What I Learned on My Memorial Day Weekend...

It's been almost a month since I stepped into the pages here at Ruby's View - and for that, I'm so sorry. I have no good excuse - I don't have ricketts, or carpal tunnel syndrome. I was not concussed by a random street thug, and my internet connection was fine.

I was, mostly, looking for jobs, working a bit, and doing some writing on the other site I've got going. And frankly, I couldn't bring the funny for y'all, so I had to take a breather...

But have no fear - I'm back!

I know, you're just waiting with baited breath for the update of all that has happened since we last met.

First, the important stuff: it's official "bike to the bar" time in Chicago. The temperatures hover frequently above 60 during the day, and that means that on a random Saturday night, you'll find me primping and preening, rolling up my right pants leg, unlocking the lucky hybrid bike I own, and pedaling one mile to my favorite bar: The Hopleaf.

The Hopleaf is a bar in Andersonville, the neighborhood just South of mine. It's got the best steamed mussels on the planet (in a lovely white wine sauce which even I can't believe I like), and over 100 beers on tap. They also carry my favorite American craft brews, from Dogfish Head in Rehobeth, Delaware.

I fell in love with Dogfish Head beers in New Hampshire, and then a little bit more in Maryland, and, well, I fell hard. Heavy beers with great flavor and over 8% alcohol made me funnier, smarter, and definitely more intoxicated than your average glass of bad hotel cabernet, and I am now known as "Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA Lover" in these parts. (Okay, that's a mouthful, but it really is the best beer ever.)

Anyway, when I'm at the Hopleaf, I can generally be found nursing one of these life-transforming beverages. Three weeks ago, my friend and I sat down at the bar after a night out. It was midnight, and there were two seats free (which is unheard of). We met the CUTEST bass player from Lexington, who also happened to be a whisky salesman, who was telling us just how much he wanted to dump his little 24 year old girlfriend who came with "a bullet train worth of baggage".

He, notably, claimed only to carry a knapsack of luggage. We took in the whiskey salesman part of his cover and figured he was carrying a footlocker, but who were we to judge? It was 1:30 by this time, and we were a bit intoxicated.

By 2:00 we had instructed him on how to get his favorite leather coat back (blackmail disguised as an open trade of belongings); and the best place to have the "it's not working" discussion (not at their shared place of work, maybe?). And we had a new, funny friend.

And by 3:30, we had unlocked our bikes, made an emergency stop at White Castle, and headed home to the birds singing in the trees.

Now, this weekend was nearly as much fun. A group of five friends and I met up at The Hopleaf again, talked for hours, left for pizza, and then two of us came back, again, for seats at the bar. This night's fun was a bartender from up the street who told me I had "leadership eyes" (which I think is the same as "tiny eyes devoid of makeup on a woman who looks like she can beat the crap out of you") and told my friend that she had a good heart. She also had on her sexy jeans, but we aren't going there.

Anyway, he was fun, but before we knew it, 3:30, last call, light's up, and I'm trying to figure out why my bike lock is being so stubborn. With an audience.

Two random guys (one mute, the other with hair just long enough to scream "I'm a writer") stoppped to give me shit for my inability to unlock the bike. I blamed the Dogfish, completed the herculean task, rolled up my pants to avoid snaggage, and got on the bike. After they tried to ply us with a trip to a bar open till 5:00, we headed back North to our respective homes, hoping to beat the birds.

It didn't happen. The birds were up and chirping by the time my friend locked her gate. As she called to confirm a safe arrival, I realized I definitely had the good end of this deal: her cats had drug the Ritz crackers we had taken to the beach, to her bed. Desperate for some buttery goodness (even the low-fat variety) they had scratched and scratched to get into the sleeve, with no avail.

So what I really learned on Memorial Day weekend is this: put away the crackers, step away from the beer, and always make friends at the bar.

Maybe not quite what Ruby would have wanted, but I think she might have enjoyed the weekend if she were here. Okay, except that whole biking thing....

Hope you're all doing well, and I'll keep you more up to date about life in the city...