a run on summer

The NY Times said that "surest signal of approaching Labor Day is the appearance of black clothes on the sidewalks". I disagree. New Yorkers wear black year round. For me, the surest sign that summer is coming to a close is that the weather was nice enough that I could go for a "run" on a Saturday afternoon. I had meant to wake up bright and early to go run in Inwood Park but instead, I rolled out of bed at around 1:00 pm. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and the humidity was actually bearable. BF had suggested that we do a training run--this involves walking for 5 minutes to warm up, running for one minute followed by walking for one minute, repeat running and walking for a total of 20 minutes. This is actually only about 6 minutes of running, but that was enough to make me sore on Sunday. Sadly, this is the most activity that I've had all summer. It's been uttterly disgusting this summer--hot, muggy, gross. Great reasons for allowing myself to sit in front of the TV on the weekends, watching HBO on demand and to gain weight.

But, all that is over. I have vowed to be more active, to walk up the six flights of stairs to my apartment instead of taking the elevator, to eat salad for lunch, to be not so much of a slug. To be able to fit into something other than skirts and elastic-waist pants.

Fake dating

Being single and having not been paid in two months has not stopped me from dating. Unfortunately, it is not the kind of dating you would presume a hip and happening gal would be doing: no kissing, awkward pauses, or hoochie outfits. This past week I went on two such outings.

On Thursday night, I went out with H. He is pleasant upstanding (in all ways, I mean he even has excellent posture) fellow with a laid back attitude. I wore a skirt, he wore a blazer and to any unsuspecting bystander we looked like a typical yuppie couple. We met at 7:30 and has a pleasant stroll in the cool August night to the South end. Our waiter seated us at a window table for two illuminated only by the tealight in the glass votive. H ordered a bottle of wine and we sipped it as our meal trickled to our table. Talking with H is always a blast. He has the kind of dry voice that can make a story funny, which is why I am sparing you all the details because they lose their zest in any retelling. When our tealight burned out, we realized it was time to go home. 11: 15 pm we had been chatting and giggling for almost 4 hours straight. We strolled back and watched all the real yuppies gathering for the Thursday night mating call. But we had our fake date, were done for the night, and parted ways.

While going out with H is a very rare event, my friend D and I have date night every other month, normally when his boyfriend is otherwise occupied. D and I used work in the same lab so many of our conversations cover old times or advances in sciences, subjects often found distasteful to others. The nice thing about going out with D is that he will tell you exactly what he wants. On Saturday, I got to choose the restaurant with D's only criteria that we had to dress "smart casual." I wore dark jeans with high heels; D wore a lacoste shirt. Once again to the unknowing eye, a handsome yuppie couple. D picked me up at around 8pm. We went to a hip restaurant in Jamaica Plain with red walls, funky picture lampshades, and hipster wait staff. A bottle of wine, excellent comfort food, and lots of laughter were the elements of the evening. Sometimes hanging out with friends results in entertainment and a valued therapy session all rolled into one. We moved date to a local Irish pub. This pub had once been a favorite of mine, but apparently got refurbished over the summer and the new sleek black tables and formica walls were designer don'ts. D and I were gossiping, when a reggae band walked in the door. The music was loud and the crowd odd and we kept seeing this one white girl with cornrows pacing back and forth. We sat outside on the steps of a church, enjoying the night air for a little while before heading home.

While I understand real dating is a necessary evil, I find it such an inferior experience to my fake dating. I hate the weird small talk, constantly monitoring my body language, constantly monitoring his, and the tango of guarded feelings. With my friends, I share intimate conversations, genuine laughter, and my emotions no matter how dramatic they may be. Who knows maybe one I'll go on a real date as good as my fake ones. I have my fingers crossed.

ripped from the headlines

Evil Twin #1's peoples are too funny. Now I see where she gets it from.

Dunkin' Donut's Iced Coffee Survey

In the Boston area, Dunkin Donut's reigns supreme for coffee. As a matter of fact, a friend once pointed out that the doughnut has become simply become an incidental that you buy to go with your coffee. West Coast brands, such as Starbucks, have made their presence known, but have yet to topple the Dunkin Donut's coffee stranglehold.

Evil twin #2 and I have had many discussions trying to figure out why D&D coffee is so dominant. As she has a D&D one block from her NYC apt., she has an unique insight on the subject. She noticed that the coffee in NYC is not as good as it is in Boston and that her D&D is never as crowded as the D&D'd in Boston in the mornings. Her conclusion: Higher foot traffic equals higher coffee turnover which translates into fresher coffee. ET#2 also concluded that New Englanders seem to prefer the medium roasts versus the darker roasts of Seattle.

The competition of upscale West Coast brands have forced D&D to make a few changes to their coffee. They now offer things like lattes and espresso shots. A few years ago, they introduced a frozen wonder called the Coolatta. I love the Coolatta. I love the sound of the word. I love the icy goodness and inevitable brain freeze. I love that it comes with whipped cream. I hate that you cannot get a Decaf Coolatta. The amount of caffeine in a regular coffee often gives me heart palpitations. Since I am a hyper freak anyway, my ingestion of large doses of caffeine has also been known to be dangerous to those around me. For well over a year, I had been on an e-mail crusade to convince D&D to make a Decaf Coolatta. (D&D's are franchises but the store owners must buy the Coolatta mix from D&D) Once a week, I would send an e-mail detailing the benefits of a decaffeinated delight to no avail.

In the meantime, I have been trying out D&D's new flavored iced coffee selection. (All which are available in decaf.) Below is my opinion of each flavor. Please note the following: iced coffee taste different from hot coffee and I drink my iced coffees black.

Blueberry: Surprisingly, not bad. I had a bad incident with the server being unable to get my order right and having to send it back twice, but the coffee itself was good.

Caramel: Caramel looks like sweetened condensed milk instead of the burnt sugar Toroni syrup. Try to mix well before drinking because caramel tends to accumulate on the bottom. A definite thumbs up and the winner of the survey.

Cinnamon: Starts off medicinal. As you drink more, it does gets better tasting. I think it would be better with milk or cream.

Coconut: Tastes artificial. Its like drinking coffee while smelling a bottle of Hawaiian Tropics.

French Vanilla: Enjoyable at first, but left a plastic coating in my mouth.

Hazelnut: Delightful. Very nutty and flavorful. It can be a little overpowering so it cannot be drunk every day.

Marshmallow: Could not detect the flavoring. Will have to try again since the idea of marshmallow flavoring is intriguing.

Raspberry: Absolutely disgusting. The woman gave me a medium for the price of a small. What a waste as I threw it out after drinking a couple of ounces.

Toasted Almond: Tasted like the hazelnut coffee except burnt. Milk or cream would probably mellow it.

Who said that we do not do investigative journalism at evil-twins!

Score[s]!

On Tuesday, BF and I met up with one of BF's college friends for dinner in TriBeCa at Bouley's Upstairs. Dinner was good, fairly reasonable priced, but took way too long. To make up for the hour long wait before our appetizers of salad--really, how long could it take to throw some lettuce in a bowl and toss it around with some other ingredients--they kept refilling our wine glasses to makeup for the delay (I like to blame this for the events that followed) caused by the New York Times photographer taking pictures of food that looked spectacular, but that no one got to eat. We left Upstairs 2.5 hours later. . . and we didn't even order any dessert. Good thing that I had snuck out of work early and we started our dinner at 6:30.

Speaking of naked, our walk back to the subway station took us past a place called New York Dolls. It was about 9:00 and it seemed way too early to head back to my apartment. I suggested (in jest) that we check out the dolls. BF then said that he heard that there are much better places to see naked ladies. I vetoed the Hustler Club which is located in midtown on the far West Side. I must admit, it has piqued my curiosity as I drive by it far too often when taking a cab up the West Side Highway to el barrio. We hopped on the C train and were headed uptown and I thought that was it, end of story. As we were approaching the 23rd St station, BF suggested that we check out the new Scores on the West Side. Last year for my 29th birthday after a tequila shot that put me over the edge, I ended up at the original Scores on the east side. That was my first time at such an establishment. BF had never been.

The only problem was we didn't know where Scores West Side was located, just that it was somewhere in the West 20's [as an aside, I don't know why a strip club would chose a location in the gayberhood that is Chelsea]. What to do?? Why, call our friend X-tian of course! He was perplexed by my call, but googled the location for us. When I asked if he wanted to join us, he paused for a moment and then said, sure. Who wouldn't want to go see naked ladies on a Tuesday night??

FYI, it's located on W 28th St and 10th Ave, quite a hike from the 23rd St station. Anyway, the place was practically empty--only about 10 patrons, but about 40 strippers milling about. After paying the exhorbitant cover charge ($30/person) we sat at a table and started talking. Funny thing is, we weren't even really that enthralled by the strippers--the conversation was more entertaining than they were. That is, until a very aggressive dancer named Maria, who informed me that she was from Espana, kinda bullied BF into buying me a lapdance. Then it was a free for all--we were swarmed by strippers. We pretty much had to beat them away with a stick. I felt kinda bad turning them down--except for the crazy Russian lady who just wouldn't leave us alone. She went on and on for about 10 minutes. BF and I learned that she lives in Toronto, Canada and is only down for the 2 weeks, then she heads back. She purportedly is taking classes in psychotherapy. I think she fancies herself some sort of love doctor. She doled out relationship advice and kept telling us that "[In a very heavy Russian accent] Men are sexual beings. They cannot help it. But it is ok. These other women are just toys. You have to let them play." I had to buy a lapdance for X-tian in order to get her to leave us alone.

We left at around midnight. I asked BF if it was worth the $10 beers and $30 cover. He said, not really. Good answer.

Happy naked time

def. "Happy naked time" - A time in which all of your roommates have vacated the apartment and you can freely move about the place naked without repercussions. Nudity is not required, but a free state of mind is.

Unfortunately, it is often accompanied with karmic injustices like having food poisoning and desparately wanting a roommate around to get you gatorade.

What's Mine is Yours

BF and I tend to bicker a lot. Some people think it's cute, likening it to an old married couple's playfull sparring. I tend to worry. Why are we always fighting about nothing? I'm not really an argumentative person--bossy at times, but more than willing to acquiesce on most occasions.

Anyway, I was explaining to BF that I have amazing powers of attraction when it comes to crazy and homeless people (it used to only be men, but my powers are growing and I have also been physically assaulted by crazy women), most often while waiting for the train. A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to have 3 separate run-ins with NY's crazies-1 one of which was crazy AND homeless. The first of these run-ins was on the A-train while heading home to el barrio with BF.

A slightly unkempt man in his late fifties, probably a war vet, chose to sit next to me (despite the other unoccupied seats on the train). At first, nothing seemed to be amiss. He was just an old man with white, chin length hair and a sweatband. He was clean, didn't smell, and was dressed like a hippie -- birkenstock-like sandals, a well worn t-shirt and cargo pants. But then he started muttering to himself and proceeded to rock back and forth in his seat. I didn't want to draw attention to myself, so I kept reading my book.

In the 9 years that I have lived in NYC, I have learned to block out many disturbing things--including the crazies that always seem to cross my path. Summer really seems to bring them out. Anyway, I sat next to the increasingly crazed vet for about 5 stops. At no time did BF notice that the crazy vet could at any time start beating the crap out of me. Last summer, while standing on the subway platform waiting for a train, a woman came up to me, started yelling in my face, grabbed me around the waist, walked me over near the edge of the platform, forced me to bend over, turned me so that I was facing the opposite direction and made me bend over again before walking away. She scared the crap out of me. As a result, I find it better to just go along with what the crazies want me to do.

When I asked BF how he missed the muttering and almost violent rocking back and forth he answered by saying, "I dunno, I was listening to my i-pod." BF's lack of peripheral vision really didn't bother me. I have a talent for blocking things out as well. And if I really felt threatened by the crazy vet, I would have gotten up and moved to another car. What did bother me about this statement is that BF referred to the i-pod which he was listening to as his i-pod, when it was actually my i-pod that I let him listen to since he forgot to bring his along for the 40 minute ride up to my apartment in el barrio.

We discussed this for quite a while. Since I am a word monger, I pointed out that he incorrectly referred to the i-pod in question as "his i-pod." BF replied by saying that at the time that he was listening to it, it was his. I beg to differ. I had not given him my i-pod, I was merely letting him listen to it (when really I wanted to listen to it) since I had a book to read. A healthy and somewhat heated debate followed. He tried to analogize it to when people go into a restaurant and if one person drops their napkin, they do not ask the other person to pick up "the restaurant's" napkin, rather, they refer to it as "my" napkin. True, but clearly distinguishable from the i-pod incident. The napkin belongs to an outside third party and the use of "my" or "your" does not indicate ownership--it is used solely as a reference. Yes. I am a lawyer, and Property was my favorite class during first year. Referring to the ipod in question as his rather than mine is less accurate than referring to it is as "[Evil Twin#2's] i-pod."

I refuse to back down on this one and neither will BF. We are at an impasse.

Do you remember the 90's?

It's odd to be nostalgic for a decade that ended so recently. Do you remember the 90's? Those halcyon days when flannel was cool, Starbucks had yet to take over every street block, and the idea of Governor Schwartzenegger was a bad movie plot rather than a reality.

Like many things in my life, the story begins with an impulse. I was listening to my Zillion (my ghetto Korean mp3 player) on my way to work and I started tearing when I heard the lyrics to the Gin Blossoms' song "29." This incident led me to do some internet searching on the Gin Blossoms and subsequently led me to buy tickets for their concert in Gilford, NH.

Luckily for me, V was willing to be my partner in crime for this adventure back to past. I rented a white Dodge Neon and picked her up for our 100 mile trip to the middle of New Hampshire, a region that is suited for this time travel experience. We drove to the Meadowbrook Musical Arts Center taking the this route: I-93 North, to exit 20, took 3 North through Tilton, continued until "the end of the road," turned left, and went down a dirt path to the venue.

We arrived an hour early, so we took our time finding our spot on the lawn. We laid down a garbage bag to avoid any ground wetness. While it had been scorching hot all afternoon, the overcast sky provided welcomed shadows from the sun.

The Gin Blossoms took the stage promptly at 7:30pm. Even with a new singer, they sounded just as if they were playing on my radio. Their first song "Lost Horizons" is one of my favorites and besides some initial microphone problems sounded decent. As they got to playing their new stuff, I felt a big plop on my thigh. The 50% chance of showers turned into a 100% downpour . At first, I tried to wrap myself in one of the black plastic garbage bags, but I gave up. V hunkered down in her rain jacket. I was so wet that I gave up completely, stood up, and started jumping around. Soon the ground got so wet, V stood up too. The kids next to us were dancing in the rain taking pictures with their phone, while two men in lawnchairs sat quietly with their oversized golf umbrellas. By the time the Gin Blossoms finished with their new material and got to "Hey Jealousy," most of the lawn had cleared out leaving those of us dancing around alone.

The intermission was about 30 minutes. V bought some hot chocolate. We huddled in booth for New Hampshire technical colleges. Not that staying dry really made much of a difference, but it was warmer under the lights. We returned to lawn just in time to see Collective Soul take the stage.

I remember thinking that Collective Soul was good, but not a reason to drive a 100 miles. I was completely blown away by their performance. The lead singer Ed Roland strutted, jumped, danced on stage in his women's (European according to V) blue jeans and a tight buttoned down patterned white shirt. And of course, he sounded great. They all sounded great. The lead guitarist was little man who was jamming in his little corner. The drummer was rockin' out for every song. Even the bassist got the crowd going. And last but not least, my future husband, Dean Roland, played rhythm guitar and keyboard oozed coolness. The energy emanating from the stage was high and the band seemed as if they were having fun entertaining us.

During their 3rd song, "Precious Declaration," two guys came up to us and said "Hey, Do you want these backstage passes? We are taking off and thought someone out here in the rain could use them."

We thanked them and made our way to the concert floor. We were not bold enough to try to go backstage. The badges were barely ledgible and all of the stickiness left the backing. However we did stay warm and relatively dry listening to the band play 20 feet from us. V said, " I didn't know this was their song. I guess I know a lot more of their music than I thought."

Even their new material was good. In our new position, I had great view of the future Mr. Evil Twin #1, doing his thing. He smiled our way a couple of times. We did have an annoying 12 year-old boy who kept yelling "Shine" in a shrilly voice, but that was really the only bad thing about the new place. When the band left the stage, the audience hooted and hollered for an encore. When the band came back, a security guard approached V and me, and asked us to please move to right in front of the stage. We got so close we were being rained on by the band's sweat. At first we did not understand what was going on, but then we realized that we were in the midst a sea of women. Most of them were scantily clad overweight white women. Collective Soul ended the night with "Shine." I wanted to mosh, but the crowd around me would not have appreciated it. So I settled for banging my head around with my hands in the air and stomping my foot. I almost rushed for the stage when Dean threw out a pick.

We never attempted to make our way backstage. So Dean if you ever read this, "until next time." Instead we changed our clothes for dry ones in the car, and drove back to Boston in the starless moonless night.

Do you remember the 90's? Those halcyon days when you sang along to "Hey Jealousy" at the top of your lungs, danced in the rain with your friends, and rushed Collective Soul's stage. I remember it as if it were yesterday.

It was a dark and stormy night....

When my college application asked for a quotation and a story explaining my choice, I picked "Water is essential to all life" from my AP Bio text. (A portent of things to come?) At seventeen, I thought the quotation would let me tell the admissions committee four things 1) I was a community service and environmentally minded individual 2) I lived overseas and therefore I was worldy 3) I was a pretentious little twerp who was above using Roget's 4) I really liked the rain. Even at four years old, to my sister's dismay, my favorite song was Barry Manilow's "I made it through the Rain." It is not a pro-rain song, but you get the gist.

Rain is beautiful any time of the year. Sometimes in autumn or spring when it drizzling, I like to wear my trench coat with the collar turned up and a wool hat pretending I'm part of an era long past. In the summer months, the rain comes with such violence. It's romantic in the truest sense of the word exciting, emotional, and surreal. The following story happened last Monday night/Tuesday morning.

It is a dark and stormy night. I am attempting to sleep, but thoughts of the day, week, month keep racing through my head. Sleep is often elusive, so normally I can live without it. However, with the craziness of the past weeks, I am exhausted and craving some rest. With each thought that I need to sleep, the more I worry that I am not sleeping.

I hear the metallic tap of water dripping on the air conditioner. It is raining. Chikage Windler on Channel 7 predicted the storm to come earlier in the day. Well, at least it came. The sky lights up into a gray flash. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five.... The thunder sounds muffled. I sit up in my bed. The view from my window is obscured by a tree, so I walk out onto our porch. Yellow lights of from the carpark, illuminate streams of water. To the southeast, rain can only be seen as it bounces in black puddles. I stand on my porch in my XL T-shirt and rubber flip-flops for about ten minutes peering into the apartments across the lot and counting the distance of the storm.

How is it possible with all the things happening in my life, the thought of a boy creeps into my head? I am motivated by mind-challenging work, the companionship of incredible friends, and a crazy family to with which to deal, yet on my porch I am replaying a conversation I had with a boy two months earlier. He said, "You know, your kind of a free spirit. It's amazing how you just take life in stride and do what you want." I don't know if it was a complement, but I took it as one. Sometimes I get a little sad, thinking how I can be flattered by the most innocuous comments. But I think about that conversation and laugh at my poor self esteem moment. Hopefully, no one is watching me on my porch laughing in the dark.

"Why do I care if someone sees me on my porch acting so oddly? Shoot. I'm really not a free spirit," I think. "Have I done anything truly spontaneous, lately.?" I think back to time when I convinced Evil Twin#2 and W's college boyfriend, to walk from 86th street to 116th in the rain. I remember how I got blamed for their subsequent colds.

Returning to my room, I grab a pair of running shoes that I was going to donate to "Heart and Sole," my keys, and a towel. I put on a pair of fluorescent lime green running shorts. I leave the towel in the entry way and leave the apartment.

The night air is warm and the rain is coming straight down in sheets. The street smells like wet concrete. I run down the stoop to feel the rain on my face. I stand there under the front door light taking in deep breaths. Lotion made to "keep skin looking youthful," is running into my eyes and stings. I start walking down the street, otherwise I know I'll go back inside. The question of the night is "Where am I going?" CRACK! The thunder is incredibly loud. Lightning is flashing from every direction.

The street lights are bright on Beacon, so I decide to walk along it. A girl can never be too safe whe walking in the rain in the middle of a week night. Beacon is a major thoroughfare, but tonight only a few cars zip on the road. By the time I get to Summit Ave., I realize that I am going to the park to see the city skyline. CRACK! This time I could see the actual bolt of lightning. The sky sizzles in its aftermath. Water rushes down the street as I climb to the top of the hill. In the park, I sit down on the grass and look out onto downtown Boston.

Lightning bolt after lightning blot after lightning bolt makes for an awesome fireworks display. I have forgotten my Brownie training. Is it is better to be near a tree or lie down in a meadow during a storm? Frankly, I do not care. I am a woman in a Bela Legosi movie or Bronte sister book except I am pretty sure those heroines were never dressed in running clothes and at the very least wore a brazeer.

While the storm is still showing off, I am getting a little too cold and water logged to continue watching. I jog back home squishing in my shoes and jumping into puddles. As I get closer to home, the thunder starts to sound farther away. The storm is moving fast. When I reach my front steps, all the lightning appears to be flashing behind a grey curtain again.

In my apartment, I towel off and take a quick shower. It is 1:20 am. I am awake, a little jazzed from my adventure. I start reading a book. I fall asleep before the tapping of rain dissipates.

Sugar Rush

Lately, I have been wanting sweets in the mid afternoon. Maybe my blood sugar is low or the vegan lunches I have been making just have not been substantial enough to get me through the day. An oatmeal raisin cookie and milk satisfy the intense craving. Au Bain Pain enables this habit by offering all baked goods sold after 4pm to be 50% off. That means I can buy a cookie and a pint of whole milk all for $1.78. It's nice when such little things can really uplift my spirits.

by special request

I sent the BF a link to this blog on Friday. I didn't think that he would actually read it, figuring that he had better things to do on a Friday afternoon. While making dinner on Sunday night, he turned to me and said:

BF: Hey, so I read your blog.

ET#2: Uh-huh.

BF: I find it interesting that you choose to write about what you do.

ET#2: Huh?

BF: The details and the events are not what I would expect.

ET#2: So, you think that I should write about other stuff?

BF: Maybe.

ET#2: So, maybe I'll post about this conversation.

BF: Yeah, sure.

So, here it is, by special request, the rundown of our conversation on Sunday.

Cambridge Dance Party

Okay kids, I have finally done it. I have worn myself to the point in which I have become completely incoherent. Did not know what that point would be. Had thought my energy levels were limitless. Not so. These past two weeks I have gone out almost every night. Yesterday, I went to have lunch with old college friends C and C and practically fell asleep on the car ride home from Woodman's of Essex. When C asked me what was wrong as she saw the tears in my eyes, I had to admit I was yawning and could not stop. "So what have you been doing?" she asked. As I told her and her husband of my single gal "no sex in this city" stories, I realized it would be way too much to fit into one Monday blog entry.

The highlight of this week's activities was Friday night's girls' night out. A invited V and me to her last hoorah before her boyfriend returned from his vacation/military service. As in so many of my nights lately, we started off with a round of cocktails. It was a quality posse of women, diverse in every way, interests, looks and ethnicities, a real United Colours of Beneton ad. J, B, R, A, V and I, snacked on hot and spicy Cheezits with affordable red wine and watermelon Smiranoff twisters.

At ten, we decided to make our way to the Cambridge dance party. Below is the official description of the event:

The City of Cambridge is once again closing down Mass. Ave. Between Inman and Bigelow Streets (directly in front of City Hall) for its annual Dance Party. Each year, residents of all ages, from toddlers to teens, adults to seniors stop by for a little dancing on the street! And once again this year, hometown favorite DJ Joey Demers will be spinning the tunes, offering a varied selection that appeals to our diverse audience.
This dance extravaganza is a once a year opportunity for the entire Cambridge community to celebrate the beginning of summer with an evening full of music and friends. After dark, colorful lights will be launched, adding to the magic of the evening.

It was an amazing night. It was humid and 75 degrees out. I wore jeans and a t-shirt, which I began to regret as we made our way into the crowd. My jeans stuck to me as streams of sweat made it down my back. I did not care. DJ Joey was spinning hip hop and funk, from the 70's to today. A pointed out that he was not beat mixing, but that was okay because every song made us shake our groove thangs. I felt like I was in one of those movies in the 70's about block parties in Brooklyn. Everyone was dancing on the street, and a few old black women were fanning themselves with paper watching the young ones making a spectacle of themselves.

Community parties bring out interesting characters. A man with Down syndrome wanted to dance with us. J gave him some dancing tips and he seemed to be having a good time. My favorite were the sassy 12 year old girls. They mocked our moves, but when they were in the center of our dance circle they busted out with some serious style. There was the inevitable group of boys who tried to dance with us, eurotrash, which was evident by the Mickey Mouse polo shirt. Guess every girls' night has a few of boys mixed in. They struck out and we kept dancing.

By eleven fifteen, we were ready for some refreshments. My hair was wet with sweat, and my feet hurt from the uncomfortable shoes. We went to the People's Republik, met more boys and drank some more.

V and I called it night after that. J, B and A went on to have many more adventures at the Phoenix Landing. While bars and dance clubs are fun, I kind of wish the outdoor festivities kept going. There is nothing like an old fashioned block party to make a fantastic and complete summer.