That was fun

Good times! I probably should be in worse shape than I am this morning. Earlier this week I was lamenting to Paul that I wanted to go out, have a few drinks and enjoy being silly for a few hours. There's one person who's perfect for job - Steven, my pseudo-brother-in-law. Steve is Paul's brother. Technically there is no title to affix to the brother of a brother-in-law, but I've known Steven almost as long as I've known Paul. I guess we just have to use the title of "friend".

So Sara, Steve, Paul, Megan and I went out last night. Actually, the four of us met up with Steve at Grandma's in Seven Corners. He had gone to the Twins game with some buddies, so Grandma's was a good location. It was really dead in there. We got there around 10:15, which is a little early granted, but when it didn't start filling up by 11:00 we decided to head across the street to Town Hall Brewery, which I've never been to. I'm not sure how I had made it to 30 in Minneapolis and never had a fishbowl, but that ended last night.

So we had a fishbowl. It tasted vaguely like grape-flavored Kool Aid or maybe even grape-flavored cold medicine you got when you were a kid. I don't particularly like grape, but if someone else is buying you just roll with the punches. And, honestly, about half-way through you don't really care what flavor it is anymore.

Poor Megs - she's more than five months pregnant and was playing the role of designated driver due to her inability to drink. That means she had to put up with our loud, obnoxious, drunk butts all night. What a trooper. Even Paul was drinking last night. That rarely happens. We all raised our eyebrows when he ordered his first Captain and Coke, but it's one of those things you don't want to bring attention to because you don't want him to feel self-conscious about it. By the end of the evening, as we were finishing off the fishbowl, Paul proclaimed that he had had quite a bit to drink. He's a funny kid.

Megan eventually decided that it was time to make the late-night food-run. We headed down to the Perkins, which had closed at midnight. Why on earth would they close at midnight? I don't get it. Although, I could see where they avoid a lot of the hassles of the neighborhood by closing. It may not be because they didn't make any money, it may be because the night-time crowd in that area might be a little rough.

So we did what anyone would do - we went to to White Castle on Lake Street. Instead of going through the drive thru, Megan had us go inside. It probably had something to do with the fact that all four of us were whining about needing to pee. Megan stayed in the car while we went in to order. We ran into Steven's friends inside and were shooting the breeze when Megan comes bustling in and says to the cashier:

"Your dumpster is on fire."

Our drunk butts all press our noses up against the windows of the White Castle and sure enough, there are three or four foot flames shooting up out of the dumpster in the parking lot. Well, there's something you don't see every day. The White Castle staff, at first, thought that Megan may have been another one of us drunk morons. I looked at the cashier and said very seriously, "She's pregnant, sober and our designated driver. If she's telling you your dumpster is on fire - it is."

At that point the White Castle staff went a little nuts. There were four of them. One, the cashier, was the mother hen. The one adult among the remaining three teenage staff members. One of the young guys went to grab the little fire extinguisher, which would have done nothing to cut those flames. The mother hen was hollering at him to stay away from the dumpster, that the fire was too big. It was a bit chaotic. Paul, Steven and Sara were standing outside watching the show. I was still inside because I had just ordered two hamburgers before Megan had come in and made her announcement. In order to get her staff back in line while we waited for the fire truck, the mother hen barked, "Let's get this customer her White Castles." The kids looked at her, a little incredulous. "Let's get this customer her White Castles," she repeated.

The register read $1.09 (you gotta love that value) so I handed her a five when she gave me my burgers. She smiled at me and said, "Thank you, ma'am." I nudged the bill at her again. She met my eyes and repeated, slowly, "No. Thank. You. Ma'am." I finally caught her drift and took my two free White Castles outside to watch the fire with my crew.

So we stood there in the cold, steam rising from the hamburgers, listing to the sounds of the approaching fire truck and watching the fire flicker in the dumpster, like a messed up bonfire.

What a fun night. God, I love living in Mpls.