emjayne

St. Patty's Day: The Irish are Crazy and Proud of It

On the afternoon of St. Patrick's Day -- an incoming text from M.H. (hosting a dinner later that evening with two Irish men):  "We need a pound of duck or goose blood."

Turns out he wasn't kidding.  As it ended up they couldn't locate the blood, but they did find pigs feet. 

It was a good thing, though, that the men put together lots of other good food, including brisket and cabbage, soda bread, and rutabagas.

I also had my first shot of Jameson.  Whiskey.  Wow. Talk about potent.  I guess if your people are eating pigs feet, though, you're gonna wanna wash it down with Jameson. 

But, like most of our get togethers, it's not the food or the drinks that really make the night.  It's the friends.  The biggest pot of gold in the world couldn't buy better friends.  I get so excited to get together with these people, even when we have to look at pig's feet.

Winter is on its way out...

Give me the splendid, silent sun / with all his beams full dazzling. -- Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass

Lake Calhoun - Uptown Minneapolis

She Sits Behind Me

My desk is amongst a corner full of copy-editors.  She sits with her back to me. Me, a writer on a MAC, and her, a copy-editor with a PC. She also owns a mighty purple pen she uses for all of her edits, signing "PN" neatly on her finished projects. 

That's how we met, I suppose, although I don't exactly remember our first conversation.  I'm going to assume it's because at some point I likely spun around in my chair and asked her something about hyphenation or lack thereof, such as in "webcast" and "Web site." 

The woman has red hair.  Not red hair as in "Oh dear, the Clarion box did not work out well for you," but red hair that shows the world this is what red hair is. 

"I wear cashmere because it's a way I've decided to treat myself," she tells me one day, quietly, humbly, sweetly, wearing an impeccably soft pink sweater. 

She tells me this as not to brag, but as to give me wisdom: every woman should learn how to treat herself with kindness, honor, grace, and passion.  She instructs yoga and makes chocolate chip cookies six cookies at a time (so they're warm after dinner) and drinks decaffeinated lattes and blushes like a schoolgirl when she talks about the love of her life.  She's one of the most remarkably feminine women I know.

I sit here for numerous hours a day, repairing passive sentence structures and staring at documents until my eyes fuzz up, waiting to hear her voice behind me to see if I want to walk down and get coffee or have lunch.  Sometimes we pass sticky notes that say "You're fabulous" or "You remind me of a princess (in a good way)".  And when someone brings a putrid smelling microwavable lunch into the area, we look over our shoulders and roll our eyes, then fall apart to giggles.

She sits behind me again today, just like any other day, headphones in her ears; steadily working to edit a catalog; purple pen in hand; and delicate, long earrings dangling against her neck.  And I think it's wonderful to be able to think secret little thoughts behind her back about how much I adore her as a friend. 

   

It's a Barnum and Bailey World

Esquire Magazine voted Nye's Polanaise room the best bar in America in 2006.  The best bar.  I had never been.  It's this funky little dive right over the bridge from Downtown Minneapolis.  So last night, when Kev was in town, we headed over there.

And we ended up singing karaoke at the piano bar.

"I want to sing," I said while paging through a song book and chewing a prime rib bite covered in horseradish.  Our waitress, a real gem of a gal (she looked like she was a "lifer" server and was the perfect definition of Minnesota Nice), explained to us how the piano bar worked.  We were seated in gold, glittery booths and listening to an elderly lady croon.  I mean croon. 

"This place is three-quarters empty," I negotiated with Kev. "If I ever have the courage to do karaoke, it's tonight."

"You realize it's different singing with a piano man than a television screen," he explained.  But I knew he was going soft on me.  He would sing.  I picked out a couple of songs and we moved our winter coats up to the piano.

My first song was Paper Moon by Frank Sinatra.  Kev kept pushing the microphone in front of my face, but I didn't care if that thing was 10 feet from my face.  I was just doing it for fun.  A couple regulars followed me up, then Kev sang a terrific, terrific rendition of "500 Miles."  The woman sitting next to me eyed him up a couple of times.  Oh, Frank in the day must have made women melt all around him.  Crazy.  A man sings a song and a woman stares. 

And then I sang "Leaving on a Jet Plane".  This time the regulars weren't that interested in my mediocre singing, and they got a little fidgety as I sang.  And I suddenly became aware of the fact I was singing, in front of people. Nerves fizzled up inside me.  I forgot the "just for fun" mantra for a moment.  I faltered off a bit, when Kev leaned in just close enough for me to hear.

"You're nailin' it," he said.

And all the fun returned.

Kev puts the fun back into any situation.

Sometimes life can be so good.  On a Tuesday night.  At 11:00 p.m.  With a bald man named Mike struggling to play Scotch and Soda on the piano.  And a young man next to you hitting every note like butter.  And your heart is still singing because you actually had the balls to do karaoke for once.

And I nailed it.