’s why it’s so good). And the result is just one big guilty bacon mess that only makes me want to eat it all the more!

Sigh. What's a girl to do? Distraught that I may have to put an end to my bacon indulgences, I contemplated my problem on the train the other day, where it occurred to me that perhaps I shall bargain with the environment (Monty Hall was my child nickname).

“Earth,” I said, “I’ll (one day) give you beef, chicken, and all other pork products, but in return, you must give me bacon. A compromise, you see. Give up everything but bacon. How does that sound?”

And with that, the universe answered my question.
“BACoN,” it said.

“BACoN” here, “BACoN” there. It appeared written in light blue graffiti on the wall of two buildings I pass everyday. That’s right. Someone was speaking to me! Tagging walls with pork product pleasantries.
“Yes, Megan, of course you can keep eating bacon!”

So with that little wink from the gods, I begin my journey. Less chicken. Less beef. And enough bacon to keep my ass plump and porky.