Ooo, That Smurfs!

My brother visited this weekend, so young buck that he is, I figured we best get our drink on down in the city. We pretty much do this every time he visits, but Baltimore has a few distinct drinkin' hoods (peppered with the occasional slum in between). So people can visit us more than once and we do not necessarily have to visit the same old haunts. This Saturday, I decided on Federal Hill.

In my old age (we'll get to more on this later), I have finally managed to learn some new tricks. I have successfully found consistently free parking just a tad off the beaten path. Of course, typing this makes it seem as though it was an easy task. Au Contrair: In past efforts I have: paid mucho dinero to park in a garage that closed before the band we went to see stopped playing; paid mucho dinero for a parking ticket AFTER a friend and I both agreed the parking space was legal - this due to novella posted on street signs indicating when you can and cannot park in the area; circled the blocks on an ever increasing radius from my ultimate destination in a car full of dimes finding naught but 30 minute meters which accepted nothing but quarters, exchanged dimes for quarters with random (possibly homeless) guy, then raced to destination to tell friends that I must leave in said amount of time; circled blocks in similar radius because parking garage with questionable hours was full, giving up and going home after about an hour; taken public transportation to nearest stop which requires walking through ghetto. So if you think I am going to post my newfound nugget of free parking bliss - you are sadly mistaken. Find it yourself.

But back to the drinkin'. We went first to the Pub Dog where I refrained from my diet as usual in favor of peach flavored beer and my ultimate vice - pizza. We had a round at the Dog, but decided to check out more of the local scene, so we asked for the check. And as I reached in my bag for my wallet, I realized I left it by the computer after ordering online herbal nose drops for my sickly cat. (I hope the reviews are accurate!) So, I know you must be thinkin', "Oh, poor you. It is so convenient not to be able to pay." And believe me, I hear your sarcasm, you Smarty Pantses. But honestly, it was not convenient for the following reasons: One, I truly felt bad that my younger brother had to pay for me, even though I knew I would pay him back when we got home. Two, you may have deduced that the 'Hill is more of a younger crowd. On a Saturday night, the place is packed with college co-eds and the occassional Bush twin. This means they post ID checkers outside most bars.

I sat totally composed when I was unaware that I didn't have ID, but once I knew, my brain began working in hyperdrive, trying to remember late seventies/early eighties trivia which might prove I had been alive at the time. Like many toddlers, however, I was not well versed in current events and the extent of my knowledge is obtained from those "when you were born" birthday cards. However, confidently remembering that I had pajamas and coloring books with Holly Hobby and Strawberry Shortcake themes, I went to the bouncer. I was fully prepared to spout out names of Smurfs like it was nobody's bu'ness.*

Me: "Sir, I unfortunately forgot my ID today, but this here is my little bro-"
He: (Interrupting me.) I just need to see his.

My brother flashed ID, and we were in. That was easy.

Actually, that was a little too easy. Like what the hell? Am I a Golden Girl or something? I mean, I'm a bit conflicted. I do not go to great lengths to cover up my age, and I'm not self-conscious about it - I am 31 by the way - but...I don't feel like I look that different from my 21 year old self. I went to the bathroom, searching the mirror for whatever it is that gives me away without a single "Where's the Beef?" or Cabbage Patch doll reference. Then I realize that I needn't go so far back. Twenty one years ago was freakin' 1988. We were into Coca-Cola wear and Swatch Watches by then. Bon Jovi was like, so two years ago.

Maybe I am getting a bit old. Ya know? It Smurfs.

*Jokey, Handy, Hefty, Papa Smurf, Smurfette, Brainy, Clumsy, Scaredy, Vanity, and...shoot. What was the name of the one with the Chef's hat?? Bakey? Cook-y? Dessert-y? Whatever, man. The point is, this is firsthand knowledge. Not some Generation X wannabe s**t picked up off a Cartoon Network. Don't even make me sing the "Picture Pages" song, cause it's on!

**Update: I woke up in a panic last night: Greedy. The chef smurf is Greedy.