How to Make Moving as Painless as Possible…Without Killing Your Significant Other

As you probably already know…we moved. Of course, most of our stuff is trapped in a gargantuan storage unit until we have our own house to put it all in. The last month has been a stressful disarray of OCD-gone-wrong. In order to make moving easirr for you than it was for me, I recommend the following. I got it all wrong the weeks before moving…but on moving day? I nailed it.

The weeks before moving…

  1. Tell your significant other that moving day is a whole week before it actually is. To do this, you’ll have to be in charge of the movers (HIGHLY RECOMMENDED). That way, when he waits until the last minute, you still have a whole week.

  2. Throw. Everything. Away. No, seriously. Throw it all put, because then you won’t realize the movers have zero room for your crap and end up making 5+ additional trips after the big day.

  3. Hire professionals to pack your shit. I mean, pack your lady things and personal shit, but have someone else individually  wrap every piece of glassware, dishware, chatchkis etc, so you don’t feel like your significant other is standing there watching you do all the work and telling you to throw the glassware away.

On moving day…

  1. Make sure everything you’ll need immediately is in your car. The movers don’t need to deal with that shit and you won’t have to dig through their pile of boxes to find it.

  2. Forget every preconceived notion that you had about the move. Drop all expectations except that your shit will be somewhere else in a few short (or long if you don’t follow these explicit instructions) hours.

  3. Put your significant other in charge of the movers. You no longer have a chair to sit in, and they’re about to take the dresser you’ve been sitting on while Facebooking. You probably dropped and cracked your phone while trying to entertain yourself…you don’t need to watch over them. Because you followed tip number 2.

  4. Go shopping. If you did, in fact, crack your phone, you’ll probably need a new one. And new home means you need some new clothes to put in it…especially if you threw everything away.

  5. Go out to lunch. If your brother’s a bartender, visit him and tell him it’s moving day and you’ve relinquished control. He’ll be horrified…first because you left your boyfriend in charge, then when you tell him you paid for movers. He’ll get over it and tell you to have a cheeseburger.

  6. Head to the new residence just as the movers are finishing up. They’ll be able to unload your car before they  roll out.

With these easy steps, you, too can avoid the drama of moving.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Five Things Friday: Things I’m Going to Miss About my Train Line

This is it, Blog Friends. The big move. Today is my last day commuting on the BNSF Metra train line for a while. If you recall, we’re currently moving into Brian’s dad’s house while we begin the hunt for our very own house. As our new residence is only a temporary one, we may return to this commute someday soon, but we won’t know until we find our house. (Which is the most exciting thing EVER. I’m going to have SO MUCH TO TELL YOU. After I’m done packing up all of the shit I’ve accumulated in the last 18 months….or 31 years. One of those.)

But I wanted to reflect on the things I’m going to miss about this particular train line, because it’s been my daily commute for almost a year now. (And I’ve been riding the train for over a year.)

In no particular order,

5 Things I’m Going to Miss About my Train Line

  1. Train buddies.  It’s funny, when I was younger, I dated a guy who had a daily commute to the city and he would talk about having drinks with his train buddies, and I was just like…that’s a thing? Weird. And then I started taking the train every day. And I was in the same spot every day. And in the mornings, I stand in the first car vestibule. Every day. I know the conductor. I know the people. Because we’re in the same spot for 25 minutes every. Single. Day. And you jump into a conversation here or there (which Brian HATES that I do) and the next thing you know, you’re on a first name basis, telling everyone your life story. And then you’re buddies. And you’ll miss them when you leave.
  2. The funny conductor. My morning conductor, whose name is always on the tip of my tongue, but I can never remember, is hysterical. He’s always grumbling and making fun of Metra like it’s his job. I like him because he remembers me and doesn’t make me pull my pass out every morning. He also makes fun of the mean conductor (who was in charge of the cars that I originally sat in). He’s quite a likable fellow. Even though he rarely smiles.
  3. 25 minute commute time. I’m super lucky to have been living in a hub of commuters. Downers Grove is an express train line, and it’s the last stop on the inbound express. Which means I get on the train, and it’s non-stop to Union Station.  I’m going to miss that when I have a 45 minute train commute…tacking on lots and lots of extra time to my day.
  4. The fancy pants grocery store. So on our way home, we get off the train and there’s this adorbs grocery store that has delicious cheese for me and pico de gallo for Brian. It’s pretty much everything we need in our kitchen. Right there. So convenient. So delicious. I asked Brian the other day, “OMG where I am I going to get my cheese!? There are no fancy grocery stores or even Trader Joe’s nearby! I’m going to have to drive an hour to get cheese.” But then I remembered the cheese shop 4 blocks from my office and I could breath again.
  5. The evening conductor. Brian hates that I strike up conversations with strangers and he randomly gets sucked into them. HATES it. But I do. And he does. And one of those people is the evening conductor on our train. While we have separate commutes in the morning, Brian and I often train home together. And we sit in the same seats in the same car every day. And our conductor always stops and chats with us. More recently, he discovered that we are not, in fact, married. And now he teases Brian about it. Which makes me laugh.

It basically feels like I’m moving schools or leaving a job or something. It’s sad. Apparently wherever I go, I build my own little community. I love that about me.

What about you, Blog Friends? Do you have a routine that you would miss if you moved? Have you ever gone through this? Do you commute on a train? What’s the world like for you?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Holy Crap, We’re Actually Moving.

Life update:

It’s hard to believe it’s been 18 months since we moved into our little Downers Grove apartment. Our first home together with just the two of us. The first non-college apartment I ever lived in. The first place I officially moved out of my parents’ house to live. There’s some serious nostalgia here.

But I’m excited. Because I’m pretty sure the apartment has been trying to kill me for 18 months. And because this means we’re legit looking for a house. Where we can build a secret passageway and a slide/staircase. And create the perfect quirky and unique home that is all ours forever. (I’m an optimist, kids).

Moving to a new home

Our bedroom hasn’t looked this perfect since that day we moved in. *facepalm*

Our move is scheduled for less than one month from today.  For the duration, 95% of our things are going to live in storage, and we, along with the other 5% of our crap, are going to live in Brian’s childhood home. We have a few weeks (and zero weekends) to pack up all of our things and decide what we absolutely need to keep with us and what we don’t. Obviously, I’m having a hard time with this.

But on the bright side, this adventure ends with a second move, from storage to a house.

I want to know, Blog Friends, what would you keep with you when most of your stuff has to live in a storage unit for an unknown duration of time.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I was an Irish Princess

For the first 25 years of my life, my parents owned a bar. Not just any bar. To us, it was THE bar. All of our important coming of age shit was celebrated in the bar. First communions, graduations, birthdays, even some holidays…and most especially, St. Patrick’s Day.

You learn a lot when your parents own a bar. You learn how to mix drinks, of course, non alcoholic drinks…like the Chrissy Cocktail I invented when I was 9–seven up, squirt, grenadine, pineapple juice and orange juice (when I grew up, I added vodka). You tell your kindergarten teacher that you want to be a bartender when you grow up. You play waitress in your best friends’ basement (but you add roller skates, because when you own the bar, everyone is going to wear roller skates). You go to a lot of wakes and funerals because you know a lot of people (and a lot of alcoholic). You decide that you DON’T want to be an alcoholic, because you spent your impressionable years watching them. But you drink like a fucking fish in your twenties, anyway.

And then, one day, the bar is gone. And all you have are these AMAZING memories. And that’s okay. It brought you to where you are. It shaped your existence. It gave you all those AMAZING memories.

You try for a few years to go out to other Irish bars on St. Patrick’s Day. You run around town like the Eurotrash of the suburban town where you once held court. Fallen royalty without a kingdom. And then you realize that a bottle of Jamo, a bottle of Bailey’s, and a 6-pack of Guinness are way cheaper than a few shots and a couple of warm green beers at an overcrowded pub. And your dad taught you to make the best corned beef and cabbage on the planet anyway.

But you still deck yourself out like a motherfucking leprechaun and roll into work. Because that’s just what you do. And you wear a green jacket with the name of the bar and the year of your birth like a boss. And you live every day. With your memories and your plans for the future.

Because THAT is what makes life happen.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Things NOT to do When Spring Daylight Savings Time Hits. A Cautionary Tale.

And by cautionary tale, obviously, I mean shit I already did. And probably shouldn’t have done. Because holy fuck, I’m feelin’ it today. And yesterday.

Mostly, I think Daylight Savings Time is stupid, but that’s another topic for another day.

Instead, let’s get into the ridiculous shit I did this weekend without thinking about the time change designed to fuck up one’s life. Let’s just call this… A letter to me 365 days from now. Don’t forget, Christine (that’s what I call myself when I’m lecturing myself). This shit’s important.

  1. NEVER plan on going out drinking (when you pretty much never go out drinking) and expect to be functional the next day. Just don’t. Even if it’s a bachelorette party. You plan on a day wasted napping, snacking, watching House of Cards, New Girl and playing Simpsons Tapped Out on your tablet. You won’t even get to write a blog post. Trust me. You’ll be useless.

  2. Honestly, you probably shouldn’t consume more liquor in one night than you have in the last month combined. You’re not in college anymore, sweetheart.

  3. NEVER leave your blinds cracked open. You don’t remember this from last fall when it was still warm (pretty much EONS ago), but the sun coming in your room in the morning? Sucks. Especially after a night of drinking. When you’re crabbier than normal. Dumbass.

  4. NEVER plan your time at the gym at the crack of dawn after the time has jumped ahead an hour. And more importantly, DO NOT schedule an appointment with your trainer at 9 am. That’s just stupid. You’re a moron. If you’re lucky, the aforementioned blinds will wake you up long before your training session…with enough time to text your trainer and tell her you’ll be in late. Like 6 hours late. If you get to her in enough time to not leave her house, she’ll be cool about it.

  5. Really you probably shouldn’t schedule an appointment with your trainer after a night of heavy drinking in general. I don’t care that you want to work off the calories of the taco dip, potato chips, penis cake, mozzarella sticks, nachos, and Greek fries from the night before…or the eggs, hash browns, corned beef hash, biscuits and gravy, and pancakes from your ginormous hangover breakfast…it’s probably not worth it. And it’s going to take more than one sesh to burn those calories, doll.

Obviously, I had a stellar weekend. And now it’s Monday. How was YOUR weekend? Did you do anything spectacular? How well did you handle the time change? Did you have to push your Sunday back a few hours or were you ready for it?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Hate Having to Apologize for Being Crazy

I’ll admit it. I have OCD tendencies. There are some things that I need done a certain way, and if they aren’t done…panic attack central.

CLUTTERED DESK

One of those things is the bagging of the groceries. I need to bag my own groceries. I need them bagged a particular way that makes sense to me…by me.

Trader Joes? They’re totally cool with it, but I still have to explain myself.  Jewel? They know me and I’m pretty sure they make fun of me when I leave.

(You know, on that note, it’s actually funny to think about some of the stories I used to tell about regulars at my service jobs…and how I’ve likely become one of the stories… the crazy lady that won’t let anyone touch her groceries.)

Anyway…it sucks. That I have to apologize for being crazy. Every. Single. Time.

Let me repeat that.

I have to apologize for having something wrong with my brain. The same something that probably makes me a creative genius. I digress.

Yesterday, Brian and I went to a Fresh Market…and I was almost refused my request. The girl started bagging my stuff and I said, I NEED to bag my own groceries. And she told me no. She told me she couldn’t. And I told her, that she HAD to. At which point, I have to tell her that I’m OCD and I’ll have a panic attack. And she argued with me. ARGUED!

“Well, the owner is here and we have to do it.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m crazy, and you can tell them that I wouldn’t let you.”

“But…”

“PLEASE.”

“Okay…”

And then when she was done ringing me up, she tried again.

“Can I at least bag some of your groceries?”

“No. I’m SORRY. I’m really really really sorry.”

Seriously. I get it. You have rules that you have to follow. But you make exceptions for people. You have to. Because if you don’t…I don’t care that you carry my favorite cheeses or a plethora of fruits and vegetables that make me joyful. Don’t. Care. You let me bag my own groceries, dammit. And don’t make me apologize more than once.

This rant has been brought to you by my very patient boyfriend. Who puts up with my incessant need to bag my own groceries.

Everyone’s got a little bit of crazy in them…what’s your brand of crazy?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

In Which Uncle Murphy Paid a Visit to the Girl Who Won’t Stop Bragging About Vacation…Which Starts Tomorrow.

And by Uncle Murphy, I mean the writer of Murphy’s Law. The bastard.

So yesterday, I started the morning with my usual dash to the train and had a few missteps. And once I passed those missteps, thought I was home free. So I Facebooked that shit. Because. You know…that’s what I do.

Crazy Commuter Morning


Note to self: Don’t post this shit on Facebook until the next day.

So I made it to the train; piece of cake. Stuff in tow. I sometimes get on the train on the back car and walk all the way to the front car. I like to be one of the first people off the train to avoid the Union Station cattle call. It’s a good thing. Usually.

As I made my way toward the front of the train, I started to unwrap the layers of warmth surrounding my body that were causing me to sweat. The train gets toasty when it’s full of people.

I sat down in the little vestibule like usual (So I don’t have to sit next to loud, annoying smelly people) and typed up my ordeal. As I started to re-layer up, I realized that my sweet Bears hat was missing. Somewhere between Car 137(this is a made up number FYI) and Car 1, I had dropped my warm and cozy hat. With a one-mile walk and a -20 degree windchill to look forward to. Awesome.

It’s okay, Christine (I call myself this, when I’m angry at self.) You’ve got the scarf and the face mask and the hood. It’s all going to be okay.

Winter 1: Chrissy 0

So I went on with my morning routine. Buttoned my coat, snapped my face mask, wrapped up my  sweet 12-foot scarf, slipped my glasses into my pocket and was on my way.

Doctor Who Scarf

Twelve glorious feet of scarf. More on that next week.

As I crossed the street just outside of Union Station, I slipped on a patch of ice. LUCKILY, I am a master of correcting myself so as not to fall. I know. I know. You’ve seen how many sweet spills I’ve taken. From spraining my ankle on a mountain to tripping over invisible wires to walking into No Parking signs…You can’t exactly call me Grace.

So I didn’t fall. Which is good, because if I had, I would have either A. face-planted into Adams street or B. gone backwards into the metal bridge dealie. But I screamed the obnoxious scream that usually scares the crap out of Brian.

Good work, Christine. You really sealed it with that one. It’s okay though. Let’s go find some breakfast.

I walked the cold walk to Pret, where I picked up a tasty little breakfast thingy with bacon (because all that matters is the bacon. Obvi.)

After Pret, it was only 3 blocks to the office, so I was almost there. I checked the time; things looked good.

We’re ready for the day. It won’t be that bad. You’ve got bacon. You can get a hat on your lunch break. Work’s going to fly by. And vacation is in 2 days. You can do it.

I stepped into my office building and started deconstructing my walk-wear. Because I was pretty blind when I walked (the face mask fogs up my glasses), one of the first things I did was pull out my glasses from my sweatpants pocket.

Well.

Part of my glasses anyways.

As I reached in to grab my specks, the motherfuckers cracked. Something about them being frozen and crackable made that the perfect moment to die.

“MOTHERFUCK!”

I’d like to tell you that I just thought that in my head. I really would.

But no. It came out in all it’s obnoxious glory. And the lovely security lady came to check on me, because I was visibly on the verge of a breakdown. She wanted to help. But she couldn’t. There was nothing anyone could do.

Glasses broke in half because of cold

FML. That’s about the end of that.

So I thanked her. And probably apologized, because I do that when I’m upset. And got into the elevator. Alone.

And then…I cried the ugly cry.

It started with a few Claire Danes sniffles and snorts, but then it went full-out bawling. I could NOT win this morning if I tried.

I crawled into my office, trying to hide my eyes, hoping that they were masked by the cold look everyone seemed to be wearing. I found the only secluded place I knew of in the open office and I just let it all out.

Eventually, I had one of my co-workers come rescue me and she even brought my SWEET work slippers. There’s something about sequined camo that makes the world seem just a little bit brighter.

Sequin Camo Slippers

I’m Polish, OK. So stop judging my holiday Minnie Mouse socks and camo slippers.

I was blind for the first half of my day, but picked up a set of contacts (after getting an unnecessary eye exam in order to get the free trial) and ordered some adorably sassy new specks. And then I remembered that vacation was only HOURS away now.

So here we are. 27 hours away from my flight outta this Frozen Tundra and after a week of vacation joy, I’m coming home to a new pair of specks, the Superbowl (Go Peyton! My LOVE!), the Olympics, house-hunting and so much more joy.

See, things can turn around for the better!

Have you ever had one of those days? Where you just can’t seem to catch a break? Tell me about it. No seriously, tell me about it.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I Ate Vegan and Didn’t Die. On an Unrelated Note, I Also Met Someone Famous and Didn’t Make an Ass of Myself. I Didn’t Talk Either, so There’s That…

After my run-ins with The Bloggess, Dr Travis Stork, and other semi-famous people who I’ve made an ass out of myself in front of…you’d think I’d be used to dealing with this sort of nonsense.

Let me start from the beginning.

A few months ago, a friend of ours invited us to go see Toad the Wet Sprocket in Chicago. I thought to myself, “self, you really enjoyed Toad the Wet Sprocket in the 90’s. Remember middle school? That shit was the bomb. Dancing in a big circle, huddled up with your closest pals, swaying to the music and smiling at the boy you had a crush on? Go. Seriously. Go to this concert.”

So we made plans…and then magically, Saturday, it was Toad the Wet Sprocket. Our friend Will thought that dining at a vegan restaurant would be a brilliant idea…while my boyfriend and I…well…we had a lot of fun laughing about it before hand. Phrases like this were bounced around on Saturday morning:

“Fake cheese is an abomination.”

“Wait. Chicken wings? Why lie? Why not call them tofu sticks?”

“I can’t take this place seriously.”

And so we decided that we absolutely HAD to go to this vegan locale, because at the very least, I’d get a funny blog post out of it. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a terribly funny blog post, because I got the most stereotypical vegan entree (a salad) that contained no fake cheese or fake meat. F that. I did manage to try a fake chicken tender…which was surprisingly okay. Even if the texture was a little weird.

But the part about this visit that was particularly blog-worthy had nothing to do with the food at said vegan restaurant. And EVERYTHING to do with the Toad the Wet Sprocket concert that we’d be attending a block away.

One minute I was making fun of a fake chicken wing; the next minute Will is all, “What’s going on, man?” to this guy standing at the counter ordering. “We’re looking forward to the show,” he says…

What?!

Glen Phillips, lead singer of Toad the Wet Sprockets was getting ready to nosh on some vegan fair. And he was totally cool.

And I was totally speechless.

Our other friend managed to strike up an entire conversation with him, about how great he looked for his age (he really does look like he’s in his 20’s.) And I just sat there, barely saying a word. Thinking all of the things I wanted to say.

  • “Can I interview you?”
  • “Can I get your picture?”
  • “Can I touch your chest?”
  • “Your voice makes me want to have your babies.”

No? Probably shouldn’t go there on date night with the boyfriend sitting right next to me…right?

So I said nothing. And he smiled. And made us laugh. And then a few hours later, he was jammin’ out on stage. It was…pretty fantastic. By the way, if you dig on 90’s tunes, and have the chance? GO. Go see Toad the Wet Sprocket. They are JUST as amazing live as they are on the radio or an album. Super impressive.

Also?

I mentioned this before at the Wallflowers concert we attended a few months back…but it needs to be reiterated.

I seriously wanted to cut the bitch who was texting on her phone all night long three rows in front of us. Or the bitch behind us who kept taking videos and pictures. I was mostly impressed with the lack of visible technology because the majority of concert-goers had RESPECT for the other audience members…But the few that were all up in the video/camera/busy checking Facebook/texting world? Stop being douchebags. Turn your tech off for a few hours and enjoy the music.

And that’s why I have no pictures of said concert.

How was your weekend blog friends? If you’re in the central Illinois area (or anywhere in the midwest devastated by Sunday’s storm), my thoughts go out to you and your families. Even up here in the west suburbs it was terrifying…I can’t imagine what it was south of us.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Things I do when I’m Stressed Out

I’m an OCD type A creative with a tendency to become stressed out about…well…anything. If you were creative and had that pesky type A need for perfection, you’d get stressed out too.

Someone used to tell me that I was wound tighter than an 8-day clock…and maybe I was…am…I mean…little things really get to me. Like when a fellow writer makes the presumption that I’m going to butcher their content. And tells me as such. In no kinder words.

But instead of rambling on about being stressed out, I thought I’d offer my wisdom and tell you how I handle stress in my life.

Things that help me unwind

  • Quiet time is really important. Meditation. Snuggling. Napping. Any of these things can help calm me down. Brian’s really good at dragging me over to the couch and just…sitting with me until I’m less frazzled.
  • Mindless activity. I used to play stupid games like Angry Birds or Bejeweled or long ago-Snood. Now, I go on Pinterest. I scroll through pages and pages of images, quotes, comics and more and pin or not. It doesn’t really matter to me.
  • Drink a bottle of wine. Without a glass. Sometimes with crying. Sometimes with angry rants. Sometimes quietly.
  • List-making. I am a list-maker through and through. If I can plan it out on a list, I feel instantly better about it. If I make the list 7 more times, even better.
  • Think happy thoughts. What’s coming? What’s good? What’s exciting? I often imagine my life as a famous Chrissy. (But not those other famous Chrissy’s. They kind of suck. Famous ME Chrissy. Quirks and all.)
  • Take a bath. A delightful bubble bath with colorful bubbles from LUSH. Because I’m obsessed.
  • Plot my revenge. Did you really think that I wouldn’t have this on my de-stress list? Really? Because I’m that NICE girl? Just because I’m NICE doesn’t mean I can’t dream evil dreams. About revenge.

I know that there are more, but I’d rather open this up to discussion. What do YOU did when you’re stressed out? What truly calms you down?

 

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Let Me Tell You a Little Something About Beer and Working at a Bar

Happy Monday, Blog friends!

OK. I revoke my statement. I’m exhausted. And you probably are too. Weekends just sort of…take it out of us, don’t they? Especially when it feels like you’re trying to cram a week’s worth of life into 2 days. BUT…I had a great weekend. I hope you did too.

One of my many adventures this weekend was a pub crawl with a couple of my cousins. 4 bars. 4 bars that progressively got a little trashier, and I felt like we were in a college town (which we weren’t). The first bar was pretty nice. A tiny Irish pub with decent food and cold beer. But, being tiny, it got crowded. Fast.

So our plan was to stay one step ahead of the bar crawl. Which worked out mostly well. As the rest of the people showed up, we got our stamps and moseyed on out of there…on to the next bar… Except we had problems at every. Single. Bar. And not like normal problems.

The first bar was the most normal of issues…we ordered food and it took almost an hour for fried cheese curds, a reuben, and a BLT. And they ran out of the cider Brian and I were drinking.

The second bar…Oh the second bar. After enjoying a couple of 20oz Guinness’ at the first bar, my cousin wanted a smaller size glass of Guinness, so he ordered a small Guinness. I asked what they had on draft and she made it seem like the list went on forever. Then I asked if there was a beer list…Nope. I wanted something dark and devious, so I asked our waitress what she had that was dark. Her first suggestion was ciders. *cringe* OK. No. How about a porter? Just…bring me a porter. So she comes back to the table with a “Baby Guinness” shot for my cousin (Kahlua and Bailey’s) and Newcastle Brown for me. I’m sorry. What?

A Twitter response summed it up pretty succinctly…

Brown Ale is not PorterSo on top of our flighty, bitchy (and soon to be non-existent) waitress, the Heineken girls were wandering the patio in the most ridiculous dresses on the planet. I had to say this because. Gross. Tight white dresses that barely cover women’s asses just don’t do it for me. Especially when you can see every crevice and every line. I Googled it and apparently there are much better costumes out there for these sample girls…even the same dress in black looked better. The white was just…Gross. Guys, does that really do it for you? Seriously.

Obviously, we moved on.

So the next bar, the waitress was nicer, but she didn’t know what Leinenkugel was. She tried to repeat the name back and said it all wrong. Even though of the 4 tappers behind the bar, there was a Summer Shandy (by Leiny) she had no idea.

At the last bar, they finally had a beer menu posted. They had Adult Rootbeer (OMG, go drink this now) and Left Hand Milk Stout and a slew of other delicious beers. And I knew it because they had a freakin’ menu. They also apparently had pizzas, but weren’t serving them because the bar crawl was bringing food in. And I was starving. And had to wait another hour before the food.

Bar crawl

We managed to keep our spirits

So what did I learn? Bar crawls probably aren’t my favorite pastime. Not since college anyway.

Oh and if you’re going to work in a bar…Know the difference between a brown ale and a porter.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!