Sweet Georgia Brown

Whoa. What a lady. (I would have to assume that if I had met her I would have been impressed.) I imagine that the Georgia Brown running this restaurant was a seventh generation southern lady who made a wrong turn at Kentucky and wound up in Down Town Detroit. She probably wears a red dress when she goes out - even to church. She sings and cooks and breaks a lot of hearts.

I went to this Sweet Georgia Brown's restaurant on a tip. Someone told me there was a smokin' blues band and singer playing. The music was great, but I'm not sure the price justified the entertainment. I paid $7 to park and ended up with a colossal bill for what we ordered: - two glasses of wine, one salmon corn chowder soup, one Caesar salad, the crabcake appetizer, and a desert. Even without the tip it was over $50.

The service was impeccable. The food was delectable. The atmosphere was enjoyable. But lets face it - that's a heavy bill for dinner.

When I told our delightful waiter that I was going to have the soup, he looked at me for a second and asked - "Is that all?" I tried not to apologize for not ordering more. To make up for it we also ordered two glasses of wine (second least expensive on the menu) and desert.

Oh the desert. Bananas Fosters Cheesecake. To die for. Imagine - banana cheesecake in a caramel-liquor puddle, little banana slices around the edges, a pile of whipped cream...real whipped cream that is... and a sugar caramel architectural structure protruding from the top.

Over all I'd give it a 8 out of 10. That includes the bonus point for the clever name.

Who's that chick in the yellow dress?
Well well well well, that's the girl that I love best
Who does the hop and the Texas bop like
Well, nobody, nobody, nobody else in town

Well, she's got the other chicks on the spot
Oh yeah, 'cause she's got somethin' they ain't got
When she goes to take a walk
You gotta want to make that girl talk
Georgia claimed her, Georgia lamed her
Sweet Georgia Brown

Who stops the traffic down at 5th and Main?
Who drives all the young lads insane?
I ain't gonna leave this town
Long as Georgia's hangin' around
Georgia claimed her, Georgia lamed her
Sweet Georgia Brown

Names That Draw And Repel.

What is it about the literary folk that draws me so?

It's something that just keeps reoccurring in my life. It makes no sense to me. It's something that should be arbitrary, but it insists on being consistent - like peoples names and personality. It never fails.

Women named "Jen" and I never, ever get along. We are mortal combatants every time. (except for that one Jen, you know who you are - and we did have a rocky beginning didn't we?) If you are reading this and your name is Jen, I'm sure you are a nice person - just don't message me, ok? We will never like one another and anything you say is sure to irk me.

Men named "Dave" are extremely attractive and thus I try to avoid you due to your sensitive nature. Please, please, please, don't take anything I say or do to you seriously. I really don't mean it. I am terribly attracted to you but it doesn't mean I'm going home with you. For god sakes, stop crying.

Men named "Mike" are compelling. These are the people I'd spend the whole night drinking with. You are so interesting, opinionated, and clever. Just don't let your wife, Jen, get too upset.

All "Linda" women can go to hell. Skinny bitches.

Those "Becky" girls - so cute and wild and almost always blonde. Are you really having such a great time - or are you just pretending? You have probably already realized I follow you around and live vicariously through you. I want to be you - unfortunately I'm stuck being me.

Pain.

Ok, how did this happen? I've been sleeping since I was a kid, literally, and now - I'm doing it wrong.

Shouldn't I have mastered this activity by now?

I have a pain in my neck. Christ. How cliche. Slept on it wrong, somehow. I can't do anything right.

So I put heat on it. I try to stretch it. Whoa! Don't stretch it. Don't look to either side. Remember to move the shoulders and head together like a poorly designed robot. Dork. Don't tip the head back to drink - wait, what did that bottle of pain relievers say about alcohol? Oh never mind.

It's Alive.

So what's new.

I'm making mead. It's a nice DIY kinda project. I've decided that I like working with cultures. Geeze I sound like a mad scientist.

You know - cultures. Sourdough batter, bread, yogurt, vinegar. I've made all of them to varying degrees of success. It's weird to watch a mold or bacteria growing and knowing that when the time is right you will voluntarily eat it.

Now my mead is fermenting. In a bucket. With a gurgling air lock. The yeasties are growing for sure because every 30 seconds or so the lock burps. I'm keeping it at a healthy warm temperature with a little space heater and a towel. Sometimes I lay on the floor and watch the fermenting gurgling lock, sometimes I rub the bucket lovingly.

Madness.

French Press

Why really is the french press so cool? It's uber euro name? The superior brew it produces? No. I disagree.

The french press is cool because of the plunger. Mechanically it's a lot like syringe, it pushes the coffee grounds to the bottom and all the delicious black yum to the top. At the first sip, the body relaxes - then spins off into a whirlwind of excitement and happiness.

I'll never be able to give it up. Never. Never. Never.

Data lost. Forever.

Motherfucker.

I just lost about forty five minutes worth of writing to an unscheduled computer failure. Not that it matters, dear singular reader. (Mother)

I should note, now that my ideas are lost forever in a black hole computer virus vortex, that it was probably the best writing I'd ever produced. It was, arguably, damn near the most fastenating essay on blogger. Probably one of the best literary works of the past 100 years.

And now I'm quite jaded about the whole situation.

Gawd. My Manicurist.

I met the most fabulous manicurist today. I haven't had manicures before, and thought I should start. What excuse should I use for this indulgence? I'm a big girl now. I deserve it.

Normally I despise the encounters I have with these beauty professionals. They ask me questions like: Gee, are you a student? or Have any plans for the big weekend? Yawn. Please, please, please don't ask me to chat on about myself. Just cut my god forsaken hair. We don't have to talk. Ok?

Jeanie is from New York, or pretends to have that accent anyway. She is the most cynical, angry and bitter woman I have met in a long, long time. Someday I want to be just like her.

She grabs my hand and starts to file.

"Oh hun, you got nice nails. Pretty ring. Beautiful. You know I used to own this place. Not anymore though, and I hate what they've done with the decorations. It used to look sophisticated. Yeah, I just hope that the people who come in don't think that it's always been this way. Square tip or round?"

It goes on like this as I ask and she tells me all about how she got into the business, bought a store, loved it, retired to spend more time with her husband, and how he died a month later. She went back to work to get her mind off of it.

"Gawd. If I can give you any advice at all never get married and never have children. People get married just to have drama in their lives. 'Oh how I hate this serenity.' Please. I have four girls and they all live here. I wish one would go live on the east coast and one would live on the west cost. It would give me a reason to travel. The best thing I ever did was get a hysterectomy. I told my husband 'I'm getting a hysterectomy.' he said 'I'll get a vasectomy.' and I said 'No, you don't understand - I don't want to have another kid. Ever. No matter what happens. I'm not kidding.' Here put your hands in this dish sweetie."

She talked about politics:

"This was when you could just go and ask for a hysterectomy. Not like now. Gawd. The nerve of these doctors. Now you have to go to medical boards if you want something like that done. And they tell you if you can get a hysterectomy or not. You know what? It's my body and if I want a hysterectomy, you better give it to me. It's just like abortions. You are telling me whether or not I should be having this kid? I'm the one who has to take care of it!"

Her children:

"They all got married, and now they're all divorced. I knew it, I tried to tell them. I knew it wouldn't work out. What did I get? ::whiny voice:: 'But I love him. Your keeping me from my love.' Gawd. It was different when I was getting married. I didn't have sex with my husband before I married him. He was lucky he got to touch my boob."

Weddings:

"Now everyone lives together and then wears white. ::tisk:: It's ridiculous. I hate going to weddings. They're all the same. Look, if you have to get married, don't throw the bouquet. Don't do the father/daughter dance. Don't do that thing with the garter. Gawd. Where's the originality anymore? It's shameful.

Husbands:

"They don't really want to help take care of the children. They say they do but they don't. They pretend to help. That's all. They like pretending, but really they don't want to have anything to do with it."

Then she told me that I really should do something about my eyebrows and if I wanted, she could wax them right now since her appointment was late.

I am so addicted to her. The only thing missing was a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Considering the flammability of the materials she was working with, I guess I didn't miss it.

Whoa. Once in a Blue Moon.

Last night was a blue moon, the second full moon in a calendar month.

Coincidentally, my boyfriend asked me to marry him. After five and a half years of talking about it, surprisingly, he has taken action.

I have been hoping for an engagement for what seems like ages. I've pouted, demanded and feigned disinterest. Then, on a business trip to Chicago, I decided that I wasn't really interested in getting married. You see, it occurred to me that if I got married, I'll have to get a house. And a dog. And produce a kid. And probably have to learn how to cook. Getting married, it occurred to me, could quite possibly ruin my carrier.

So, the gods laugh.

That same week, during my business trip to Chicago, my boyfriend realizes that, "Whoa, we've been dating for 5 years. The perfect moment to ask for her hand will never, ever present itself. I guess it's time to just do it."

The gods laugh harder.

When I came home the house was clean. There was Champaign in the refrigerator. There is my favorite meal on the stove. Clean sheets on the bed.

The gods are rolling now.

And he asks me. And yeah, I said yes. (albeit a little irritated)
Trumpets roar, streamers fly, rejoicing and singing and drinking follow.

The evidence is below.