June 29th - Barcelona Atlanta @ Inman Park

A few days ago, Metro Atlanta received an official heat advisory from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I couldn't quite comprehend how the temperature could manage to get any hotter than what it already was. It's been summer since early March. We barely had a winter and there had been absolutely no spring. The trees were utterly confused. Left with no choice but to bloom bigger, stronger, greener. Fortify for the supposed armageddon in December.


Lo and behold the temperature dial read 109 degrees on the car's dash as I motored to last night's happy hour meetup. Shit. Drinking in this heat? Why? When I handed my keys to the valet at Barcelona Atlanta, the dial had inched up to 111 degrees. God help us all.

The bar/restaurant was full of people. Speaking at the top of their lungs because everyone else was speaking at the top of their lungs. There is no such thing as an "indoor voice" at a bar. I ordered a white wine sangria. No way I was gonna suck all the moisture from my face with some dry death concoction tonight. Damned adult acne. I looked around the establishment.  There was the after-work crowd with their pressed button downs and belted slacks. Their sleek, sophisticated dresses. They looked like they had been here for hours.  There was also a random group of women with a very young baby. I couldn't make up any reason in my head to explain why they were here with an infant so I turned away from them before they caught me staring. There was the wait staff playing with their phones, waiting for more people to squeeze themselves into a place which was rapidly becoming the place to be.  Everyone seemed to be drinking mojitos.


This was the second time I'd been been here and I'm sure I would return again at some later date. Whether they eventually offered a bona fide drink special or not. There was just something about the place. It had this understated sex appeal. This casual elegance. And each time I uttered its name, I would let the combo of consonants and vowels  lazily roll off of my tongue. I'm meeting some ladies at Barcelona. We're having cocktails and tapas at Barcelona. Perhaps, we should make reservations at Barcelona. (Note to self: Look up vacation destinations in Spain.)




As soon as my party of professional gals convened, we fell into an easy conversation on careers, parenting, politics and marriage. A few weeks ago, I'd scolded my husband for assuming that all women talk about are relationships. However, as I listened and contributed to the fray I had to admit that he was right. At this age, everything about life is an application of self to whatever particular relationship. In our younger days, we take our encounters with life for granted. As we grow older, we also grow into this state of double consciousness. We live our lives and we watch ourselves live our lives. Sometimes with delight. Sometimes with disgust. Sometimes with wonderment. Always with resolve. We recognize ourselves as others recount their tales. We often have the same reaction in tragedy or in triumph. We laugh. We order another round. We eat our tapas and sop up alioli with bread. We change the subject.



I stole away to the restroom, which I must say is one of the oddest features of Barcelona. Instead of having a men's and women's communal setup with individual stalls, there is one private restroom for a single male and two such restrooms for women. Initially, I thought this to be rather inconvenient for anyone who had a dire toilet-related emergency. However,  as I waited outside of one of the women's rooms for my turn, I couldn't help but imagine coming here one night with my husband and surreptitiously snatching him into this bathroom for an impromptu slap and tickle after trying two or three of those mojitos. As I entered the bathroom, I giggled at the picture on the wall. I think Barcelona winked at me.  


 I returned to the table, laughed as the ladies ogled some strapping  young man walk by outside, paid my check and then ventured back out into the lake of fire temperature to retrieve my car. Feeling sentimental, I held onto to the logo-stamped matches I'd grabbed while exiting. Yeah, I'd definitely go back.

June 23rd - Highland and Ponce

For an introverted nightlife addict, being in  an ideal romantic relationship can be a double-edged sword. On one hand, love is bliss and leaving the home seems totally unnecessary because Hubby and I get each other's jokes and have great conversations and so on and so forth.  On the other hand, we never leave the house. While we sometimes begrudge the idea of making social dates outside of the ones we are constantly making with each other, we need them. So last night, I invited a good friend to go for drinks in celebration of her landing a new gig. KM and I had both worked for the equivalent of hell on earth together. While I'd told hell what it could do with its job back in April , she'd gotten the chance to do the same just a few days ago. Now hell's failure would be complete. 

Tyrome Jerome's Cuz is available @ 678-680-3543.

I was initially thinking Loca Luna but I figured why not be a little more adventurous by doing some barhopping along Highland Avenue. The thing I love about Atlanta is that all throughout the city there are these great little pedestrian-friendly neighborhoods featuring deceptively large homes, shops, markets and surprisingly awesome restaurants and bars. Virginia Highlands is definitely one such place. Hubby and I had ventured to its Surin of Thailand on numerous occasions but I had yet to visit such places as Neighbors Pub, Blind Willie's, Limerick Junction or Dark Horse Tavern. These venues often offer live acts during weeknights and exceptional happy hour specials. Plus this particular part of Highland Avenue made for excellent people watching. After parking in a great spot around the corner, we immediately ran into Tyrome Jerome's Cuz  pictured left. Apparently, Tyrome Jerome's Cuz is available for parties and special events. He gave us a card and wished us well in our imbibing pursuits. 

Guy behind the bar makes a helluva dirty martini.

Because Blind Willie's was charging a cover, we went next door to Limerick Junction. I had my signature Ketel One dirty martini with extra olives. KM had Johnny Walker Red on the rocks. We shared some curry fries. Okay, that particular martini was the best martini I have had since I moved here to Atlanta. The fries were also top notch. While we were there, we sat at this little table facing the street to check out the passersby. Earlier that night, I'd convinced KM to wear comfy shoes so she'd have a better time in lieu of being in pain by putting style first. This wonderfully dressed young woman came walking by with her date and it was evident that she was in a great deal of agony. Her extraordinarily cute shoes were really killing both her and her dates chances for having a good night. He was wearing flip flops. KM high-fived me.


We settled up at Limerick Junction and moved down the street to Neighbors. For some reason, we got the sense that it was either a gay bar or at least a gay-friendly establishment. Not that it being gay friendly or not was necessarily relevant, it's just that I notice I have a habit of accidentally finding myself in gay bars and I thought it prudent to be informed this time around.  Before updating our respective Facebook statuses, I leaned over and asked the guys at the table next to us. They replied with an emphatic "no" and asked why we assumed they were gay. I told them that I thought nothing of the sort and figured they would either be there because it was or was not a gay bar. They looked around at the other tables and concluded that it was indeed an acceptable assumption to make because all of the tables were sexually homogeneous. We laughed. God, the South. People have been gay since the beginning of time, but for some reason Southerners refuse to accept those "unholy" antics of their friends, coworkers, cousins and yes, neighbors. Also, to be confused for a card-carrying member is just unforgivable. Frankly, I think that all of the controversy over any adult's sexual preference is rather gay. Let's just live and let live, shall we?


After another not-as-good-as-the-one-at-Limerick dirty martini , I gave one of the guys some tips on how to party for free during his upcoming trip to Vegas. I asked for some recommendations on good Atlanta nightlife spots and they told me that I'd just have to drive around the city and try my luck although nothing was going to quite live up to the debauchery I'd experienced in Sin City. By the way, why had I left Las Vegas they inquired. For love and marriage. (I missed Hubby right at that moment. Damn this being married to Mr. Right.) We bid the dudes farewell, strolled back to the car and then moved on to the final party of the night at the infamous Clermont Lounge just around the corner on Ponce De Leon. 

Is that a guy hanging off the side of the roof?

I'd visited Clermont Lounge previously on karaoke (Tuesday) night but never on a Saturday night. The place was really jumping. While this one naked chick was making her pectoral muscle individually bounce her left boob at the bar, KM and I had a very pleasant conversation with a 48-year-old mother of three visiting from Tulsa. She was here for a business conference and was delightfully tipsy after drinking two vodka cranberries. We asked her what her secret was for looking so good for her age. She said it was happiness. I don't know. I kind of wanted to slap her for saying that. I knew plenty of happy fat people.


The DJ arrived shortly after and we contributed our bodies to the crowd on the dance floor for quite some time before making our exit. The funny thing about Clermont Lounge  (other than the fact  that it is a dive strip bar featuring strippers who will never grace the covers of Playboy, Hustler, XXL or any men's magazine featuring ideally attractive women) is that so many professional 30 and up year old people come there to dance and have a good time. We're pretty sure we spotted a Georgia Congressman. If it wasn't for the fact that there seemed to be no central air, I suppose we could have stayed well into the wee hours of the night. Alas, I had to get KM's drunk ass home  and return to my own personal wedded bliss. I had no business being out gallivanting in the first place. (Wink)