Sunday, October 31, 2010
What I can't remember, even the tiniest spec or iota about, is Blackout Drunk Guy. Or shall we call him "Unknown Guy?" Or "MyAmnesiaGuy" or "Self-Imposed Blind Date" Guy? Or "How Bad Could He Be Guy?" I'm open to suggestions.
But recollection or not, at 2:33 this afternoon, the day after, I received a phone call and a voice message from a Virginia number (meaning local) that said the following: "Hey, it's X from the Halloween Party last night. Uh...just wanted to call and say hi and let you know I had a great time meeting you last night. Um...I was thinking hoping maybe we could meet up some time this week. So give me a call when you get a chance, alright? Okay, bye."
Nice right? A very nice message indeed.
I will say I'm not a huge fan of his name- "X". It's a perfectly normal name like Paul or Andrew but somehow not a name that conjurs up sexiness like Jake or Josh or Brett or Clay. There's something appealing to me about a Trip or Tre or Justin or Bobby and not so instantly pleasing to hear as Aaron or Martin or Lawrence. Parker is cute and Trevor and Travis. John and Matt and Mark and Brendan are all perfectly fine too. But I would rather not a Richard, (heaven forbid a "Dick"), a male "Leslie," Donald (or "Don"), Albert (and "Al") and don't get me started on Wyatt, Walter, George or Burt. Now I know this isn't scientific and totally shallow and that there are exceptions to every rule. Ahem, George Clooney. I just somehow think I'd be more inclined to call this guy back if his name was Will, Jack, Kyle or Ben instead of Daniel, Craig or Harry. I'm just saying. Is anyone with me on this? Do you have names you like or don't like? Are attracted to or not at first introduction? Let me know. I'd love to know I'm not the only one.
But I digress. What I really want to know is, plain and simple, should I go out w/ this guy? I asked this question earlier on twitter and had a couple of lovely ladies thoughtfully and immediately respond. Thanks for that tweeties! And if you're reading this and not following bourbon_toddy on twitter please feel free to do so. Anyways, responses: 1) candacearm replied: "give him a chance! if he actually called, could be a decent guy :)"; 2) DateMeDCBlog commented: "I say give it a shot -- how bad could it be? #dontanswerthat"; and 3) sassymarmalade was doubly helpful with her not one, but two, comments encoraging: "Definitely give him a chance! Tough to find a guy who actually follows through, ya know" and observing "1 - you'll prob be like, "ohhh, yeah, I remember" when you see him. 2 - couldn't be that bad or he'd be calling PM not AM! :)" All excellent points. He did like me, ask for my number and follow through calling to ask me out a day later. And I, even if irreconcilably out of it, did in fact choose to give him my number voluntarily. We hope.
On the other hand, why did he like me? Because I seemed like a wild, loose party girl who would give it up on a first date? Were my breasts falling out of my shirt? I have to wonder. I'm a loud, "vibrant" person sober, so I can only imagine how irresistable the amplied, liquored-up affect must be.
But a date is a date is a date is a date. It's nice to be liked and even nicer to be asked out. So what if he turns out to be too short, too fat, too young, too old, too weird, too crass or likes me for all the wrong reasons. An accidentally one-sided blind date couldn't be any worse than the schlubs I've gotten out with lately with all the knowledge of brains and beauty and bank accounts beforehand. Right?
I don't sound fully convinced do I? You're right. I could use an extra little push. So...I ask of favor of you dear readers. If, and only if, I get 10 comments on this blog entry, urging and insisting me onward, I am gonna pass. However, if I do get those 10 comments, I will immediately call Mr. "X" back and set up a date for later this week. And of course I will blog about it afterwards. Therefore, if you've been on bad blind dates and feel your misery loves company or have never been on one by chance or fear, let me be your guinea pig, let me brave the unknown. I think he might be worth it, if only for the blog fodder. Let me know what you decide.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Dear Mom and Dad,
If I die today, there are a few things I want you to know.
And I had this feeling. This terrifying feeling. Of what if this is it. What if I died today.
Now obviously I'm just being morbid. Paranoid and anxious and overdramatic. (Per usual). I know, I know. I know you know too. You know who I am. You always have.
But my head really does hurt. A lot. And I feel nautious. And light-headed. And sort of out of it. All I can think about is lovely Leam Neeson's lovely wife. Who had a simple spill on the bunny slope skiing and barely bumped her head. She complained of a slight headache and then she was gone. An aneurism or a blood clot or something in her brain they said. As a result of her fall they said. We should all take any sort of head injury or head trauma more seriously they said. One minute I was watching her raising money for AIDs on a Top Chef episode, and the next I was watching news she had died - leaving her lovely husband and her lovely children behind. I thought about seeing a doctor right now myself faced with such a fate. A preventative measure. Because you never know. But how much trouble would that cause - getting all worked up over nothing. How silly I will feel if it is nothing. Because it is nothing. And I'll awake tomorrow and feel fine. But you never know. If I did die today...
I've never been married. I never had children. But I want you to know that's okay. I never wanted to get married the way other young women seemed to do. I never fantasized about what my dress would look like or what flowers I would have or who would be my bridesmaids. If anything, I repelled the idea of both, like an ugly chartreuse sweater I'd never wear because it washed out my skin and made me look fatter, and let's face it mom, was likely picked out by you. And in regards to that last comment I don't know why I've always been such a brat; I didn't want to be. I tried not to be. I really did.
Therefore, sans husband and sans kids, you two were the companions of my life to date and my soulmates. You gave me the life that no one deserves but everyone hopes for. Dad was right to say I've had a charmed life. More comfort and happiness than most will feel in a lifetime of living.
Thank you for the pumpkin picking, the massive Christmas trees, the music box on my 15th birthday that you don't think I appreciate but I do, the piano lessons, the singing lessons, my education, the trips to Europe, especially to Rome, when you painted my kitchen that beautiful "River Rock" gray-blue and when you edited all those English papers. Thank you for being nice to all my Republican boyfriends. I'm sorry I couldn't bring a blue-dog home. I don't know what my problem is. Thank you for challenging me to be smarter. To listen to NPR and watch documentaries. To read quality books and see quality films and take in the theatre as often as luxury can afford it. Thank you Dad for teaching me about wine and helping me avoid all that is "pedestrian." For watching the Redskins with me, coming to see me play lacrosse and even wearing a basketball tie against your conservative dressing sensabilities on game day. For teaching me to strive for a job where I love what I do, for valuing hard work and contributing to the community. Thank you for requiring me to be better. A nicer daughter and neighbor and friend. Thank you for trying to teach me forgiveness and patience and serenity. I never got there, but I have less regrets than I would have otherwise.
Tell my brother he's the only sibling I ever had; the only one that ever mattered. That his friendship meant everything. That I'm sorry for all the "superpinches" and that I only bugged him because I wanted to be cool like him. Remind him of the sneak-attack fart in the basement, (he'll know what I mean) and the night we stayed up all night before he went off to college and when we spent all those hours during Christmas Break playing Super Mario Brother's galaxy on the Wii. Just being with him was what made it memorable. How he made me laugh till I cried and my stomach hurt. How he's the the most interesting, most talented, most amazing person I've ever met. That I want him to find a girl that truly deserves him. Someone "awesome" not just someone "smokin' hot." And more importantly, someone not completely bat-shit crazy like all the girls he's dated since forever. Also that I don't need to live past the age of 27 to know that he's going to be ridiculously successful, but I'm sorry not to be around to see it happened just the same. Mostly, just tell him that I loved him. And that any differences or bygones we ever had was long forgotten. Tell Grandma I thought about those days in Ohio learning to sew quilts and picking vegetables in the garden more than she knows. And that those Starbucks cards and "hand-shake 50's," while material things, made me think she was the raddest oldster around. And that if I had lived to be 85, I'd have wanted to be just like her. Steadfast and true and selfless beyond measure.
If you clean out my stuff and you find my old diaries, fight your curiosity and just throw them out. Please! There are just some things parents should never know about their child. Ever. And I'm sorry my financial and personal affairs are in such disarray. I was never one for organization was I? Luckily, a death certificate should shut up everyone up I should think. And what money and stock or personal belongings I have goes to you and Dad and D. Give it to D.
I hope you don't think I died unhappy. The last couple of years have been tough that's true. Maybe I would've liked to have achieved more professional success. And against all odds and current sentiments, maybe I would've liked to have gotten married and had children too. Who knows? But I've almost believed God truly exists so many days walking home from school or work when I admired the endless,rustling leaves on our tree-lined street. And the bubbles tickling my tongue from glasses of prosecco. And the care of gingerale and a palm on my forehead when I was sick. And I've danced in a thunderstorm on a steamy hot summer day. I know what a runner's high feels like and what those prawns in Portugal taste like. I've wind-walked the Sydney bridge, scuba dived on the Great Barrier Reef, learned to make Chicken Piccata and chocolate souffles and I won my first trial. I've loved and been loved by a good man unconditionally. The way that makes you feel beautiful and full of hope that anything is possible. I've been proud of myself. And I have felt happiness. Pure joy and happiness.
And I didn't die in pain or uncomfortable or miserably sad. Yes I have a headache and yes just writing this blog post is making me cry and yes I do in fact feel a little out of sorts. But on the bright side I'm about to watch trash tv and drink a bottle of Dad's wine without his permission. (Don't worry I took an inconsequential, inexpensive Chianti instead of the WSJ Malbec I really wanted because on the chance I do live I dont want to face Dad's wrath). Trust me, this isn't a bad way to spend your last few hours. Typical bliss if you ask me.
I could go on and on and on. So many memories. So many thank yous and apologies and forgiveness to convey. But all that matters is that I know you loved me. And that I love you. And that I'm sorry I couldn't stay a little longer. But that I cherished our family and my short time here on earth. That I hope you will stay healthy and take care of each other and try to move on without me.
Dearest mom and dad, if I die today...it was everything. And you gave me that.
All my love,
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I know, I know. The usual school girl mania takes over. But I'm trying not to think anything of it. Really I'm not.
So here's what I'm thinking about it...
He's TALL. Like REALLY really really T-A-L-L!!! And SKINNY. And dark-haired. And freckled. And a good map reader. Because everyone knows that the sign of a good man is his ability to navigate his woman through the concrete jungle vis-a-vis her smartphone. Just sayin...
The best part is--I wasn't trying to meet a guy. I had decided there was too much drama in my life lately. So I went out with some friends on a sunny afternoon. And I told myself, "Now, T-you are going to enjoy yourself, you aren't going to be "the planner" of anything, just go with the flow, easy-breezy and be your best version of yourself."
You think I'm kidding right? But unfortunately, I'm not. Hopefully this makes you feel better about your own inner monologue.
When I met up with my girls, I found they had brought along some guys, several of whom I'd never met, and suddenly I found myself shaking the hand of someone totally unexpected and simultaneously once again, like a broken record, warning myself - "uh-oh, here we go again."
I don't know how it happened that it was arranged and made perfect sense for him to come in my car in our carravan of vehicles, but regardless, minutes later I was cruising along in the convertible being bathed in warm sun beams and glancing over at a so-far seemingly nice man in a baseball cap. He kept smiling out from under it his brim, saying "take a right, now a left" and then: "you're gonna wanna slow down about now I think." He didn't know how truly right he really was.
Things don't always go our way. And sometimes we feel like we are in a slump or a rut or just tired of it all. But this day wasn't one of those days. This day was the day where being young is such a privilege. My whole life still ahead of me in all its deliciously frightful uncertainty. And the thought of a little crush turning into something more, just makes you think (even though you aren't allowed to think anything about it) that some thing tells you, you just might be into something good.
Cheers to "something good" for all of us this week.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Well do you?
If I'm being honest here (and how can you trust me based on this entry's title alone) the jury's still out on the God part, but as for the rest of it, that IS the standard I hold others to as a lawyer and interrogator in a court of law. Perhaps to my detriment, it is not the standard I impose upon myself amidst the court of blogging.
Should I? And do you? In all honesty (there's that promise again) I'd really love to know what my fellow bloggers and readers think and advise and practice because in truth (possibly) I've blurred the lines of fiction and non-fiction and as a result I am feeling about as gloomy as the gray areas in which I've painted for my words to inhabitant.
There is no denying (a complete falsity if I ever heard one) that one of my favorite all-time novels is One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. This American gem (says me, but maybe not them) examines the varying dimensions of truth and lies or misinformation and exaggeration far better than I ever could. In my opinion (if it were valuable, which it's not) the very bestest of literature, film and art delves into the question of untrustworthy narrators, what is truth, what is real, do we all see blue as blue or is someone else's blue really red?
No matter, in OFOTCN, the main character, a patient in an insane asylum, our narrator and possible protaginist, reports on the physical, mental and emotional torture he undergoes as a non-crazy inmate in a sadistic crazy world. He is the victim. They are the enemy.
Here in lies the rub...Is he being truthful and truly being treated so poorly and yet no one believes him because they think he is completely bonkers and completely medicated and therefore he is imagining evils and wrongs that have never occurred? OR is he completely bonkers and completely medicated and therefore he is imagining evils and wrongs that never did in fact occur? The story really wants us to know, I think, (and who care's what I think, honestly), that PERCEPTION IS REALITY. And, ultimately, even if this guy is completely wrong and in fact completely safe and well-taken care of and looked after and loved, in his eyes, in his mind, in his reality he is unhappy, angry, mistreated, afraid and alone. But does that make what he feels and what he believes and how he hurts and how he envisions the world to be any less valid? He sees what he sees, he feels what he feels, he hurts as much as he hurts. He lives a reality and an existence. And if he feels hurt and betrayed and unloved then shouldn't his feelings be acknowledged, addressed and attempted to be assuaged?
What does this have to do with me you might ask? And the fact that I'm a no good, dirty rotten scoundrel AND a liar, don't forget (which is 100% true by the way) is that I did in fact (and I got a neutral fact-checker to confirm) hurt someone recently that I cared about. By telling my version of the truth about him, which wasn't even true at all. A guy I dated pissed me off recently and I was mad at him. And I envisioned him as a cold, callous and sadistic creature who used me only to feed on me like a parasite to make him stronger while having complete disregard for the sickness and weakness that would result in my own body.
The absolute truth, and nothing but the truth, is that I'm sorry I hurt him. I'm sorry that I said things about him, true or not, fueled by misinformation or anger or the green-eyed gaze of a jealous monster. I was mad, I was angry. And I wrote words that embodied how I FELT and not necessarily exactly how things WERE. Is there a difference? Of course there is, but how should we approach this variation when we sit down to write something personal and creative?
In the blog-world, a lot of people blog to rant and rave, to vent, to digest, to self-reflect or even to shock and awe to appeal to a hungry audience. It's an online diary. And everyone, even Bridget Jones knows that diaries are full of crap. But a blog isn't like any old diary. Because its public. Even if no one knows your name. Because our blogging community is small. Smaller than you'd think. And even if we haven't met in person we have personified our language into faces that can be looked upon, liked and admired, hated and resented, remember and judged, for beauty or for ugliness.
I'm not the only blogger whose come under fire. Recently, CityGirlBlogs had a similar dilemma when a male friend of hers didn't like being the topic du jour in her much more infamous prose than mine. While he insisted he was "a private person" and didn't appreciate the recognition, she calmly explained that he had known about her blogging from the beginning, that she didn't give details to expose his identity and that she thought he supported her work. They left the conversation at an impasse with her not knowing whether she'd ever see or speak to this man again. This sounds eerily all too familiar.
What's the point of a blog if I can't write what I want and think and feel? Can I blog then if and only if it's the truth, the absolute truth, and nothing but the truth, and therefore friends and foes alike can't cry wolf or libel? Is my first mistake letting anyone in my circle of friends or family or coworkers even know that this "journal" exists? With total anonymity there is no censorship, with some publicity there comes consequences -- say only nice things that people want to hear or perish.
Ultimately, I can't defend attacks from an enemy whose war I never wanted and whose peace and friendship I always sought. And I can't pretend to be someone I'm not or limit myself or how I really feel. I can't be with a person that only dates me because I "up their value" as a person themselves and who finds me acceptable only when I do the right thing, say the right thing and act perfectly composed and witty. CityGirl's man got past this, I'm afraid mine will not. But CityGirl only ever told intimate details about this gentleman as far as I can tell and didn't disapprove or denounce him or deem him unworthy in any respect.
I can honestly tell you, dear reader, that I take some "artistic license" in my blog posts. Most of who and what I write about did in fact happen and does in fact exist in the real world. But sometimes two bad dates morph into one, sometimes my hatred of my boss or my ex-boyfriend takes on fantastic fantasy of impossibilitude that no man, real or imagined, could ever really be that bad. Haven't you ever verbally beat your ex-boyfriend to a pulp to your girls as easily as if he were a dead horse? Would you prefer if I never said hate and only said dislike? Shall I say she's vertically challenged instead of midget height? Tell me, dear reader, what you would like to hear, and I shall respond in kind. Cater to your every whim, and try to become the person, dare I say, the image, that you require me to be. After all, my name is "BOURBON TODDY." Didn't you imagine me to be a bitchy bourbon drinking drunk? Who hates the world and everyone in it? Which is in fact a fact, by the way, real and imagined.
But whoever I may be in cyberspace, I promise to thine own self to be true outside URL walls. You can rely on one thing, perceived or imagined, blog or no blog, that I am in fact flawed. (No fact checker necessary). I have a temper. I'm a drunk. I'm a poor dresser and what's worse I don't know how to do my hair and I wear little makeup. I've been fired once and peed in public twice. I have brothers and sisters who love me and brothers and sisters who don't speak to me. I have parents that I worship and parents that I avoid. I've even pushed someone out of a cab after taking their last dime. And while I can't do math to save my life, I can get you out of a speeding ticket or write you an essay on any Kafka in a jiffy, even if it costs me my license or integrity. I did drive all day in a snowstorm, during college the day before my first law school exam, to pick up three cold, stranded friends who had broken down on the side of the road far from home. I do care about you more than you'll ever care about yourself. And I will never give up on you or anyone else or any problem no matter who much it hurts or how hard it gets. I will always be honest about how I'm feeling, whether I have any right to those feelings or not. And I will never LIE to you, to your face, where it really counts. Despite appearance that I'm a jackass and an asshole and an idiot, I am smart, I am energetic, I am cheerful, and I am very considerate of strangers and aquaintances alike. I am talented, I am funny. I am a good person, worth knowing and befriending. And I will try harder than you to be your friend, even if you stare back at me saying you don't want the same. And even if I fail to win you over, I'll still know in my heart that I am worthy still- I have worth. I know that I "up people's value." Some people's value anyways, whether or not I still up yours. I'm willing to take that chance. Despite, popular belief, unlike the sometimes cramped and censored confines of the blogging community, life is not small or suffocating and there's isn't one version of reality...there's a great big world out there, with a lot of black and white and grey and people in it. And after all, after all I've said, if I've said anything at all, the only truth that really matters is --I'm only human-- And you can depend on that at least.
Cheers to that,
Monday, October 11, 2010
I have a friend who says my standards in men are too low. She seems to think that I sit on my keester and wait for a man to come to me, any man for that matter. She's mostly right. And this may seem anti-feminist or antiquated and outdated and a little too "Rules girl" cirqua 1998, but the alternative, for me, is a little too unbearable.
I have this theory about men which starts with the idea that men and women often have "a type." Type of physique, look, style, personality they are attracted to. For example, my brother likes really really short girls. Like legally midget height girls. And ethnic. Dark eyes, dark hair. Indian, Iranian. Middle-Eastern. Eastern-European. Me -- I have a few "looks" I go for. But if you are a TALL, dark, Irish, dark-brown to almost black haired man with blue eyes, I'm a puddle of mess over your shit. If you are a poor dresser, too skinny, a total dork, then take me to bed and I'm yours forever. I can't help myself. I'm not proud to say that, but its true. Still with me?
I believe looking around a bar, a coffee shop, the office, you see what you see and you like what you like. The blonde on that stool, the redhead watching football, the guy in the blue crew neck sweater (damn, he's wearing a wedding ring, who let him in this bar anyways?). Similarly, some guys must find me attractive and some guys must not. Not all men are attracted to me. That's life. And all men at bars late at night, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or any night really is gonna scan the crowd and say...she's hot...she's cute...she's not...look at those tits and ultimately a pair of guys will say "Let's go talk to those girls." And the wingman will take the friend or the we gotta go girl and its on.
So what if he's not into you? and you approach him? And you are flat out rejected?
Here's the problem. I know guys take the same chance at rejection on us girls but if a girl isn't interested, she isn't interested, where sometimes a guy who is NOT interested may take advantage of the situation just the same. I say this because my two guy friends Bryan and Ryan once told me...if a guy can have sex with a girl, he probably will. If the girl offers it up, especially on a silver platter, a guy will take it. And lose all respect for you in the process of course. So you can go up to a guy and be rejected because you aren't his type but at the same time he could not reject you and "faux accept" you because he figures you are into him and try to sleep with you which involves a certain amount of feigning interest in you on his part and spending a portion of the evening with you and drinking and talking, etc. Then you either sleep with the wrong guy or date the wrong guy or date a guy that is not that into you but hey, you were there, and he doesn't have any better options or offers, at the moment. OR, ultimately you just wasted time talking to the wrong guy or simply being rejected by the wrong guy. Take your pick.
I wasn't always passive. To my calculation I've been on at least 100 first dates in my lifetime. I've been on 5 dates in 1 week once. I've dated a lot, I've had short term boyfriends and I've had long-term boyfriends. I'm not without experience or knowledge. And frankly, I've been looking actively, intelligently, recklessly, endlessly for Prince Charming and I've been looking since I was 12 years old. Where the fuck is he? I'm exhausted. I'm out there. I'm looking. I'm coming up empty.
So excuse me I've decided to live my life alone. My mother tells me..."Life happens when you make other plans." So I joined a running club and trained for a marathon, work hard and amibitiously shoot for professional success, spend time with the parents and enjoy drinks with the girls.
He's out there probably. At the bar or at work or at a friend's dinner party or at the farmer's market, but I am DONE TRYING and I am DONE ASKING.
My friend on the other hand takes a different approach than embarassed, meak, pathetic, little me. She'll buy a guy a beer in front of all his buddies. She'll make the first move and start the conversation and get the ball rolling. Sometimes I admire her. Her guts. Her confidence. Gumption. But most of the time, it makes me worried for her.
What if they don't like her? What if they aren't innately attracted to her. It breaks my heart before anything has even happened. I know it's all in my head. I know I'm crazy to fret. I know she's a catch and has a right to go after people worthy of her wonderfulness. But I don't have that kind of self-confidence. So I don't understand.
So call me a coward. Call me what you will. But I'll take passivity and loneliness and futility any day over the pain of rejection and embarassment and humiliation, even if its more imagined, then real.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
In case you were wondering, a lobster roll can in fact change your life. I know because one such crustacean came into my life earlier this afternoon.
Apparently, and embarassingly, I've been living under a rock. B/c I had no idea that a food truck trend had driven into the District.
Unbenownst to unaware me, food trucks having become the plat de jour in our capital city's cuisine. And while a little late in the game to be in the know, I couldn't be more in favor. Perhaps because I couldn't more savor all the different and diverse flavors and on that note I think right now might be a good time to read the following disclaimer:
rootbeer soda plus red velvet Curbside Cupcake may result in temporary loss of grammar, working
vocabulary and general good sense. Proceed to open mouth and digest with caution. If symptoms continue, try eating the mediocre food you usual swallow in an attempt to snap out of it."
While some have called the mobile fare craze "a case of classicism", I call it a stroke of genius. And what I call Curbside Cookoff DC, (other than the #2033rd reason Why I love DC), is an epically cultural mecca of gastronomy.
So while today is almost tomorrow, lucky for you, tomorrow is another day. Head downtown to "City Center," at H and 11th, from 11am-8pm, near Metro Center & Gallery Place metro stops, for the second and final day of a food frenzie not to be missed. While you are there feel free to tickle your tongues with delectable delights from any of the following 21 gourmet DC food trucks:
While it's no secret that I am overwhelmingly partial to the north and the east and the overall complete Lobster Roll meat provided by the moving motor with the mostest as it boastedst spreading of the lobster luv around the coast its no matter what you partake of for whatever it is, it will not disappoint. Not the food. Not the "acro-yogies" (did you know they existed in all their glorious double-jointed hotness?) or the perfectly accompanying DJ'd chow down get down compositions or the mural being artistically mutated before your eyes. And did I hear tomorrow begets a beer garden? Let's be honest, up until now, the only possible thing missing was the liquor. And now that's even a moot point.
So while I'm still the tiniest bit suspect of TaKorean from a truck, (I am human after all), take my word for it, (what have you got to lose?), and slurp up, imbibe, sip, gulp, slurp, swig, knock back, glug, chew, taste, lap up, finger-lick, masticate, chew, gnaw, grind and crush on a taco, a red velvet cupcake or duck fatty french fries and thank your lucky stars that Thank God Its Friday and at the end of the day, whatever the day, you dwell and dine in D to the C postmark U.S. of A.
Bon Appetit from yours truly, Bourbon T.