The tall Irish/Norwegian woman opens the door a crack and moves in from the cold. She quietly slips into the welcoming warmth of the room and walks toward a corner, until she notices the rocket-propelled darts, and moves toward the southern hemisphere door instead. It's warm there, and as she is wrapped in many layers of clothing, quickly gets too hot. She removes her woolen hat, outer Gortex parka, a down vest, and a flannel shirt, then steps out of her boots and flannel lined snow pants to reveal a jeans and a soft fuzzy sweater.

"I thought I smelled some lutefisk, but there's also some boeuf here, I think," she says softly to herself. A quiet dyslexic, she sets her pile of discarded clothing against the wall and glances around to see if there was a monitor where she can catch up with the conversation before saying anything. Several tree ornaments rest quietly in her pocket until she's up to speed and is sure they will be welcome. She pulls a small jar of herring wine snacks out of the pocket of her parka and approaches the barkeep. She twists the jar open and places it on the bar.

"A red beer, please"

The bartender pulls out a can of tomato juice, pours two ounces into the bottom of the schooner, then fills it with beer on tap.

"Thanks," she mumbles, and steps back to the wall to watch the crowd and smell the wonderful aroma of food cooking. She thinks maybe she should go schmooze with the cook for a few minutes, and find out just what all is cooking back there and out front. In the time it took her to decide to enter the building so MUCH had happened. . .