Temperate Evenings

The past two weeks, Margarita Mondays have been pretty notable.

After hearing so much about the weekly ritual, last week, my parents and family friends the Litkes came for the festivities. They were met with a couple of surprises, which us regulars usually call "tradition." First of all, we sit outside every week, no matter how cold it is, because it's what we do. Although my family is comprised of natives of Connecticut a significantly colder climate, I should have warned them of our location ahead of time so they could wear sufficient layers. They looked apprehensive about the seating when I first informed them, but then swore it would be fine. I suspected otherwise since there were repeated claims of "I'm not even cold" and "It's really not that bad" -- in other words, the lady doth protest too much. It's hard to not feel the cold when we're all hyper-aware of the temperature.

Which leads me to the other prominent tradition. Since we sit outside diagonally from a big bank sign that displays the time and temperature, we keep constant tabs on what the temperature is. As the night progresses, each time the temperature goes down a degree, we cheers and clink our glasses and take a sip. When the temperature is a palindrome, we take two sips. If the temperature should ever go up a degree, you have to chug your drink. My parents found this to be a riot, but I call it adapting to our environment. The more we drink, the warmer we feel, thus inversely increasing our body heat as the outer temperature drops. By the end of the night, my parents were alerting everyone if the temperature dropped, leading off the cheers. It was cute.

Fifteen to twenty of my friends showed up, and in spite of the fact that the phrase "skinny bitch" was used an inordinate amount of times, everything went smoothly. After I accidentally insinuated that Ms. Litke was old (it came out wrong, I swear), there were a couple of threats from her to tell embarrassing childhood stories that thankfully never came to fruition.

My dad insisted on paying for everyone, which was a kind gesture, but I think a somewhat odd position to be in for twenty-somethings who earn their own meager paychecks. Before he left he bought a lot of people food and more than 30 margaritas, but still found the bill to be less than he and the Litkes had paid for a dinner for four any other night out during their vacation. That seems farfetched, but between the $2 a margarita and half-price appetizers, I suppose it's quite feasible. Margarita Mondays is our thrifty heaven. I'm glad I could -- without incident -- expose my parents to our weekly routine.

This past week, we had to pay for our own margaritas. Again: $2 -- we can deal. Though we figured it would never happen, defying logic, the temperature this week actually increased a degree. Most people went about downing their drinks. Having just replenished my drink, I refused. I'm not a chugger and there was no way I could do it. I felt like a poor sport, but I'm also not one to give in to peer pressure. I was heckled and harassed, but I did not finish the drink. But kudos to all of those who bit the bullet and finished.

The highlight of the evening came at the conclusion of the night, when the restaurant goes into Club Casa mode and cheesy techno remixes come on. Allison and I grooved to some weird ditties then sat down, only to have the most amazing thing I have ever heard begin to play: my favorite song, "Zombie" by the Cranberries, but the techno version. It was simultaneously horrid and awesome. Though Allison and I are usually the only two dancing fools, all ten people there got up and screamed and boogied. We found a red carpet and soul trained down it (with outstretched zombie arms, of course) and I reveled in the serendipity of it all. Three of my favorite things in life, "Zombie," margaritas, and dorky dancing, combined to form one of the best moments of my life.

What's in my head? Euphoria.