Place #9: Acme Comedy Club

It’s slightly pathetic that I’m listing this as place number nine.

Do I use the word pathetic a lot? I kind of do, don’t I… I also talk way too much about my hair. (Oh yeah. I’m aware.) It ends here, though, you’ll be glad to know, especially since I have very little to say about this particular blog spot.

We saw the comedian Mary Mack. She was brilliant, from what I remember. I laughed a lot, from what I remember. I really enjoyed the show, from what I remember. Mary Mack, cute as a button, quirky and weird and charming and ridiculously funny, was one, white-washed blur throughout the entire show. I want to say I never should’ve had the red wine, but I can’t. It was too damn good. So was the beer I ordered in the club. I wish I could remember what it was called… It was supposed to be a sort of substitute for my staple order, Corona, but the waitress near promised me I’d like it ever better. And I did. ‘Can’t remember what it was, though… sigh.

I’ve been to Acme before, several years ago. So, all in all this is a filler place. And quite frankly? I don’t care. It’s a place I’d return to, and that’s saying something.

Place #8: Toast Wine Bar and Cafe

I’m a cheater. I’m lazy. I cut corners. Or….do I?

Personally, I’d like to think of myself as resourceful and practical, efficient and flexible. I look back to the beginning of my blog and realize that it may have been unwise to have designed a Twelve Places list when I knew indubitably that I was not going to commit to it. I don’t plan well. Planning can sometimes create a very unnecessary stress factor that I, you know, would prefer to just eliminate altogether. Commitment issues? Possibly. There are plenty of places on my “list” that I’m just not going to be going to. So, if you were really looking forward to hearing about how my trip to Spam Town was going to go, or how my journey through the Boundary Waters was going to turn out, I’m afraid I’ve gravely disappointed you. I have no desire to go to Spam Town. Who would? And I would love to explore the Boundary Waters if I didn’t have this abhorrent allergy to poison ivy. I can’t explore Minnesota’s wildlife to its fullest potential because of this. There’s no way in hell I’m risking another summer like last summer. I’m not going anywhere near anything wild and green this summer, and you mark me on this one: I’m sure as hell not going to go anywhere near the woods. This breaks my heart because I love the forest, the trees, and nature, but being poisoned by poison ivy is just too damn traumatic for me. I’m afraid this adds to my loathing and frustration about living here, because I know damn well that Minnesota has an expansive natural world worth exploring. And I just… can’t afford to risk it.

However, the city has become my alternative. I began this blog telling myself not to make too many city destinations because, really, the city (in my own opinion) doesn’t really count. I’ve always loved cities and everything they have to offer, and Minneapolis (other than getting lost in it) has never been a sore spot in terms of me enjoying the life here. It’s been the prairies, the middle-of-nowhere, the outskirts of racist red-necks, hillbillies, creepy country neighbors, and a high school that should probably do the community a favor by burning to the ground that has created this corrupt vindictiveness for a place, that in truth, I want to believe with all of my heart is really not that horrible of a place to live. But alas! The city, I have discovered, is possibly one of the greatest redeeming qualities about living here. I’m less than an hour out of it, and Minneapolis has quite a bit to offer. All of the things I’ve been missing, the sort of things that feed my soul, my guilty pleasures, and my addictions to nostalgia are, well, in the city.

My third date with the man from my previous post involved going to see a show at the Acme Comedy Club. Before the show, we stopped in a wine bar down the street, and I wasn’t exactly planning on writing about it (I didn’t take any notes on this one, folks) but I definitely have to now that I’ve gone.

At the top of my blog page it reads, “…horrible food…” I’ll be the first to admit that this is pretty snobby of me, and I’ve no doubt insulted all the Minnesotans who love tater-tot hot dish and cracker crust pizza. My apologies.

I was more spoiled than I realized, in New York. They say it’s the water. New York’s water is some of the cleanest and purest in the country. I can attest to this because I’ve drank, out of the cup of my hands, from a gorge waterfall in Ithaca, New York and it was the most divine tasting water I’ve ever put into my body. This is supposedly why a lot of our foods are so delicious: pizza dough, bagels, cheese, et cetera. “It’s the water,” they say.

Cheese. For those who know me, I’m a bit of an addict. I keep a tight leash on it because if I didn’t I’d inevitably weigh three hundred pounds, and every one of those pounds would be answerable to cheese. I can’t say there isn’t a descent brand of cheese I can pick up at the local grocer, but it’s nothing like getting a fresh canister of grated parmesan from the deli. Or, any fresh cheese from the deli for that matter. Sure, there are always the staple forms: American, provolone, Pepper Jack, cheddar. However, they’re nothing but the truck-imported, vacuum- sealed brick cheeses that just don’t satisfy a cheese-spoiled New Yorker like me. I want fresh mozzarella out of the water. I want New York extra-sharp white cheddar that nearly melts in my mouth. I want deli-fresh grated parmesan with that perfect, aged bite that makes a homemade pasta all the more divine. I never realize how deprived I am until I return home and enjoy these nostalgic, savory treats. It’s often become a tradition to go grocery shopping while I’m visiting home, and bring the goods back to Minnesota for my family to enjoy. I’ve always considered that there has got to be a place in Minneapolis where I can treat myself to finer foods, but have never made the effort to explore it. This brings me back around to Toast Wine Bar and Café, and how a simple thing like fine cheese has the power to put wings on my feet.

I’ll admit, Reader, when we walked into the wine bar I was feeling a little out of my element. I was feeling sorry I hadn’t had the time to properly style my untamable hair which I had tied up into a frizzy ponytail before leaving the house. I was feeling less than classy. When I set my eyes on the menu, I didn’t recognize any of the wine names and realized that I certainly wasn’t going to be able to pronounce any of them. This is when my timidity flares, when I feel substandard, inadequate. The pendulum swings fast. I can go from feeling like Wonder Woman to a lamb in a wolf’s den in 3.2 seconds. As I sat there reading the wine list I said to myself, “Be a grown up. Just point and ask how to pronounce it… It can’t be the first time someone’s done that…” So I did. And it worked. Now, I know you’re supposed to let wine breathe: swish it, swirl it, and wait for it. But I was too anxious, so I drank it immediately. Having made several “warnings” to my date that wine gets me drunk rather quickly, drinking it quickly may have not been the wise thing to do.

Deciding to eat a little something with our wine, we opted for cheese and bread. There’s an option on their menu to choose three cheeses for $14, so that’s what we did. We chose extra aged Grafton Village Vermont cheddar (Vermont is just as comparable to New York if not better, dare I say?); Tuscany pecorino tomato washed sheep’s milk; and taleggio.
The cheese came quickly, and I immediately reached for the aged cheddar first. It’s my favorite cheese, especially if you get the good stuff. I bit into it slowly, savoring the easily broken off edge that slipped over my tongue and nearly melted in my mouth like I was hoping it would. It instantly brought me back to a memory of eating aged cheddar and good wine on my brother’s front deck when the whole family was together for his college graduation. We bought the cheese in a deli on The Strip by the river, and the bite of cheese I was currently savoring brought me back to the valley of Pittsburgh and everything that city life had taught me about finding myself. It also brought me back to a point when my family still gathered together for important events, and even though that seems a melancholy, sort of bittersweet thought, it made me happy to remember happiness that once existed. The cheese? Was really good cheese.

In trying to choose a second glass of wine, my date’s indecisiveness was met with the owner of the place. His name was Scott. I liked Scott. He began to pour several different wines into several different glasses for my date to taste. I, of course, couldn’t miss out. However, they were all red wines. DANGER! This is a how-to-get-Jess-really-really-drunk lesson: give her red wine. They were only tastes, but enough tastes add up quick with me. And then, of course, I had to order a glass of the one I liked best. Of course I did.

By the end of our mini romantic feast, my date got up to use the restrooms. The barmaid put the bill on the counter while he was gone. Now, so far on our outings my date had been taking care of everything financially. He’s a gentleman, and I was grateful for that. But I’m not used to these luxuries. Most women are. I’m not one of them. I’ve had a knack for dating really poor men to begin with (must be those free spirits I’m attracted to or something…), “dating” being a relative term. The relationships I’ve been in have been with guys that were friends first, or friends of my brothers, et cetera. Our relationships were made up of entertaining ourselves in his apartment, the financially cheap way: bargain beer and movies. I’ve never been properly taken out like a lady. Sad. Go ahead. You can say it. It is rather pathetic. But the circumstances in my life have not exactly been in my favor. After a devastating blow to my heart six years ago, I haven’t been able to quite recover as fast as I would’ve expected myself to recover. This is twice as pathetic. It’s been five years since I was last serious with someone. I’ve been alone, self-reliant and all on my own for a long time, trying to hold out for someone worth it this time. In short, Reader, I was feeling guilty that my date was paying for everything. Is this how it should be? I don’t want him thinking I’m a moocher… I should just allow myself to be treated, I say. But why? I’m not that special. I’d have to think myself something pretty special to sit here and say, “I deserve to not have to pay for anything.” Although, I do have to admit there is that part of me that relishes the idea of him paying for everything, but only because all of my friends have been able to enjoy that luxury, something I’ve always envied a bit. In truth, I’ve always wanted a piece of that cake. I won’t lie. It’s nice to be treated nicely. But my inner battle of “Pay? Or not to pay?” ended with: “Pay.” So while he was gone, I snatched up the bill and stuck in my credit card.

We left the wine bar. The wind was whipping up my frizzy ponytail which I was no longer self-conscious about, for I? Was drunk. The taste of red wine and really good cheese lingered not only in my mouth, but also in memory. I thought to myself, “Of all the places I’ve been to, this is probably the first one that has connected me with Minnesota in a redeeming light of invitation, has given me a desire to return, a desire to stay.”

Well. Let’s be honest: I was far too drunk to have had this articulate of a thought, but at least I can say the semi-developed idea was somewhere in there as I stumbled down the sidewalk.

Place #7: Merlin's Rest Part 3

Writing part three has proved to be a more difficult task than anticipated. Firstly because the date part of the night is sort of private. Secondly because I’m feeling rather lazy and don’t remember everything I was going to write about (at least, not yet). To ruin the ending for you, the date went quite wonderful and I’ve already seen him twice again since. I think that because of this I’m feeling apprehensive. He’s reading these too, and even though I extended the invitation (the more readers the better, of course) I’m now feeling slightly scrutinized and a tad self-conscious. Such is the way of it, I suppose…

But I could really blow it, Folks.

I have a reckless propensity for laying out the ugly personal side of my humanity to the public, particularly through my art, and when you’re trying to impress someone this could be a fairly dangerous thing.

However…

A mantra I’ve grown to love to live by (or at least try to), especially as a woman who desperately wants to be freed from feeling like she has to be someone else to seduce a man, is this: the only way to ensure someone is attracted to you for you, is you have to suck it up and be yourself. Seems simple, right? A wee cliché… But when you really think about it: Who, really, is brave enough to suck that up? To really suck it up and be themselves when ourselves, deep down, are so outrageously uninviting, so fucking unattractive in all of our impurities, flaws, peculiarities, defects, shortcomings and ugliness … It’s easier said than done.

Don’t get me wrong, Reader, there’s definitely value in the seduction part of dating. Proving to them that you can clean up nice is not necessarily a dishonor to who you truly are. Quite frankly, if he had come in sweats and a ratty T-shirt and smelled like he hadn’t showered in three days it wouldn’t have gone so well, no matter how witty he was. There is a sense of class required here, people. I had come to that very conclusion when I almost reached for my own sweats. Cleaning up nice is a good idea. Being someone you’re not is a bad one. I can feel pretty in my dresses and my heels, but to hell with it if I’m not going to be who I am. And I’m plenty of unattractive things, there’s no deceiving anyone there. But so is everybody else. That’s just it. I think it’s pointless to pretend that you’re particularly more perfect than others, to compete with others to gain the affection of someone you like, to obsess over being impressive because you gauge the value of your desirability by someone else’s sexual interest in you. Everyone wants to be wanted. I want to be wanted. But I want to be wanted for who I am. Back to my mantra: suck it up, and be yourself. It’s not easy. Everyone wants to hide the things that could potentially send their impending mate running for the hills, there’s no doubt about that. I’m not saying it’s wise to share all, necessarily, just don’t comprise who you are for someone who is, let’s be honest, not that important. That being said, I think I’ve now set myself up to prove that I have the gumption to put my bars down and eat my own words. (Uh oh….)

So, my hopefully-a-true-bachelor showed up and made me happy. I admit, Reader, I’m exponentially skeptic and cautious. I’ve been trained not to trust men, and even more so have had it proven to me more than once the reasons why. It’s hard to date at this age because not only are most people married by now (the one to hundred ratio drops dramatically after age twenty five – at age thirty one it’s more like one to three), but there’s plenty of those married men who are starting to get bored of their brides by this point and want something else. That phenomenon of monogamy is quickly going out of style, and there are plenty of creeps who have crafty ways of cheating on their wives. I don’t want to be stupid. I don’t want to be charmed into someone’s pants who’s pants are already spoken for thank you very much. So, as he and I sat on our barstools, my drunken radar was half alert for clues. So far, so good.

For the readers who have been following me all the way through (I think there’s maybe one of you…), you’ll remember a post titled, “Not Merlin’s Rest”. It was place number three (Mille Lacs). If you disregard the fact that it was written childishly sloppy, you’ll remember (or actually take the time to go back and read it because I’m pretty sure you won’t actually, literally remember ) that I talked a little about fate. I suppose you could say I believe in fate. I suppose… But more often than not I prefer to preach that we have far more control over our lives than we give ourselves credit for, and fate is just something we throw into the mix when we want to believe that we’re not responsible for the effects of our causes. However, while I was enjoying my pint of Stella with a very pleasant, witty, intelligent man who could make me laugh, I was thinking, “I’m glad I never went to Merlin’s way back in July…this is much, much better.”

My date and I had endured the night tolerating a talkative man to our right who was clearly going through a second (maybe third) mid-life crisis who we (more my date than I) christened “Lovely Cat Fred”. “Lovely Cat Fred” came from the combination of our receipt reading “Your lovely waiter tonight was….”, him looking like a Fred (not actually being a Fred), and him saying this: “I’m divorced now, see, because when my wife went through menopause she put me on pause… I have a cat now…” The added fact that he was now stuck with a cat instead of a menopausal wife was hilarious. However, I was sitting there on my tall barstool ready to pummel Lovely Cat Fred for this statement because in defense of his poor menopausal wife I had heard these words instead: “My wife went through menopause, lost her libido, and I’m a selfish asshole who couldn’t handle that.” My date had said to me, “I’d kind of like to hear the wife’s side to that…” I was glad he said this. That was wise of him to say.

Relaxed by this point, my body had finally signaled to me that I hadn’t eaten all day. I was famished. A waiter was taking his break and eating a delectable looking sandwich at the bar down to the right of us (Lovely Cat Fred had taken leave for a while). My mouth watered. Now, most of you who know me know that I have certain, uh, phobias and issues with eating out at restaurants I don’t know. I have an unfortunate shrimp allergy, and there have been way too many times I’ve left restaurants spending hours over a toilet. It’s traumatizing after the fifth or sixth time. You never know when they’re going to cook something in the same pan they cook the shrimp in. Either that or I have an uncanny knack for acquiring food poisoning. Either way, I have procured a pathological fear of eating out. I’ve overcome it for the most part by trying to order foods that are potentially safe. At this point, I was so hungry that I almost asked the waiter if I could eat half of his sandwich.

I mentioned to my date that I was hungry, and he got us some menus (note to self: man who gets what you ask for = scored points). I looked up and down the menu, and was delighted to see they had grilled cheese with tomato. For one, I’ve never been to a place that automatically serves grilled cheese with tomato. I always have to ask for the tomato. So this pleased me a little more than it would a normal person. It was perfect. No meat. I’ve never gotten sick off grilled cheese at restaurants; it’s usually my staple safe order (it’s also comfort food: a dish I’ve been making for myself since I was a child). I ordered it with Merlin’s very own style of potato chips, and it was heavenly. Its divinity could probably be half credited to the fact that I was near starving, but regardless, it was the best grilled cheese and tomato I’ve ever eaten. And the chips were unequivocally enchanting. Yum! My date made a reference to Benny and Joon. Yum, again.

The night ended with rain. I had taken enough pictures to satisfy for the most part. My inability to focus on the true task at hand interfered with my usual blogging responsibilities. But as every blog entry has proven over and over again, I have an uncanny ability to babble on and on and on about just about anything in the hopes of it being at least somewhat, mildly amusing to at least one random person in the universe. So I end with this: The rain was light. The air smelled like wet pavement as my date walked me to my car. I could feel my hair frizzing instantly from the dampness. I felt foolishly self-conscious about it. Such is the way of it, isn’t it?