Gluhwein and a Mixture of Nuts

I think I need to preface this by saying I, myself, did nothing interesting in this blog, but other people showed their nuttiness. Kind of disappointing, but I guess some days I am normal.

Last night was the Happiest Place on Earth; at least, that’s where I was taken by Ruthann. Oh it was splendid and I’m definitely going repeatedly until they close on Christmas Eve! Ruthann and I are going again next week. And where is this said place? Why the Criskindlmarket in downtown Chicago. Ruthann has been telling me about this place and said, “Bring your gloves Friday. We are drinking Gluhwein.”

Gluhwein? Yes, tastiness in a boot. Boot? Ah, yes, the red ceramic Santa boot with a handle in which they pour Gluhwein - warmed red wine mixed with brandy or rum. You buy the boot then you keep going back for refills. It’s an outdoor market in the middle of a plaza downtown with a huge Christmas lighted tree. During your drunken fest, because it’s pretty potent, you walk around and get in line while drinking from your boot for what Ruthann calls “brandy beans” which translated to German are Weinbrand Bohnen - brandy filled chocolates. Then you walk over if you don’t need a refill to the candied warm nut tent. Then you walk, again, if you don’t need a refill to look at the other tents full of German paraphernalia. Kind of. What I did was just walk around and stare at the hot German men working in the tents. Don’t hate, there is something to be said for German men, or rather European men in general. “Yum!” is what I like to say. Ha.

During the last half of our Gluhwein drinking we were in the middle of a crowd of scary frozen looking children that were suffering in their strollers as their parents drank and I noticed this very tall full head of hair woman walking towards me. She was quite an older, very large broad woman with super sturdy small heeled ankle boots on. I tried not to look directly as she sauntered over to me and Ruthann, but I like looking at full head of hair women because I wish I could fluff mine out and still look normal. Then she stopped within one foot of me which felt a little space invading. I noticed her looking away so I scoped her out at the same time Ruthann did. It wasn’t a woman…it was a man dressed as a woman in winter wear. I looked back at Ruthann as she looked at me. Then He/She sidled closer to me! And stayed in my space for at least 5 minutes. Ruthann and I tried to resume our conversation but I think we both blanked at what we could talk about. Finally He/She moved on but it was still slightly unsettling because He/She had walked directly toward me, stopped and stayed and didn’t do anything, talk to anyone, or even say something to me! Strange. I love drag queens. Love ‘em!

When I was telling my German mom about my experience at the market and brandy beans she exclaims, “Oh Lydia, please, if you get me anything for Christmas, get me some of those brandy beans! And send some to Helga and then have her call me and we’ll eat them and get drunk together.” Really Mom, really? Helga is her sister. Apparently when they were growing up my grandma would throw a large holiday party and cook for everyone and there was a plethora of brandy beans around that the kids (my mom and her sister) would steal and be pretty drunk by the end of the night.

Finally we were done drinking and lo and behold, a Blue line stop opens right on the left side of the plaza. And it stops less than 10 minute walk to my house as well. So I paid and waited for the O’Hare direction. During which time a woman in her late 30’s/early 40’s fell down the stairs of the Blue line and got up and pretended nothing happened. I mean, I turned just in time to see the last part of the fall…it was like 15 steps of crash! bump! whap! With all her shopping bags flying over her head with her.  Fortunately, her family was all there to help her. She looked like she had a little too much Gluhwein like me. If I had fallen like that, which I have fallen embarrassingly before, I just lay there for a minute and laugh my ass off. What else can you really do when you thoroughly humiliate yourself publically?

Moral of the Story: The German Christmas culture mixes many nuts…just keep drinking Gluhwein and it will be fine.

Bottomless Girl

Derrick’s last night in Chicago was tonight before he goes back to good ol' NC. Phil and I are on a mission to see him come back. We decided to celebrate it by eating and drinking out. Penny’s was closed so among the many suggestions, Hofbrau on North Ave was the winner. I walked in first while Phil paid for the parking meter and Derrick waited outside for him. There was only the cook and the bartender (who I decided tonight I have a secret crush on as do Phil and Derrick) inside. I walked in, my usual loud self and asked if we could eat at the bar. He said you can eat anywhere you want to. I stated to him that the last time I was in there I had the same shirt on (my white lacey one) and then asked, “What’s your name again?” As he said, “Josh,” and said he remembered me as I said I had come in before with Odin. Mind you all, this was October 9th today is November 15!  “Yea,” he laughed, “you dropped your pants, sober if I recall, and the 4 people at the other end of the bar had no clue what was going on.”  I replied that most of the wild things happen when I'm dead S-O-B-E-R. Why is that?

Yes. Apparently at Hofbrau I’m known as the Bottomless Girl. Need I remind everyone that Odin dropped his pants first! Josh asked later if I was still staying with Odin. I told him no, I’m certifiable Chicago and live a few blocks away. That’s right, Peeps, I’m a Bucktownian. Oh, and to explain the dropping of the pants, I couldn’t let Odin challenge me with his pants dropping, and we were actually trying to get the people at the end of the bar later to streak around the block. Didn’t happen though that night was epic. We later went to Nick’s Beer Garden when the Hof closed.

I’ve decided to visit the Hofbrau more often. The German potato salad was the bomb!

Moral of the Story: If you drop your pants in a bar, even as a joke, you will most likely be remembered as Bottomless Girl.


P.S. I want all of you to know, for those that read the last post, I'm eating Nutella as I type this out.

Stay Skinny or The Men In This Area Won't Date You

I was having a chat with Kristin today when the gas man interrupted. I had to jump out of bed, throw on some smelly work jeans and a t-shirt, and let him in. He was a strange one. If you knew Mike (of Portland) those two had a similar personality but I swear this guy was not on my team. So I let him in and he went to the stove first. He had really thick, serial killer glasses, was about a foot shorter than me, and kept putting his foot up in the air then setting it down only on the toe part, like a ballerina almost or a Clydesdale horse counting out numbers.

Gas Man: Have you used your stove yet?

Me: Not yet.

Gas Man: You don’t eat.

Me: I eat. I eat.

Gas Man: You’re skinny. You’re skinny. You need to stay that way so the men will date you.

Me: Well, I do eat.

Gas Man: Yes, but the men in this area, they don’t date the fat ones. Stay skinny. If you're not skinny, they won't date you. Don't be a fatty.

That apparently was a mantra for the rest of his time in my apartment looking at all the gas fixtures. Stay skinny, he kept repeating! And honestly, I had no reply to that one. Is this a sign? Is my nutella craving out of hand? I hope not. STAY SKINNY or the men in this area won’t date me!!!

Moral of the Story: Gas men know the area. They know what men want. Other team men at least.

Snooki #4

Let’s Talk About Snooki

Halloween I was invited to the ‘Party Bus.’ My friend, Odin, and another girl run a party bus that has about 30 people allowed on it. A spot opened up and he asked me if I wanted to join the festivities. I, of course, said “yes!”

Since I had just moved in two days before and started work, I didn’t have time for an outstanding costume (last year I went as a banana split) I went as an Oktoberfest beer wench. It worked. I had definite boobage which I rarely do. I’m a conservative yet outrageous dresser at times, I’d say.

I walked into the Southern where I was meeting Nick, also a party bus attendee. Because I was so impressed with my rack when I got over to him I took my coat off and said, “Look at my boobs!” Which he swears that everyone in the entire bar heard me say. Doubtful. He’s a man, of course he’s going to think everyone heard that. You could whisper the word boobs around any guy and in his head it’d be like you screamed it in a tiny room with him standing right next to you, which I was, standing right next to him. Point proven, the woman bartender did NOT hear me say it. I had a Basil Hayden on the rocks (my favorite of late) while Nick finished his beer.

Let’s skip past the first 3 bars and jaunts on the party bus where I proceeded to have much beer, many shots including chocolate pudding everclear shots, and some beer liquor mix to the best story of the night. The story of Snooki  #4 (of Jersey Shore MTV).

Nick and I decided that for every two Snooki’s we saw we’d do a shot together. This was explained to a few of the other party bus members who quickly got on board. Sadly, it was a night of few Snooki’s, but we got pretty drunk anyway without the game.

The bus stopped at a gay club where I got up on the bar to dance. None of the gay men were going to look at me anyway so it was fine that I was up there. Though I did dance with a gay guy clad only in scanty tighty whities up there. It was awesome. So I’m dancing, I look down and one of the Hazmat party bus guys pointed behind me below. I looked down and there was Snooki #4! Time for a shot. I yelled out “SNOOOOOOKIIII!!!!” and pointed down at her in my drunken stupor. I pretty much yanked her up on the bar top to dance with me. After a few minutes she leaned over and up, for she was a tiny Snooki, and asked, “Are you bi?” Being that we were in a gay club, I guess it was an appropriate question. “No,” I replied. Then she pouted a little so I leaned down. “Why?” “Because my friends want me to make out with a girl.” I looked down at her friends, mmm, lesbians. Figures. So I said, “If you buy me a shot of whiskey, I will kiss you madly.” She agreed rapidly so I grabbed her by her Snooki hair, made out madly with her mouth, turned her around, slapped her ass, and practically pushed her off the bar top. I walked over to her friends and leaned down and said, “Just so you know, I’m dick chick” got up and started dancing again.

Hazmat guy was in shock and then laughing. I think I heard Odin yelling in the back, whatever, it’s just Halloween and I’m secure in my heteroness. It could have been a minute, or three, or ten, but I felt a tap on my leg. I looked down, there was Snooki holding a shot up to me. I took it - Jaeger! Not whiskey! Oh well. The night was over anyway! And goes on to say that no man actually made it clear he wanted to make out with me, though Odin assured me a few days later that at least four did. So much for men.

That concludes Snooki #4. Good times, Halloween 2010, good times.

Moral of the Story: More than one Snooki may make the evening more interesting!

-BB-