Total Bollocks

While standing in the elevator today, I learned something interesting. Don't say that I'm not a mobile learner, or that I've never taught you anything. Here goes. You can thank me (or argue against my point) later.

Apparently Reuters.com published a study from the University of Leicester in England that investigated the time-tested notion of "beer goggles."

Absolutely scientific, I'm sure.

After talking to 240 people ranging from 18-70, their results were published in London today. The results flew in the face of the idea that heterosexuals find members of the opposite sex more attractive after consuming large amounts of alcohol. In fact, it proved that the opposite was true—that people actually found men/women LESS attractive after drinking in pubs or bars around town.

Uhm...have these people EVER been out? More precisely, who ARE these 240 said people?

Even Wikipedia knows better. The site even boasts studies with fruit flies that supports my argument of the British study. Exhibit A: "On daily dose of ethanol, male fruit flies court male as well as female flies. This observed inter-male courtship requires dopamine transmission between neurons in the brain and is encouraged by repeated alcohol exposure."

We're not drinking straight ethanol at the local pubs, but still. I guess budget cuts don't allow the serving of chilled Stella Artois to fruit flies these days.

Let's forget "science" for now.

In terms of reality, I know that in my world, not only do OTHER people become more attractive when I'm under the influence, but I find MYSELF more attractive under those conditions, too.

I know that I've agreed to dates with people when I've met them under the influence. Upon meeting sober, for the first date, I'm not usually as impressed. They're likely not as wowed by me either, but that's besides the point.

In line with this, I also have heard countless stories from girls and guys I know about how their judgement is impaired and they drop their standards. The whole "closing time" theory. Not that a good girl like me does anything about this at 2 am, but you get the drift.

There is even a commercial for "assistance" when looking to employ the 'beer goggle technique' of mate selection. Check it out here:



Sorry if I offended anyone. I laughed out loud, personally.

So, back to the Brits.

Am I crazy here? Or is this just bollocks?

Discuss.

Over a beer, hopefully. Then we'll all find each other far more appealing.

It Still Makes Me Blush

I've been asked to further explain the story about Jimmy Connors that I mentioned in yesterday's post.

As a proud storyteller, I'll expound. And, I'll ridiculously embarrass myself in the process. Be patient, I have to start at the beginning. Heck, grab a soda.

It was the summer before my senior year in college. I was doing the "right thing" and getting a summer internship at an ad agency. During the interview for a boring account service position, the guy looked at my resume and said, "You have an awful lot of sports on your resume. Would you rather be doing that?" I looked around, and half-nodded, insecurely, and asked what he meant. He explained that they had a sports marketing division that needed some help.

Sign. Me. Up.

So, I go to work for this guy John. As his right hand gal. He's the VP of Sports Marketing, and I even got my own little office. Which was big, considering I was 21-years old and an intern. Two weeks into the job, he pulls me into his office and admits that he's leaving the agency.

Uhm, what? Couldn't have told me that three weeks ago before I sacked any chance I had at working in the agency's account service department?

He offers for me to come with him. In the ten-second pause, he then spits out, "I'll pay you three times whatever they're paying you."

Okaaaay.

Sign. Me. Up.

Off we go, into the Jerry McGuire-like situation that entailed a fancy schmancy office space in the King Plow Arts Center in Atlanta. We frantically furnish the place and get started.

We were scheduled to bring the Nuveen Tour of Champions to Atlanta. The tournament, held nationally now under another name, featured senior men's tennis stars like Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Bjorn Borg, and others, was coming to Atlanta and we were in charge of promoting, selling, and running the event. It was nothing short of a HUGE FREAKING DEAL and it was just me and John. I even flew to Pennsylvania to train on the Ticketmaster program. It was my first business trip, and John made me GO ALONE.

I survived, and the event week arrived.

The hardest part, physically, of the job included what I affectionately called "schlepping ice." This was code for all of the event operations that had to be done that week—driving a golf cart, wearing a walkie-talkie, holding a clipboard, and moving heavy stuff from one location to the other, telling people where to put things and where to hang signs and where to park your huge food van and where to NOT park your gigantic beverage truck. Oh, and moving ice from one tent to another in the blistering Georgia heat.

The event was fun, though not sold out, and Jimmy Connors won as he was expected to do. The Atlanta Athletic Club was a beautiful host site, and the weather cooperated. My favorite player was Mansour Bahrami, the Iranian entertainer on the court. His mustache alone was worth taking a photo with him. I did. I'd show it here, but my bad haircut makes it look like I have a mullet, and I can't bear that on top of what is to happen next.

Jimmy wins, and heads to the clubhouse to sit and relax. As the crowds leave, my operations cohort and I (there was another company on hand to help facilitate the event, aka "schlep ice" with me) go into the clubhouse to check on the players and see if there was anything they needed. Mostly, we wanted to mingle with them. On the job, of course.

I'm in front of my operations cohort (we'll call him Brad), and Brad holds the door open for me and I enter first. Masking my shyness (that I've since overcome), the 21-year old Colleen says, with a smile, "Can I get you guys some beer to celebrate?" before I notice that Jimmy is sitting with John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg, two of the other three most famous men's tennis players. Ever.

They all accept my beer offer, of course, and ask for me to bring it to them as they had their aching knees elevated. Brad and I exit the clubhouse, make our way in the pitch-black dark (now that the tennis stadium lights were off) in the parking lot to the beer truck. Brad hoists me up inside, and then climbs up after me. We don't have flashlights, and walkie-talkies don't do much in the way of illuminating the truck's inside. I fumble around for beer, find a case that still feels cold, and push it towards the truck door. Brad does the same with his case. We jump down, and schlep the cases towards the clubhouse.

Brace yourself. You're going to be embarrassed FOR ME.

I jimmy the door open with my foot, hold the door with my butt, swing the case around into the door frame, and walk in, leaving Brad to fend for himself. He makes it inside just in time to hear Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe bellow, "YOU BROUGHT US NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER?!?!"

I look down, and lo and behold, I'm holding a case of Sharp's beer. At that age, I didn't know MGD from PBR from Natty Light (I was a pretty lame drinker) and wasn't aware that the brand I found in the darkened truck was sold to pregnant ladies, old men who just "liked the taste" and others who didn't imbibe in the real thing anymore.

I blushed purple. Stammered a dorky explanation. Set the case on a nearby bar. Turned around, mumbling that I'd go find something else.

And, proceed to trip down the stairs leaving the clubhouse.

Yep. Insult—meet Injury.

I must admit, when I returned from the beer truck with a replacement ALCOHOL-FILLED case of beer, the guys were really nice, and made me feel marginally less stupid for the double whammy of embarrassing moments. And, signed a bunch of cool stuff for me.

And, asked me for my phone number at college because "we really would like to come to a UGA football game this fall." And, Jimmy Connors did actually call me and ask for tickets to the Georgia v. Tennessee game that fall. I hooked him up, and he didn't show. Sent me a basket of food and alcohol-filled wine to apologize for the no-show.

I saved his number on caller id the entire year.

Who's Your Paddy?

I'm Irish. See, proof above. And, my tongue is still a lovely shade of kelly green from all of the dye this weekend.

So is the Chicago River.
Mine is from beer.

Sliante!

More Room in the Fridge

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm an optimist.

I like to see the best in every situation, and sometimes it takes a bit of hard work to find it, and other times you just know.

This time was obvious.

Forget the wet jeans. Ignore the grey slush along every curb. Just disregard the salty roads and filthy cars. Totally let yourself get past the fridgid wind and horrid temperatures.

Enter: the optimist.

One reason to love huge snow storms, and the cold winters here in Chicago, is the simple fact that when hosting a party you can fit more in the fridge.

Why is that, you ask? Are the refrigerators bigger here? Nope.

Because there are front balconies* and back porches that keep your beer nice and cold. Throw a cooler out there filled with beer, and let the snow do its thing.

Although, to be honest, there have been a few frozen bottles when you forget about the poor beverages too long, but hey, a beer slushie never hurt anyone.

Maybe 7 Eleven should serve that flavor?

*Yes, that is an actual photo taken on the front balcony of a friend's apartment last night during the Super Bowl. Made the trips to the fridge a lot less frequent, and cut down on the chances that you'd lose your seat on the couch. I love snow.

Two Birthdays, Tiny Bottles

Ever the efficient lady, I love when you can knock out several celebrations at once. With my birthday landing just three days after the birth of Jesus, it always gives us days of reasons (excuses) to party. I'm now in St. Louis, celebrating even more.

Last night was my birthday, and seeing as I'm with my mom's ginormous family, there was no shortage of fun.

My aunt offered us "girl beers"—small, 7 oz. holiday dressed Bud Lights—and while they are petite and cute, I must admit that they make me a tad self-conscious.

It didn't take long for me to have several dead soldiers of "girl beers" lined up next to my place at the table. Had to move the evidence so no one counted them and started the "you must be the birthday girl" conversation. Not that anyone can blame me—I'm in a huge Irish family and right after taking your coat, you're handed a drink.

Tonight is O'Brien Christmas, which means yet another party.

There will be approximately 70 people there, I kid you not, ranging from 2'5" to 6'5"—and 15 months to, ahem, the older set. Lots of blondes, lots of freckles, lots of cute fashions, lots of loud voices, lots of hugging, lots of laughter.

There are doctors, pilots, writers, lawyers, designers, realtors, artists, marketers, web gurus, sales executives, retirees and hardworking stay-at-home moms. Oh, and one cousin that is so smart and successful but that no one quite understands what he does for a living. All we know is that is passport is full of stamps from countries that end in "stan." And I am pretty sure he's fluent in 9 languages. The rock climbing hydrogeologist will not be here this year, and that is a shame. His stories rock.

Gotta love family. I need to read up on everyone's kid's names just to be sure. Maybe I'll hold off on the girl beers until we've said our hellos, to ensure that no one is erroneously greeted.

Because tonight is NOT my birthday, and I can't play the birthday girl card anymore.

Too Much

At Costco, even the snow comes in bulk.

And, yes, I was insane enough to venture there last weekend, with a headache, to try to find one last gift that I've been seeking.

Big mistake. Huge.

I push my oversized card through their oversized aisles, and am trying my best to remember that this is the holiday season, and that means good cheer and tidings to men and all that, but I was on the verge of a breakdown.

Too hot, too many people, too few registers open, too much to drink the night before, too loud, too hard to find a parking space, too crabby.

And then I hear it. Holiday music tinkling out above the rest of the din. I look around, and realize it is a a young boy, seated at the upright keyboard, and he was playing songs for the passersby. He couldn't have been more than 10, and he was playing brilliantly. Sweet look on his face, calm manner, just playing away.

He moved on from holiday numbers to assorted compositions you'd recognize (but that I can't name). It was beautiful.

I was moved, and momentarily forgot my distaste for the oversized giant of a headache-inducing place that is Costco on a Saturday in December.

I grabbed a case of beer, loaded the lumpy box into the cart, and made it to the checkout aisle. The bottom of the box was curiously weak, and somewhat damp, and I could only imagine what was hiding out on the bottom of my Stella Artois. But, it was the last case, and I had special friends coming in town that preferred the beer, so I went for it.

When I got home, and began to unload the beer into the fridge, I realize that not one, but TWO of the bottles were broken in their place, and the beer had clearly soaked through the box. Little dead soldiers still in their cardboard cells.

It was very sad. But, not worth driving back to Costco for, that's for sure. Tried to recall the sound of the music the boy played. I needed it to erase the sad sight of two broken bottles amidst all of the lovely green glass.

Drank one. That did the trick.