To: Anyone who cares

From: Chantel

Date: Friday, March 11, 2008

Subject: Don’t make me beg

I’ve got a convertible.

I have nice hair today.

I think I’ve lost weight since my 13 rounds with the flu.

Happy Hour?

 

 

 

 

The Last Viceroy - A hot toddy story.

A long long time ago it was made very clear to me that I was “different”. My family were often not very nice to me. I was too tall, too skinny and too ugly to ever be considered for anything worth having in in their opinion. I ended up proving to everyone that they were wrong. I discovered lipstick, high heels and vodka for becoming more sexually attractive and then I discovered books for making me downright smart. So I might be ugly under all the make-up but I aint’ dumb. As far as the tall and skinny part; still tall but way less skinny thanks to the new fandangled invention called “a slowing metabolism.”

Everyone in my family has a family name. Except, little ‘ol me. I’m Chantel and its French for something I can’t do; which is sing. Everyone and, I mean everyone in my family is named after someone else all the way back to Ireland. My mother always told me it was because I was half French. Was this the affair she never admitted to? Did I truly belong to someone else and not this wild bunch of hillbilly’s I’ve been left behind with? Even funnier; I soaked it up. I believed it; I wanted to believe it. I needed to believe that because I was different my life would also be different than; theirs.

After many years went by I had convinced myself yes, I was indeed part French. Ignoring all the facts; I wanted to believe something so much that I threw all logic out of the window and continued to hope, hope, hope that I was truly, found under a rock. There is another factor in there. Like me, my mother liked the fellas; its always possible that we don’t belong to the guy who’s name adorns our birth certificate. I think the actual statistic is 70% of us aren’t really who we think we are. That doesn’t include those of us who have psychological identity disorders. If that were the case the percentage would be so much higher.

A few years later one of my cousins wives. I don’t remember which and if this one was the one in jail or the one not in jail but one of them decided to do some genealogy research. Turns out he was having an identity crisis but I was the one who was secure in the fact that “I AM FRENCH GOTDAMMIT.” Actually I wasn’t . My damn family name can be traced all the way to Ireland. My mother lied. However, her lie worked; I’m so damn different it hurts sometimes.

And in the end I finally find a way to embrace my inner Irish and I have the pictures to prove it. This is me with a mouthful of Guinness and a handful of something not quite Irish either. Now I’m done with the Irish thing until next year.

I would give you a blow by blow account of the weekend. But I can’t remember. And you know, I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t kiss and tell although I will admit to liking the kissing part quite a bit.

Because the Pope was worried about St. Patricks day ruining Palm Sunday he moved it to the 15^th. I don’t know if he expected that it would cause 4 days of debauchery but I bet the effect he was looking was lost on those who think that its just another excuse to celebrate St. Patricks day for 4 days in a row. Actually the truth is, Dr. B would celebrate St. Patricks Day ever day of the year. However, he can’t because it would compete with Mardi Gras, Halloween, New Year and, Secretary’s Day. So he was really happy with 4 days of reasons to be drunk.

Where it all started: The largest Irish Festival west of the Mississippi

The next day, plans were made and scheme’s were hatched. With Kerri and her husband for a grown up’s evening. Unfortunately Dr. B immediately ruined any schemes to be sophisticated and cultured when out of his pocket, came strands of green shiny beads which, we were order to wear throughout dinner and into the night.

By the way dinner? Whoever decided to wrap jalapeno’s with bacon after they stuffed them with goat cheese is a goddamn genius and I will be going back to Casa Del Matador to make out with the chef on a regular basis. After dinner Dr. B decides to invite the crew to his place for absinthe.

Dr. B first discovered absinthe was legal in the US during a trip to New Orleans for his birthday in January. Where I received no less than 3 drunk dials. Where Dr. B proclaims, “dude I swear I’m not a drunk dialer, this stuff is potent.” He has since become devoted. Devoted in the sense that he doesn’t have near the alcohol tolerance I used to have. So he’s a teatotaler who loves absinthe. Weird huh?

A little known fact: Chantel should never drink absinthe after 2 margarita’s, before 1 bourbon, two beers and 1 vodka soda. The result?

Elvis Glasses

Green beads

Bad Pool Hall behavior

And Pirate Patches with bling

And then this, spinning, double vision and flashing lights.

Any questions?

Photo by Chantel Williams, 2008

Dr. B took me to the Buena Vista Cafe in North Beach to try out the original Irish Coffee. All Irish redheaded girls should do this; its our duty. It was hands down the best Irish Coffee I have ever had in my entire life. I’m not exagerating, I’m not exagerating. Yes I said it twice so you don’t misunderstand me. Dr. B and I have decided that the reason its so good is the very specific way the bartender grinds the sugar in a bath of hot coffee in the bottom of the glass before he adds the Irish whiskey.
I’m working on a post with fun stories. I’m dealing with some crap right now so pictures will have to get you by.