Spring Has Sprung, That Bastard

I met up with a confederacy of co-workers (not a single one of them dunces) for happy hour in Hell's Kitchen last week. We were shooting our collective shit at some Yelp-recommended watering hole, quaffing our way through a nifty craft-beer menu and dissecting everything from social media metrics to the inherent charm of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, when the conversation turned to how glad everyone was that spring had arrived. Naturally, because I can be a bit of a social misfit — and because I had already consumed two Ommegangs, which is usually the point at which I start to say things that make others say "Omme-god!" — I blurted out, "I hate spring!"

There are many things I am (this is the part where you keep your thoughts to yourself and keep reading), but "spring-lover" is not one of them. I'm nocturnal, maternal, I keep a journal, I'm just not ... vernal.

OK, I don't really HATE spring, because:

It's just that, comparatively speaking, spring is really quite meh.

This is the part where I explain my equinox enmity in great detail. In a VERY particular descending order (because approaching spring is akin to a long, slow, tortured descent into Hades), here are my official rankings of the seasons from best to worst:

AUTUMN
SUMMER
WINTER
SPRING

"Dang, you should've at least stylized SPRING in all green," you're thinking. "Have some fucking RESPECT. Seasons have feelings, too!"

Like it's that easy. As I ponder these things and rely on my visceral reactions to guide my seasonal favoritism, it's instantly apparent that my most intense memories emerge from the first three only.

Autumn is the easy favorite. There's the brilliant foliage, the bonfire-conducive temperatures, the distinctive bouquet of wood-burning fireplaces, the caramel apples, the fall seafood festivals here on the Island (tell me you've never filled a plastic soda bottle with multicolored sand while devouring fresh littlenecks and local wine — TELL ME!), the lead-up to Halloween and Thanksgiving (more eating, please!).

Summer is an oh-so-close second. Because summer means the beach. That's about it, because that's all you need. Well, there are also the barbecues and daytrips to Fire Island and catching fireflies and s'mores and fireworks and even the got-damn cicadas, the sound of which lulls me to sleep better than my fancy sound machine.

Most people don't get my third-place ranking of winter, because winter is The Horrible. After that first really pretty snowfall we get here on the Island, resulting in Facebook feeds more saturated with overexcited posts about precipitation than they should be, most of us are done. All that snow represents to our transportation-dependent region are crappy LIE commutes, delayed LIRR trains (though these also regularly take place when it rains, hails, and the sun shines), and stunning illustrations of how town highway offices still don't have their shit together after at least a century of dealing with this stuff. But, despite these truths, I love the extremes that winter brings. The high-key photo opps, the beauty of an icicle in the sunlight, the desolate beachfront after a new snow, the way our cheeks feel after coming in from a day of sledding, a red cardinal juxtaposed against a blanket of white, the eerie way that every sound cuts through a winter day's silence.

And then ... there's spring. Spring doesn't bust its way in with a blizzard or a heat wave: It simply la-dee-das into existence, like the docile ungulate it is. I mean, what kind of milquetoast are you if you have a Death Cab for Cutie song named after you? (the song isn't technically about spring, but go with me. I need this).

Here's a better way of illustrating this: Today (meaning yesterday, because I'm writing this at 2 a.m. on Sunday), on this fine spring day, I cleaned up the shit in my yard. I donned my workgloves and picked up brush and dead leaves and deflated swimming pools  and leftover plastic Easter eggs minus their candy spoils and other mostly nonidentifiable debris forced between the fence posts from Hurricane Sandy. I then wandered the aisles of Home Depot, eyeing a Japanese maple or two that I'm going to attempt to plant tomorrow (meaning today) in my latest home-improvement fever dream.

This is my routine every spring. As soon as the ecological and astronomical reckoning begins, I'm inspired to renew, rejuvenate, resurrect. This phenomenon usually involves me impulsively planting things that eventually die, or similar gardening/landscaping projects that turn into spectacular fails, because they aren't designed for impatient impulsivity. I've spent hours exuberantly raking red decorative rocks over flower beds, only to realize I never put the weed-retardant tarp down first. I've unsuccessfully tried to transplant hostas. I've rooted ornamental shrubbery shaped like pom-poms and birthday cakes and within weeks watched them morph into unruly, uncontrollable beast-bushes, because I have no clue how to wield a hedge-trimmer (though I've tried that, too, to mixed results). I've wasted countless hours and cash attempting to replicate the professional-looking curb appeal generated by my apparently handier neighbors, who hide their green thumbs in Smith and Hawken workgloves, not Target-brand workgloves (because you KNOW that's the root of my dilemma).

Yet, as the Earth starts tilting toward the sun, so does my brain's equilibrium — everything suddenly seems unbalanced yet exciting, unpredictable yet hopeful. Despite my previous failures, I'm impregnated with irrepressible optimism. I find myself once more swathed in sunlight, digging in the dirt after four or five months of brooding and digging in the dirt in a metaphorical sense. I'm once more marveling at unearthed ant colonies, listening to my feathered friends (yo, my peeps!) setting up shop after their long Southern sojourn. I start fiercely absorbing and assimilating all of the season's amenities into my stubborn double helixes so I cease being the cranky shut-in I've transformed into during that long, third-place winter. I'm suddenly fixing things. Feeling good about life. Trying again.

Ah. I see what you just did there. You're the worst, Spring. But that personified, initial-capped shout-out signifies my newfound respect. You're not half-bad after all.

If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go.

Beer Me, Mr. President!

I especially like this image because the custom T-shirt company that owns it has copyrighted text that makes no grammatical sense. 

*Updated February 20, 2017

It's President's Week — let's talk politics and beer! "But how can you link two such disparate subjects, Jenn?" Let me tell you: I'm going to have (at least) one high-ABV beer tonight (Dogfish's World Wide Stout, to be specific). Anything's possible, friends.

Let's start the aggregating. I'd be remiss if I didn't start by mentioning that our erstwhile commander-in-chief enjoys a good quaff now and again. President Obama imbibed his way down the 2012 campaign trail, handily defeating Mitt Romney with his brilliant social-drinking strategy (among other strategic devices — Jesus, I'm kidding, partisans!). He even debuted a recipe for his own honeylicious White House brew. (George Washington also had a scrumptious-sounding recipe for "small beer" that can be found in the New York Public Library's archives.)

Next we have BuzzFeed's pictorial of presidents drinking beer. Make sure you don't miss the shot about halfway down of the guy dumping a can of hops over Nixon's head. I also found this Reagan photo nestled snugly in Google Images between a pensive George Dubya pounding a pint and Obama drinking what appears to be a luscious Guinness milkshake — go Gipper!

Clay Risen's article covers ALL of the hooch (not just the beer) found behind past POTUS bars, but it's a fun, quick read. Where else will you come across these words, in this exact order: "Barack Obama doesn't just home-brew beer. He IS a home-brewed beer." Bill Clinton is a "Fresca spiked with old Grand-Dad," in case you're wondering. Mitt Romney is a Shirley Temple.

In October 2014, the New York Post ran a complete list of every president's drink of choice, which contained some interesting facts and more than a few recipes (the "McKinley's Delight" includes absinthe, if you're looking to hit it out of the park at your Presidents Day party).

My favorite post, though, is "The 11th Drunkest Presidents in US History." If you want to know which of our forefathers drank beer for breakfast, which president boasted an "Andre the Giant–like tolerance" to his spirits, and which libation-loving leader headed over to the local distillery every Sunday morning for a 10-gallon jug of whiskey, this is what you should be perusing while you're shoving those greasy eggs down your throat during that Monday-morning hair-of-the-dog thing you do.

Draft magazine tempers it a bit by simply listing the 12 presidents "that would be amazing Oval Office drinking buddies." 

Want to know why they called Rutherford B. Hayes' wife "Lemonade Lucy?" You'll have to read Rick Lyke's rankings of the best and worst presidents for beer. (Hint: She didn't earn her nickname in a Mike's Hard Lemonade kind of way.)

This is a more complete VinePair ranking of all 50 presidents in terms of their booziness, and surprisingly, teeetotaler Donald Trump doesn't come in last.

Don't forget those who feel compelled to drink when they're around presidents. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has admitted to throwing a few back not once, but twice right before Obama's State of the Union addresses. This is why we may need to get an RBG tattoo.

In a shoutout to beer snobs everywhere, the definitive proof that George Washington wouldn't be caught dead drinking a Coors Lite can be found here.

There have even been entire political parties formed around beer — including, much to my delight, the Ukrainian Beer Lovers Party, a short-lived totalitarian initiative dedicated to beer and ONLY the beer, comrades. And also to "the awakening and raise of the people's dignitiy through the cultural education." [SIC] 

So drink up. It's what William Howard Taft (the "Bluto of American presidents," according to Risen's analysis) would want you to do. Here are a few presidential/politically themed beers to get you through the long four-day workweek (longer if you have an unpatriotic employer). There were far fewer than I thought there would be, which makes me sad and longing to drink whatever nonpresidential beer I have left in my fridge. If you know of any others that might fit into this category, please let me know for future roundups. 

If you don't trust my admittedly unscientific vetting procedure (typing a slew of SEO-friendly terms into search engines) for these "recommendations," check out this infographic to see which pilsners and porters you should be pouring down your parched pharynx based on your politics. I'm drunk. Huzzah!

POTUS Potables

Fireside Chat is a spiced English ale usually only available during the holiday season. I've tried it, because I'm a sucker for kindly looking FDRs in pleasing red smoking jackets, but it's not that great. I think an intern stirred it with cousin Teddy's Big Stick. The only thing we have to fear is the beer itself!

I'm too young to personally remember Billy Beer, but this train wreck of a brand endorsed by President Jimmy Carter's hard-partying younger brother was epic. I suspect it wasn't very good, since this Mental Floss story reveals that Billy would get wasted at promotional events for the product and then admit to reporters that he still sucked down PBR at home. I wasn't going to include it in this list, because it's not available for purchase anymore that I know of (except for HERE), but the tale of its spectacular marketing fail will intoxicate you.

What are the 50 most patriotic beers in the US of A? Wouldn't you like to know. (Yes, you would, which is why you will now click on this link to find out.)

Lame, right? But this photo made me laugh, because it looks like the shell has its arm around the beer like they're pals, and Portlandia is on in 10 minutes. Aren't you glad I didn't write about telecommuting? Conch!