Just a note.

Dating two guys named Dan Robertson and Rob Daniels can be a little confusing...

This too shall pass?

*still closed*

They say that death comes in threes.  I guess they're right.

Last week I wrote this:

And I'm feeling numb.  Although I haven't seen Mike in nearly 5 years and I haven't spoken to him since before I moved to Chicago, I'm still feeling shell shocked.  For obvious reasons, but I also am coming to a realization (after speaking with a close friend who had put her mother in hospice care two days ago) that I've reached that age when my peers and I will start to lose our parents.

A week after Mike passed away my friend called and told me that her mother couldn't fight anymore.  This is one of my closest sister-friends.  Of the two closest sister friends who are both pregnant sister-friends.  The one who's carrying my godbabies (by the by she's having twin girls).

Then just when I thought my heart was as heavy as it could get, I got a call today from the other sister-friend.  She went into labor early and her baby boy didn't make it...

My heart is aching for my sisters. Keep them in your prayers.

Mike

*the bar is closed today*

Mike is dead.

I've never written about Mike before.  I actually didn't really think of him that often, but he was still a huge part of my life, my upbringing and what makes Alice Alice.

Mike was my stepfather. Not my mother's new husband, but my sister's father who was with my mother from the time that I was a baby until I was about 15 years old.  They were what we old school Pennsylvanians call Common Law married (although the state stopped recognizing it in 2005).  He helped my mother raise me as his daughter, when my own father was off fighting his demons while still respecting that he could never really replace my biological father.  Strangely enough he and my father had a great relationship with neither feeling threatened by the other.  (I sometimes refer to my mother as a "pimptress" because of her ability to have all of her men get along)

Mike was in no way a perfect man and he began to fight his own "demons" that eventually led to the dissolution of his and my mother's relationship.  He wasn't always the best provider, but he was a protector of sorts.  He was the person who carried me to bed as a child when I would fall asleep on the sofa while watching Rags to Riches. Mike was the person who kept us safe when parts of South Philly was going through race wars in the late 80's.  He was the one who taught my brother, sister and me what it meant to be chivalrous and that I'm to expect a man to always walk on the outside and open doors for me (something that I still take quite seriously.  I will totally dump you if you don't know how to walk down the street with me).

When he and my mother split it was understandably traumatic for my family, but because of his impact, my siblings and I still maintained a relationship with him.  My brother died a few months after they broke up and Mike was there to support and grieve with us. A few years after that Mike moved in and had two children with some woman who felt threatened by the bond that he and my mother once had.  She told him that my sister (who was 16 at the time) was no longer welcome in their home (because this grown woman thought that my teenage sister was "plotting against her"... totally NOT the case, but I digress) and she told Mike that she would take his sons away from him if he continued to bring his daughter around.  Mike, still fighting his demons and proving that he was less than perfect actually told my sister that she wasn't allowed in his home, thus ruining their relationship.  He hurt my sister and she loathed him and refused to speak to him for more than 15 years.  My mother wasn't that jazzed about him either and with my brother gone, I was his only connection to his former family.  We wouldn't talk that often, maybe once a year, but we still maintained a bond.

Suddenly a few months ago Mike was coming around more often and my sister decided to let go of the hate that she harbored for so long.  She still wasn't ready to go back to life circa 1991, but she would at least talk to him.  Then yesterday my sister called to tell me that Mike was dead.  He was sick and no one knew it and he died in a suburban Philadelphia hospital.

And I'm feeling numb.  Although I haven't seen Mike in nearly 5 years and I haven't spoken to him since before I moved to Chicago, I'm still feeling shell shocked.  For obvious reasons, but I also am coming to a realization (after speaking with a close friend who had put her mother in hospice care two days ago) that I've reached that age when my peers and I will start to lose our parents.

And I'm not ready.

I talked to my mom after I hung up with my sister and she's feeling pretty numb as well.  Although she's happily married and had general ill feelings toward Mike because of how their union ended, she still loved him and has some good memories stored within her.  I called my father to let him know because I knew that he would hear it through the grapevine.  He was in the supermarket at the deli counter at the time, so telling him was reminiscent of Jackie telling Auntie Barbara that her dad died:

And since yesterday I've just been processing it all. Crying as I think of the good times, laughing when I think of the good times and overall, just processing...

Maybe I will open the bar back up today.

The curse of Alvin Ailey

The Curse

2 oz Absinthe

2 oz Vodka

1 oz Triple Sec

1/2 oz Dry vermouth

Coat the inside of a chilled martini glass with the vermouth and pour it out.  In a cocktail shaker, mix the triple sec, absinthe and vodka over ice and shake it, don't break it, get on the floor butt naked.  Strain into the martini glass, garnish with an orange wheel and enjoy!

NuNu and I have plans to go see Alvin Ailey when the company comes to Chicago in a few weeks.  It was his idea - with my very strong subliminal messaging of course.  I was thinking about what I wanted to wear and if this justified a small shopping trip, when it dawned on me that including this year, I've always gone to see this show with a man that I currently and will forever loathe.  Well, that's not exactly true - my father took me once, but other than that I've been once with the Loser (those who remember him from my past life know who I'm talking about) and once with the Liar.   Should I be afraid of going to see this show with NuNu?  What if this is an omen that I will hate him one day as well?

I started writing this a few weeks ago then I got super busy and well you know how it goes. It  turns out that the Alvin Ailey Touring company is cursed.  The night NuNu and I were set to see the show, he never showed up. Like just didn't. We talked from our respective jobs that morning and hammered out the pick up time and everything.  Then he failed to show up.  He sent some sorry ass text message and later claimed that it was something with his son and having to go to the emergency room, but he was posting on the Stalkers Wet Dream Facebook mere minutes before and after his "sorry babe" text (and posting stupid shit, like Ice Cube videos AND he does not have a smart phone...).  So fuck him.

Next!

For the tolls - because they don't let dump trucks on the FDR

Die Hard (today's recipe is from drinkspub.com.  All of this healthy eating is getting in the way of my mixology tasting)

2 oz Everclear® alcohol
1/2 oz vodka
2 oz grapefruit juice

Put your shakers away kids!  Stir all ingredients together in an old-fashioned glass 1/2 filled with ice cubes, and serve. (you can definitely tell that this wasn't my recipe.  The directions have no pizazz)


My first apartment was on the third floor of a beautiful brownstone.  Laundry was in the basement, and worked on an honor system - you drop a buck in a basket whenever you washed and dried.  Because of its' proximity I actually hated doing laundry and worked it out so that I'd only have to do it about 1-2 times a season.

I r e a l l y hated doing laundry. 

Then when I moved into the house, I bought a washer and dryer that made the task of laundry more convenient.  I returned to the land of "foundation garments" and all was well with the world.  When I moved to Chicago into the first condo, it came with one of those all in one washer/dryer dealies, so I sold my washer and dryer and went to town on the new one.

Now in my new place, I don't have a washer and dryer in my apartment, but it's literally right outside my rear entrance, so it sort of feels like it's in my unit. So much so, that I often run in and out of the laundry room in the buff to add bleach and/or retrieve a small load.  The other tenants have to enter from outside, so I'm really hoping that no one catches my early morning streaking.

This washer and dryer are coin operated - cheap, just a dollar - but it's quarters only.  This poses a problem for yours truly as I hardly ever have any cash on me, forget about case quarters (Case quarter.  That's old school speak right there).  So this morning I threw a load in while I performed my morning constitutional (hint: it ain't the walking one) and much to my surprise chagrin I didn't have enough quarters to dry my load.  I ended up laying everything flat around the apartment and over the shower door, but I also vowed not to deal with that foolishness again.

 

This is what fifty bucks worth of quarters looks like

I went into the bank and exchange 5 crisp10 dollar bills for my little jar of goodness and convenience.  I'm sure that teller wondered if I was planning on hauling gold from the Federal Reserve Bank in about 20 dump trucks, but she smiled as if she too had been at the laundromat without the necessary two bits.

Now on to the whites.

Remember that driving gig?

Cinnamon Prince

2oz Irish Cream

2oz Crown Royal

1oz Goldschlager

cinnamon stick for garnish

Mix all ingredients sans the cinnamon stick in a cocktail shaker over ice.  Shake it like your hands would be shaking if you were meeting the President of the United States.  Strain into a martini glass and lean the cinnamon stick inside the glass for garnish and enjoy!



Remember that driving gig?  Well I had the pleasure and the incredible honor of driving in the motorcade of the one and only President Obama, aka Mr. President, aka El Capitan, aka the Cinnamon Prince when he was in Chicago a few weeks ago!  And I met him! And it was awwwww-some!  So how did someone with a shall we say "questionable" driving history get to drive all through downtown, up and down Lakeshore Drive, to his house (and actually down the street vs just 500 feet away like all of you regular folk) with total disregard for all traffic laws and with a police escort?

Because I'm made of awesome sauce and you're not.

Well you may be made of awesome sauce too, but your sauce won't be quite as awesome as my sauce until you have a friend who calls you one night and asks you to drive around town with the President of these here United States.

Get your game up, kids.


So... how was meeting Mr. Obama you ask? Great and nerve racking all at the same time.  Nearing the end of the night after he finished a speaking engagement at Navy Pier, he came out to shake our hands, thank us for our service (because you know that this was a volunteer gig. We're talking about the gub'ment here) and to take some photos with us (there were 7 of us).  And let me tell you - our President has some serious swag.  He has this effortless "cool" about him and as he strutted over to me - yes he struts, not walks - my heart was in my chest and I was trying not to smile too hard as if meeting dignitaries was a regular occurrence for me.  I was as poised as possible as he shook our hands and asked our names, and considering that one of the other female drivers totally forgot her own name, I think that I did well.


It was a truly amazing experience and they actually asked me to do it again last week but I had some can't miss meetings that kept me from being able to put the pedal to the metal for the Leader of the Free World again.

I wasn't able to get very many pictures, but here's a few of the helicopters arriving and departing from Soldier Field.  The ones that we took with him will be mailed to us (and yes I'm checking the mailbox daily).

Check out the secret service and bomb sniffing dogs

Military helicopters filled with important guests and reporters

Mr. President's helicopter that brought him from Air Force One

So what did you do over the last few weeks?

Til you do right by me everything you even think about is going to crumble... and other stuff

The Color Purple

2 oz Southern Comfort

1 oz blue curacao

3 oz cranberry juice

Maraschino cherry for garnish

Pour SoCo, Blue Curacao and Cranberry juice into a cocktail shaker over cracked ice.  If you don't know what to do next, I should beat you like Celie told Harpo to beat Sophia. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass, float the cherry and enjoy!

I'll fill you in on the driving assignment soon, but I have other pressing business.

You see, I'll be making a trip to Philly in a couple of weeks.  Normally I like to stay in a hotel because well, I haven't lived at home since I was 16 years old and you never know when the need to *ahem* may come about.  But I'll be staying at my dad's house because of the following reasons: I'm a fancy bitch, and I can't just stay in anybody's old HoJo or anything of that ilk, BUT I'm a broke fancy bitch and my dad's house is nice and free.  And although I have an awesome hook up at the Kimpton Hotels, my father and his fiance is super hyped about me staying with him (notice I said HIM and not them because although she lives there, it's HIS house and I don't really like that bitch).  Now pops has offered me his car during my stay, but I'd rather rent one since I need to retain some of my independence and I'd rather not put him out anymore than my picky pescatarian ass already will.

So that brings us to the issue at hand.  I'm about to book my car and I'm trying to decide which agency to give my business to.  Do I go with the one where the ex, the LIAR, the emm effing asshole of the century who broke my heart into thousands of tiny shattered shaken pieces is a manager, or do I go somewhere else where I could probably add to my frequent flier miles?

Do I go to the one where that sonofabitch works who kept me from moving here 3 years ago with his lies and his bullshit crocodile tears?

Do I go to the one where that douche bag works who if I wasn't tougher than Nigerian hair, would have completely and totally destroyed my faith in men and in love?

Yes? Or No?

I know what my sister would say.  She would be on Team Hell Yes, and want to know what time my flight gets in so she could be there in that Color Purple "we gon' sit around and whoop yo' ass" kind of way.  But I know what my girls would say - leave well enough alone.  The best revenge is moving on and blah blah blah.

But wouldn't the best revenge be going and letting that emm effer see my Illinois drivers license solidifying the fact that not only have I totally moved on, but moved across the country any old way?  Wouldn't the best revenge be letting him see how awesome I'll look being 40 pounds lighter than the last time he saw me (oh by the by, did I mention that a bitch has lost damn near 40 pounds and counting?)?

Wouldn't that be the best revenge?

What do you think? Please vote:

Team Hell Yes
or
Team Maturity

[Please note, I am a firm believer that maturity can often be over rated]

Doing donuts

Alice in the Sidecar

1 oz of triple sec
1 oz of fresh squeezed lemon juice 

2 oz of cognac

1/2 oz apple flavored brandy

Lemon wheel

Sugar

Take the lemon wheel and rub around the rim of a chilled martini glass, then dip in sugar to rim.  In a cocktail shaker over cracked ice, mix triple sec, lemon juice brandy and that 'yak and shake it with the vigor of 1000 pogo sticks.  Strain into the rimmed martini glass and enjoy!

I don't know if I ever mentioned it before, but I'm a pretty awful driver.  I never really felt a necessity to learn until I had to for a job after college.  And even then, I didn't know what the hell I was doing and only passed my driving exam because my tester thought that I was cute and would eventually learn.  He was right about the cute, but oh so wrong about the learning.  Since then I've had my fair share of fender benders and full on flipped-over-thank-god-we're-alive accidents, but for the last few years I've tried to be a much more cautious driver.  [READ: I refuse to own a car] I use the hell out of some SEPTA and CTA and whenever necessary, I use a car share program, so I barely drive enough to get into an accident, (although I was rear ended that time in a Zi.pcar in Philly...)

But I digress (sidebar - don't you hate when people say that when they're writing? It's so emm effing pretentious).  But seriously though, I totally digress...

I have recently been tasked with a very awesome and important driving assignment and I'm totally stoked about it. I don't have time to go into details, but soon my pretties, I'll fill you in.

Because he's new-new

Nu-Nu

2oz Nuvo

1oz Hypnotiq

2oz Diet Lemon Lime Soda

Lemon wheel

Mix all ingredients in a hurricane glass over ice. Garnish with the lemon wheel. Stir gently and enjoy!

And then there was him.


Remember the New Guy?  Well he's still around, but he's sort of taken a back seat.  I still like him and we still go out occasionally, but he actually tried to throw a test at me. ME!  I don't know if I ever told you guys how young he was, but he's pretty young so when he tried to actually test me, he got his feelings hurt.

One fine fine *ahem* post coital morning, we were laying around his place when we realized how late he was going to be for work due to all of the *ahem* coitus.  I had my dance class on his side of town (ironically it's the neighborhood that I currently live in) and his job was on my side of town, so I was going to hang out at his house until my class started.    Because he was running late, he wanted me to iron his pants while he showered...
But that's not what he asked.
Instead of saying 

"Hey Alice, after all of that sweet sweet lovin' could you do me a solid and iron my pants while I wash my sweaty, sexy, musky manhood?"

 He said

"I sure wish there were two of me so that I can shower and iron at the same time..."

 I'm a grown ass woman dog. I ain't fittin' to call no man Delicious Just come out and say what you want.  I'm from Philly and we don't do subtle.  So when I didn't jump off of the couch and grab the iron, I could literally see our relationship shifting into a slow, but steady downward spiral.

So he's still around, but I certainly am not holding my breath for a chance to press his pants.  Particularly when I've been getting *ahem* pressed by someone new. Nu-Nu. (by the by, if you haven't figured it out by now, when I say *ahem* I'm about to talk about sex.)

I met Nu-Nu at a club of all places.  I had gone to see Anthony David sing some songs that I know and some that I did not, and I ran into a guy that I had met there a few weeks before.  I was half hanging out by myself and half with the other guy when the DJ started playing some music I wasn't familiar with.  People seemed to really be enjoying themselves (including other guy), but hell they go crazy over Too $hort here, so I stopped trying to figure out music in this city.  So I'm standing there a little awkward like when I spied with my little eye this gigantic being noticing me, noticing him.  He gave me the "I don't know what they hell they're playing either" look and that was all she wrote.

Well, not really because I have more to say.  So without getting into a play by play, the evening ended well (no not that well sluts). Barring work and other unavoidable instances, we've been pretty inseparable and things have eventually gone that well. Hubba hubba.

He's built just like I like them - a big ol' hunk of man. 6'4", makes me feel tiny when I stand next to him and when we *ahem* he likes to pick me up and toss me around and... well you get my drift. And we've been doing okay.  It's too soon to count all my chickens, but I actually like this one enough to give him a name. Nu-Nu.

Get it? Got it? Good.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Open House

1 1/2 cup Southern Comfort

4 oz lemon juice

4 oz sweetened lime juice

4 oz orange juice

8 oz lemon lime soda

Fill a large glass pitcher with ice and combine all ingredients. Stir gently. Float lemon, lime and orange wedges for garnish.  Although the recipe serves 4, feel free to drink someone else's serving.  I won't tell.

Ohhh you little pumpkins, how I love you so!  Because I promised that you'd get some photos or video, I totally created a video montage in Pica.sa (now known to me as picASSa) and just as soon as I hit create, it totally lost all of my work.  So I went over to another site and created one all over again.

Because I love you.  And I'll hold this over your heads later when I want something from one of you.


Now, before I invite you all into my home, I wanted to make note of the gift registry.  What? You didn't think I wanted something for all of my hard work?  Well think again.

Registry: 

1) Buy

2) Me

3) Stuff


Now that you're done that, Come on Down the Rabbit Hole

Right "Thur"

Midwestern Twang

3 oz whiskey

1 tsp Tang

3 oz Sprite (any lemon lime soda will do.  Yes soda, not "pop")

Garnish - Maraschino cherries or orange wheel.  If you're feeling randy, do both

Mix whiskey and Tang in a cocktail shaker over ice.  Shake with reckless abandonment, but make sure the top is on.  Strain into an old fashioned glass while pouring in the soda simultaneously. Garnish with two cherries or orange.

Enjoy!

I think that I'm officially between accents.  This is a big friggin' deal.  You see people from Philadelphia sound unique - specifically women from Philly.  I admit that thanks to a college education and traveling these United States, I don't didn't sound exactly like Eve in Barbershop, but I definitely sounded like I'm from the Midatlantic.  So why did I catch myself saying that something was right over "hurr" [READ: here]?

I'm fittin' to be scared...

In other news, remember how my home slice President Obama is totally my neighbor? Well someone needs to tell him and Michelle that they only have until the end of the month to bring me my muffin basket because you guessed it kids - I'm moving.  And now for the FAQ's:

Q. Why are you moving from such an awesome neighborhood?

A. Well my dears, why I am happy to be gainfully employed, a bitch makes about 23 grand less than I anticipated making when I first moved to this beautiful condo, and while I can still afford it, I don't have the comfortable cushion that I'm used to.

Q. So couldn't you just get another gig? Even like a part-time one?

A. Could I? Yes. Would I? No. I'm busy babes. Besides, now that I know the city a bit better, I found an equally awesome apartment in Humboldt Park that I will totally rock. (yes, I still have exposed brick!)

Q. Hey! Whatever happened to that virtual housewarming you promised us?

A. What can I say? I'm a bit of a flake, but I tell ya what - I PROMISE that sometime within the next 7 days I will either post a video or a picture collage of my soon to be old dwelling.  Sometime down the line a peek into the new place will follow. Deal?

Other questions? Bring 'em on!

The Last Mojican Mojito

2oz spiced rum

1 oz sweetened lime juice

1 oz sour mix

3 oz lemon lime seltzer

1 lime wedge

3 sprigs of fresh mint

In a cocktail shaker add a few ice cubes, mint, lime wedge and sour mix.  Muddle the mixture for 1 full minute.  Add lime juice and rum then shake it like you're in a Pit Bull/ Ying Yang Twins video.  Remove the shaker top and in a tall collins glass, pour the contents of the shaker and the seltzer simultaneously.  Stick a straw in it and enjoy!

I woke up crying this morning.  Sobbing.

I dreamed that I was in some sort of parade with all of my closest girlfriends from different phases in my life - my best friend from childhood who I've known since we were 5 years old, my good good girlfriends from high school and my closest friends from college and my current life.  We were doing a dance number and every time we turned in unison and I had to face a different one, they were pregnant and/or flashing an engagement ring.  And I began to cry.  And then I woke up.

I suppose the apex of the way that I feel could be the text I received yesterday from a friend's mom asking for my address so that she could send me a baby shower invitation.  This is the friend who is a new, but fairly successful actress and who I thought didn't want children until she was more established in her career.  Granted she and her husband have been married for about 4 years and we're all not getting any younger, but I guess I thought that she would be the last of the baby-less Mojicans.

Did I mention that in 2010 5 of my friends got married, 4 had babies and 2 got engaged.  That doesn't include all of the "my life is better than your life" updates from facebook associates.  Just great.  But let me be clear - no one and I mean NO ONE is happier for them than I.  I have been blessed with having amazing sister friends in my life and they all deserve the love and joy that they are experiencing.  But I'd be lying if it didn't sting a bit, just because my life still feels so unfulfilled.

****Mid-post update****

I actually started this post on January 28th and I'm not sure why I never got around to finishing it, but no bullshit, since then 2 of my CLOSEST sister friends called to tell me that they too were pregnant...

*Le sigh*

Again, I am ECSTATIC for them. I even actually have accepted the role of godmother for one (and I take that shit seriously.  I have always declined in the past, so this is actually my first godbaby and I am super emotional).  But I contend that this still makes me a little sad.  Granted I spent the majority of my adult years thinking that kids were just a bunch of annoyingly loud and inexplicably sticky short people, - and they are -  but when I started being honest with myself I realized that I want little more than to have a healthy relationship and children of my own.

So here I sit - one of the last of the Mojicans, cringing just a little bit every time the phone rings.