Jack Rose: so much better than Titanic, OR "2 Years WASSUP?!"

I realized something this morning, as I was sitting in the eye doctor's office filling out paperwork -- today is my two-year anniversary of living in DC. (On an unrelated note, you probably shouldn't wait two years after relocating to find a new GP, dentist, eye-doc, etc. Doctors will scold you.)

All told, it's been a pretty zippy and fulfilling two years. I have a (mostly) stable job, wonderful housemates in a cute lil rowhouse (let's just skate over the whole mold thing), fabulous friends (remember when I lived in a cave and complained about my social life?), and am looking at getting another degree (apparently this involves studying for the GRE. Psh).

So thanks, DC, for being pretty good to me. All I need is my family and the mountains and I'd be set.

Since my 1-Year Anniversary Post was a mild tribute to Irish whiskey, why not continue along that theme?

There's a bar here in the District, called Jack Rose. It is not an homage to Titanic. It is an homage to all things whiskey. And I've had some pretty good experiences here, one of them just last week, which is close enough to serve as my annual nod to whiskey.

One of my best friends in the city is moving to Colombia for a Fulbright. (#baller) I promised her a Whiskey Education Night before she left, so on a quiet weeknight we tripped over to Jack Rose for the evening. Most of my knowledge I gleaned from working at my fine wine/liquor store, but if you're interested in a primer on whiskey, start here. And ignore the sexist title of the article. *grumble grumble*

We started with beer. Cuz you need something to sip on. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I get very animated (and, well, loud) when I'm excited about something, so basically anyone sitting near us could hear my whiskey spiel. The bartender had a little grin on his face, and the guy next to us (sitting alone, my age, and very attractive, not that I notice these things) was blatantly eavesdropping.

I get about halfway through my lecture, and the bartender approaches with two drinks. "Here ya go, ladies," he says, as we pick them up with curiosity. "Some of us bartenders are participating in a gin mixology contest for GQ, will you be our guinea pigs?"

Um, YES. I don't know much about gin and it isn't my favorite, but I'm not about to turn down free drinks.

We take our sips and the bartender asks for our opinion. "Well, to be honest," I say, "I think it's missing something." I give my recommendations, since Bartender was going for a gin chai flavor -- up the citrus, add more spices, maybe try a more floral gin to make it pop more. The cute loner leans in.

"Whoa." He stares at me with serious eyes. "That was incredible. Are you a professional?"

I laugh and explain the whole worked-in-a-liquor-store thing. Bartender raises his eyebrows and says, "I remember you! You've definitely sat at my bar before." [I have, indeed, dear readers. But that's a separate story.] Oddly, Cute Loner doesn't say anything more and returns to his burger -- gentlemen, *cough cough*

Just sayin.

We sip our gin and order some bourbon. Girl talk. Appetizer. Bartender brings us another, improved round of gin drinks. Cute Loner leaves, to be replaced by Gaggle of 4 Dudes. I order a Scotch. More girl talk. Another bourbon. Gaggle of 4 Dudes eye-flirts with us for a while, but we don't engage and they leave. Bartender brings a different gin drink. Another bartender wants us to be his guinea pigs, too, and brings over yet another gin drink. At this point it's late, we're almost the only ones there, and we've made friends with all the bartenders. There may have been more gin involved, I don't remember. One more bourbon and we're almost done for the night. We've probably been here for hours, I think.

"Excuse me," I hear a voice say from behind. "But have you ladies been here drinking whiskey for almost four hours?"

Convenient.

We turn. It's one of the Dudes from the Gaggle of 4 Dudes. "Um, yes," we say with slow grins. "Yes we have."

"That's AWESOME," he says. We exchange brief small talk and he explains that the Gaggle didn't leave, they just went upstairs. And that they all couldn't help noticing what beautiful blue eyes we each have, and how they couldn't stop talking about us once they got upstairs. I'm about to roll those beautiful blue eyes, but he interjects. "I'm not trying to be creepy!" he protests. "I'm actually married -- but I just wanted to let you ladies know that we think you're beautiful."

"Oh. Well, thanks," my friend and I say, genuinely appreciative. "We were actually just sitting here complaining about men, so....really, thank you. It means a lot."

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," he says. "I promise we're not all terrible. You ladies have a great night. And just know that you're appreciated." Then he smiles and leaves.

My friend and I turn slowly to each other. Well, that was...cool.

Bartender comes over to ask what just happened. When we tell him he laughs -- "Are you kidding me?" -- and goes to fetch our bill.

Second shocker of the night: our bill, together, comes to a grand total of 20 dollars. WHAAAT.

We each protest, surely we ordered more than that and it's very sweet but we'd feel terrible not paying for more and we don't want to be those girls always looking for free drinks, but he overrides us, quite firm. "I don't remember pouring any more than that," he shrugs.

We stare, thank him profusely, and leave a very generous tip.

"See you ladies next week!" the bartenders all call as we gather our things. "You're regulars now, so you better be back!"

Oh, trust me, we will.

My evil plan is working

I mentioned I have a part-time job, just something modest to sustain me during my internship. This job, while fun and pretty decent as far as part-time jobs go (more on this later), is eating up the rest of my life.

That’s one reason why I haven’t been writing. The other reason is far more exciting.

I’m slowly convincing my best friends to move to the District.

This idea sprouted sometime late senior year, when we were all talking about what to do with the rest of our lives. In between conversations about international volunteer work, journalism, IT, politics, psychology, and mid-wifery (for reals, we’re pretty awesome), we all voiced the same question, one we knew we could probably never answer in the affirmative. Guys, what if we all lived together in the same city, in the same house, somewhere down the road?

Aaah, college. Almost our entire four years, we had all lived together. We took for granted how blessed we were to share a cozy cottage (when I say “cozy”, I’m definitely not referencing the triple room, and when I say “share” I’m also not referring to the bats). Those evening dinners with Jeopardy! Those late nights with rum and spilled pizza and really bad movies.

Though I had only begun to consider moving to DC at that point, privately I thought it was the most acceptable “compromise-place” for all of us. We could all manage to do something field-related in DC. So as soon as I moved here, I took it upon myself to turn into “that annoying friend” – you know the one I mean. The one to whom something happened (“Poor Fluffy ran away!”), and now she must always preface conversations with that experience (“You know, when Fluffy ran away, I went through the same thing, so this totally relates…”)

Only my repetitive phrase involved moving to DC. You know Laynsy, there’s this job that combines IT with international relations…Hey Becks, you could do Spanish church work here, right? Court, there are lots of babies on my block, so clearly DC needs some good nannies… MirCat, public policy + international work = DC… Imma jussa sayin… Sis, we’re in the same field. Getcho butt out here.

Variations on a theme, people. I would apologize for being so annoying about it, except, well, MY FREAKING PLAN IS WORKING: LAYNSY AND THE SIS MOVED TO DC. Enter times of growth, exploration, laughter, and most importantly excessive immaturity sprinkled throughout our masquerade as real adults.

This is why I haven’t been writing. Oh, and the second-job thing. That too.

Be warned: consider my (not so) subtle brainwashing to continue.

Part II, or "How pumpkins, whiskey, and fire combine to make a fabulous night out"

So, I meant to write this post a lot earlier -- as The Sis offhandedly reminded me a few minutes ago -- but a few things intervened to bump this down the priority list a few notches. Namely, two of my BEST college buddies came to town and I had much better things to do than sit in my room with my computer. 

When last we met, dear readers, I was on my way to the nearest bar with my friend in sore need of libation -- standing on a street corner mentally envisioning angry hot flames lick their way through my apartment (My computer! My Aberdeen sweater! My Jordan boots!* Aaargh!) will kind-of do that to you.  

Luckily, "the nearest bar" was barely a block away. It's a dark, fun, mostly purple little hole-in-the-wall place crammed full of character. "Seriously," my friend (who is, coincidently, one of the afore-mentioned college buddies. I'll call her Laynsy) later asked, "how did you find this place?" Word of mouth. They do have a website though, which I won't share because I'd prefer NOT to give you blatant clues as to my living whereabouts.

Totally important digression: A few weeks ago, as I was browsing through the bar's website, I noticed that this bar served New Holland Brewery's Dragon's Milk stout. I went to college 2 blocks away from NHB and was raised on their fine beer -- meaning it is TOTALLY THEIR FAULT I am the beer snob that I am -- and while I wasn't the biggest fan of Dragon's Milk, I was encouraged that NHB beer had made it down to DC. Maybe, just maybe, that meant some of their Ichabod pumpkin ale had penetrated the DC market? 

Something you should know: The Ichabod pumpkin ale is my.favorite.beer.of.all.time. It beats out Newcastle brown ale and even Guinness. It's that good. I'm sure part of this is nostalgia talking....but seriously, I had scoured the city and not been able to find it. 

Back to the story. Laynsy and I are on our way to the bar. We're in mild states of shock. We need a drink. Or more. These circumstances combine to put me in a particularly bold and uncaring mood -- I'm evacuated and my poor little apt is stuck next to an ex-wild blaze. Hahahaha!!! Cue hysteria!!  

Keep in mind, this is a Thursday night. The bar scene is pretty tame in my neighborhood on Thursdays. Thus, when we walk in we are (once again, in my case) the only females there. Two groups of guys turn and stare at us. 

I walk boldly forward and slide onto a bar stool. Laynsy joins. (Guys are still staring a bit.) Awesome Bar-Tender Lady greets us -- "What can I get you fine ladies?" -- and drops a huge binder of beer options on the counter in front of us. We open the binder, and there it is on the very first page: the Ichabod pumpkin ale.  ULTIMATE WIN. 

"We'll have that one!!!" Laynsy and I exclaim, slamming our palms emphatically on the counter. "And," I add loudly, "we'll also have some shots of tequila." To aid in our recovery from shock. 

The guys next to us have perked up their ears. Immediately, the group on my left starts talking to me, and the same happens for the group on Laynsy's right. Turns out, Laynsy's friends end up being waaaay cooler, as my friends (or singular "friend" -- his buddy didn't talk much. Just stared at me creepily the whole time) decided to go with the "neg" game. Seriously, it is NOT fun to chat with you if you contradict everything I say. And by the way, if you're at least 27 and male and still sporting a blonde faux-hawk, stop it. Just stop it.

I eventually turned my back on these guys to engage with Laynsy's friends. (My friends left shortly afterward, but only after Creeper Starer touched my elbow and said that it was really nice to meet me.) Laynsy's friends were awesome! They didn't try to hit on us, they weren't whackadoodles, and we had completely normal conversation.

One of them, Jason, said to me at one point, "Hey I noticed Blonde Faux-Hawk Guy try to use the "neg-er" approach with you. He wasn't getting very far!" I expressed my complete bewilderment that that approach would ever work on anyone, but Jason assured me that it actually works a lot. "Girls have surprisingly low self-esteem, and if someone subtly insults them, then they subconsciously want to please him. Trust me. It works."

Guys: that approach will not work on this girl. If you're trying to hit on me by subtly insulting me, I will mentally swear at you and then exit stage left as soon as possible.

Aaaaaanywaaaays. The bar was a cash only place -- bollocks -- so I ventured back to my apartment to collect a few bills and get an update on the fire situation. Laynsy held down our tab at the bar. The firefighters were finishing up for the night, and a huge cluster of them stood outside my place. We chatted for a moment as a few others threw useless burned crap out the windows of the now-burned neighbor's apartment.

They told me I couldn't go back inside, due to the throwing-crap-out-windows situation. "Is it really urgent?" they asked. "Do you have to take some medication?" Haha, no not at all...why, do I look deranged?? "Do you have a pet?" No, actually I need to get some cash to settle up my bar tab.

Instant scoring of points with the firefighters. 

"Yeeeaaaahh!!! Boy, wish WE could have some beer right now! Go drink another for us!" Oh, I will.

They paused the other guys in their trash throwing activities, and I nipped inside to grab the cash. On my way out I stopped to chat further with the group. 

"Um, were you friends with any of those guys?" one firefighter asked. All the others appeared really interested in my answer, and peered at me. 

"No, not really," I responded, feeling a bit awkward. "I mean, they gave me my mail when the postman mis-delivered it, but other than that...."

"Well, GOOD," a particularly handsome firefighter said. (Read: SMOKIN HOT firefighter. Pun intended.) "Trust me, you did not want to be friends with those guys."

....Why????

"Oh, it's nothing I can repeat in front of a lady."

......Cute, but yes you can I have to know tell me tell me!

I wheedled a few other details out of him, and yes. He was right. I didn't need to know more. End of story. 

Eventually I reluctantly went back to the bar, where we chatted further with Jason and his buddy. We swapped stories and advice and generally had a good time, and Jason bought us a round of Buffalo Trace whiskey before they took off.

All in all, the evening ended fabulously. Something in the universe decided to reward our earlier stress by treating us to Ichabod ale, free whiskey, new friends, and at least 15 minutes where I had a group of 5 to 7 firefighters all to myself. 

Oh, also, the bar had an Airedale puppy wandering around. Further win.

Editor's note: Laynsy received several kisses that night...from the Airedale. She said it was "THE HIGHLIGHT OF HER NIGHT." (She owns an Airedale -- shout out to Sophie-Soph!)

*Purchased while abroad for the equivalent of $12. When I bought them, I found a receipt inside that said they were originally from Europe and priced at something crazy ridiculous like 90 euros. Don't know if that receipt was real or not, but these boots are AWESOME and I always garner more than a few compliments when I wear them.

A roof over my head

So you know that picture I posted at the end of my last post, as kind of a joke? The one that said “And then the plan went horribly awry”? This is where I explain how that joke isn't such a joke anymore.

One skill that all recent grads need to master is flexibility. As an experienced international traveler, I thought I dominated this. Yeah, I thought smugly to myself, I am SO flexible. Flexible like a rubber band, flexible like Mr. Fantastic, flexible enough to handle pretty much anything, because I’m a GROWN-UP now.

Hmm, maybe I was a bit prideful, too?

God has been teaching me that no matter how much I think I’ve developed a certain skill, I can always use more practice.  Case in point: Playing musical-housing-situation in DC with scarce funds and limited mobility.  It’s a really fun game. You should try it sometime. You get to meet interesting people (like strangers on the sidewalk who inform you that your chosen apartment is in a really unsafe neighborhood), sleep in unusual places (floors, futons and couches), and mooch off your friends (sorry guys, I’ll have my life figured out eventually). You learn to function on a bare minimum of sleep and an absolute max of stress, and you try to rationalize an hour-and-a-half commute to work.

Perhaps some background information would be helpful?  I moved to DC. I stayed with some friends for a few days, then I lugged my bags 7 blocks away to my own, new apartment. Enjoyed about 2 days of feeling accomplished, then met multiple random strangers who told me I hadn’t chosen the safest neighborhood.  Enter period of self-doubt and inner turmoil. Run frantically around the city like a naive little chicken with her head cut off searching for alternate housing. Put new roommate and landlord in a predicament because they *might* have to find a new tenant, but then again, they might not.

I told myself I would have a definite answer to my housing question by this weekend, but due to events beyond my control that isn’t possible. Maybe in another week?

This is the key phrase: due to events beyond my control.  Recent grads will have to learn to make peace with this phrase.  I cannot control all the variables that make up my life. And it is futile and frustrating to try.  Maybe I should sit back and let Someone else take charge? Maybe I should pause to reconsider God’s sovereignty?

Maybe I should count my blessings, instead of my woes.  I have a friend in a much more terrible housing situation than I.  One of my buddies has an even longer commute to work than mine.  I pass people in the street everyday who don’t have a place to live, who don’t have a family supporting their every step, who have much less hope. 

Despite my uncertainties, I know I’m taken care of.  When it rains – literally or metaphorically – at least I have a roof over my head. Even if I haven't officially signed the lease on it yet. (And even if the AC unit leaks water into the house when it rains, as I discovered a few minutes ago.)

You know you're a senior when...

It’s a late Friday afternoon at the library and you’re the only one there.  The staff eye you oddly, wondering if you have friends.  They want you to leave so they can go home early, but you know you won’t because you have three end-of-term projects due in 3 days.

You go home anyway.  The projects will get done at some point.

Random dance parties become a necessary expulsion of stress.

You use the library’s media/tech services to make life-size cardboard cutouts of Alex Trebek, rather than for class presentations.

Oh, Alex. You're such a charmer.

All the other students look like young children.

You would rather play with your Ultimate Frisbee league in cold rain, wind, lightning and potential tornadoes than go to class or do your homework.

You spend increasing amounts of time pondering your future.

You spend increasing amounts of time avoiding pondering your future.

You live at the local coffeeshop.

You’ve said, “Oh, well you’re only a sophomore.  You’ve got plenty of time to pick a major” at least twice.

You know about the secret loft in the English building.

Either you have access to, or you know someone who can give you access to, at least one restricted area.

Oh, those naive young days when I had
no special keys to anything...

You have been to the houses of multiple professors.

Your cap and gown are in one of two places: stuffed in the closet, or hidden under the bed.

You wonder if they will really refuse to give you a diploma because your academic requirements aren’t met yet.

You have attended one or more “senior dinners.”

You know the best places to go in order to snag free coffee or food.  (It helps if your college has a hotel on campus…a hotel with continental breakfast…)

You have underclassmen friends sneak you bagels and gummy bears out of the cafeteria because you’re no longer on meal plan.

Crossing items off the college bucket list becomes a frantic activity.

You take any excuse to go to the local pub: “It’s my last Stein Night.” “I have class there.”  “All the senior Spanish majors are going.” “It’s the twenty-seventh day after Labor Day AND the second Monday of the month. Hoo ra.”

You’ve learned how to nap and study at the same time.  Yes, that’s right.  Mastered it.

You’ve fallen asleep on top of this at least once:

You were expecting something else?

You get cool ideas to makes lists like “you know you’re a senior when,” and then you get bored and go do something else.