A few things that people have asked from me as a bartender:
1) "Get me a Genesis please"
You know how things go on in your head much faster than they do in real time? This was one of those moments for me. I was thinking, primarily, Geez, that's a new one. What's in that shot? And also, would that be Peter Gabriel Genesis or post-PG Genesis? And even still in that split second, supposing I did have a direct connection to the Godhead, is it actually possible that I could manage a real genesis all over again? (I was really thinking about how I might be able to pull that off, by the way, which should give you a good idea of my level of insanity). What would the repercussions of such a move be? Haven't we learned from the first one that the experiment has gone completely awry? I was thinking about how to cleverly respond to this demand while still politely asking him what was in this new drink when he must have read the look of total confusion on my face and condescendingly repeated, "A Genesis!" and pointed to the large brown tap handle on the far side of my beer tower. Before I even had the chance to give him the verbal equivalent of a total smack-down, his friend knocked him on the head and said, "Do you mean a GUINESS, you idiot!?"
2) "I need another Limbic"
Yeah, I thought, I'll bet you do. Your brain is obviously not wired properly because you don't know the difference between a system comprised of certain brain matter and nerves and a fermentation style of Belgian Ales. Luckily for this jackass, the only LAMBIC I had was a Lineman's Frambois, so I knew just what he really wanted. For that chick he was with. Who was not going to put out for him. At all.
3) "Can I get a ling-ling?"
Me: NO! If you can't say it, you can't have one.
It's Yuengling
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
I Told You So
As so predicted, I knew the past few weeks would bring (the most unholy of) hosts of tidbits with which I could extrapolate upon in terms of how one should behave and not behave when they are at the bar. As I was working, I would come upon one situation after another that I deemed worthy of writing about. There have been several nights and several parties that produced enough fodder to keep me going well into the New Year. So you might be thinking, "Finally, she's updating that stupid little blog of hers and she will entertain me with her observations, sarcasm and wit for days to come!"
Well, uh ... you don't know me very well, do you? See, I forget a very large majority of the things I was so anxious to post about. At times I thought I should write them all down as they happened; taken notes, if you will. Of course, what you may not realize is that anything I write down when I am bartending goes either a) into my pants pocket to be eventually washed out in the laundry tub because the only thing that's important enough to take out of my pockets after work is the cash that I made or b) stuffed into my work bag which is basically akin to jettisoning something off into space, i.e., I'm never going to see it again, until I perform my twice yearly (Spring and Autumn) "Cleaning Out of The Work Bag Ritual" at which point all things I've written on little pieces on thermal paper have been rendered completely useless.
So that's where I am. I've posted, so there. But it may not be what you wanted to read. Sorry. I guess I'll go ahead (just because I'm not finished my beer yet) with some of my general, long-standing observations. We'll do this in standard outline form, complete with Roman numerals, upper and lower case letters, etc., just because I feel like it and I haven't done it since high school.
HOW TO BEHAVE AT THE BAR
I. Know what you want
A. Don't ever, ever, EVER get the attention of a bartender unless you know what you and/or your companions want to drink.
i. The main bar where I work is probably about 45 feet long (I have spatial issues, don't sweat the measurements) and I can't tell you how many times I have been at one end of the bar and noticed some guy way down at the other end doing jumping jacks and screaming "Hey! Hey You!" and then once I get down there and ask what I can get for him he just shrugs and says, "Uhhhh ... I dunno," then turns to his buddy and asks, "What do you want?" NO! No, no, no, no, NO! Bartenders don't care if more people are meeting you at the bar later, they don't care if you're not sure that chick with Jerry wants a Coors Light or a Miller Lite, they don't care about that time back in college when you and Smugly did thirteen rip chords apiece in the backyard of the Sigma Chi house. Bartenders want to know what you want to drink. They want to make your drinks and then they want you to pay for your drinks(II. below) and then they want you to leave an appropriate gratuity behind (III. below).
a. If you cannot comprehend the whole Order+Pay+Leave a Decent Tip=You're Not a Jackass equation, then I suggest you stick to doing rip chords in the backyard of the Sigma Chi house. Loser.
II. Have your money ready.
A. Don't fumble around with your coat or your wallet after you order drinks. Your payment should be in your hand before you even think about getting the bartender's attention.
B. It's like this: when you buy something, you pay for it. It's a very simple capitalistic transaction.
i. Would you walk into a Lexus dealer and ask for the keys to a GX SUV and then expect to drive it off the lot without some kind of monetary compensation? Would you go into Macy's, or WalMart for that matter and just grab something off the shelf, and try to stroll around the other stores at the (strip)mall? Do you ever buy something online and hit the "Okay, I'll just pay you later for this" button? I didn't think so. You buy, you pay. Simple, right? When you order a drink in the bar, don't look at the bartender like a leper begging for change. Pay Up!
ii. You want to run a tab? Super! That's fine. Just give us a credit card to hold the tab, okay? It's like insurance. Sure you and your buddies are all going to pitch in and pay cash at the end. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that .. well, okay, I don't trust you. But even if you are well-meaning, that still doesn't mean you won't all lose your heads and forget to pay the $115 bar tab after slowly slinking out of the building one by one.
III. Tipping
A. Is not a city in China
B. I obviously have a lot to say about this subject, but I'm not ready to do it on this post. Remember that beer I wasn't finished with earlier that stared this whole thing? Well, it's gone now and I don't want another one. If there's anything that bartenders crave other than a little understanding and heavy tips, it's bed. The sweet sanctity of sleep and dreams. And I need to claim a few hours before I wake up and do it all over again. So bye!
Happy Solstice/Yule!
Terri's Tip of the Day: Just sleep will you? If it's late at night, log off the computer and go to sleep. If it's early in the morning, go back to bed. If you're at work, snooze in your cube. If you're at the bar, find someone to take you home so you can go to bed. All I Want For Christmas Is Sleep.
Well, uh ... you don't know me very well, do you? See, I forget a very large majority of the things I was so anxious to post about. At times I thought I should write them all down as they happened; taken notes, if you will. Of course, what you may not realize is that anything I write down when I am bartending goes either a) into my pants pocket to be eventually washed out in the laundry tub because the only thing that's important enough to take out of my pockets after work is the cash that I made or b) stuffed into my work bag which is basically akin to jettisoning something off into space, i.e., I'm never going to see it again, until I perform my twice yearly (Spring and Autumn) "Cleaning Out of The Work Bag Ritual" at which point all things I've written on little pieces on thermal paper have been rendered completely useless.
So that's where I am. I've posted, so there. But it may not be what you wanted to read. Sorry. I guess I'll go ahead (just because I'm not finished my beer yet) with some of my general, long-standing observations. We'll do this in standard outline form, complete with Roman numerals, upper and lower case letters, etc., just because I feel like it and I haven't done it since high school.
HOW TO BEHAVE AT THE BAR
I. Know what you want
A. Don't ever, ever, EVER get the attention of a bartender unless you know what you and/or your companions want to drink.
i. The main bar where I work is probably about 45 feet long (I have spatial issues, don't sweat the measurements) and I can't tell you how many times I have been at one end of the bar and noticed some guy way down at the other end doing jumping jacks and screaming "Hey! Hey You!" and then once I get down there and ask what I can get for him he just shrugs and says, "Uhhhh ... I dunno," then turns to his buddy and asks, "What do you want?" NO! No, no, no, no, NO! Bartenders don't care if more people are meeting you at the bar later, they don't care if you're not sure that chick with Jerry wants a Coors Light or a Miller Lite, they don't care about that time back in college when you and Smugly did thirteen rip chords apiece in the backyard of the Sigma Chi house. Bartenders want to know what you want to drink. They want to make your drinks and then they want you to pay for your drinks(II. below) and then they want you to leave an appropriate gratuity behind (III. below).
a. If you cannot comprehend the whole Order+Pay+Leave a Decent Tip=You're Not a Jackass equation, then I suggest you stick to doing rip chords in the backyard of the Sigma Chi house. Loser.
II. Have your money ready.
A. Don't fumble around with your coat or your wallet after you order drinks. Your payment should be in your hand before you even think about getting the bartender's attention.
B. It's like this: when you buy something, you pay for it. It's a very simple capitalistic transaction.
i. Would you walk into a Lexus dealer and ask for the keys to a GX SUV and then expect to drive it off the lot without some kind of monetary compensation? Would you go into Macy's, or WalMart for that matter and just grab something off the shelf, and try to stroll around the other stores at the (strip)mall? Do you ever buy something online and hit the "Okay, I'll just pay you later for this" button? I didn't think so. You buy, you pay. Simple, right? When you order a drink in the bar, don't look at the bartender like a leper begging for change. Pay Up!
ii. You want to run a tab? Super! That's fine. Just give us a credit card to hold the tab, okay? It's like insurance. Sure you and your buddies are all going to pitch in and pay cash at the end. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that .. well, okay, I don't trust you. But even if you are well-meaning, that still doesn't mean you won't all lose your heads and forget to pay the $115 bar tab after slowly slinking out of the building one by one.
III. Tipping
A. Is not a city in China
B. I obviously have a lot to say about this subject, but I'm not ready to do it on this post. Remember that beer I wasn't finished with earlier that stared this whole thing? Well, it's gone now and I don't want another one. If there's anything that bartenders crave other than a little understanding and heavy tips, it's bed. The sweet sanctity of sleep and dreams. And I need to claim a few hours before I wake up and do it all over again. So bye!
Happy Solstice/Yule!
Terri's Tip of the Day: Just sleep will you? If it's late at night, log off the computer and go to sleep. If it's early in the morning, go back to bed. If you're at work, snooze in your cube. If you're at the bar, find someone to take you home so you can go to bed. All I Want For Christmas Is Sleep.
Friday, December 1, 2006
On the Intention of Boys, Why I Drink So Much, and Malfuntioning Breathalyzer Equipment
(This is an old post from an old source but since I know that Mom might be reading, I've cleaned it up. A little. Though not nearly as much as one might think I should, knowing my mother will be reading this.)
So I was in the bar where I work enjoying some adult malted beverages, which I think sounds a bit more sophisticated than "getting hammered" which is what I was actually doing. Almost every time I am at work, whether actually working or patronizing, I end up talking to someone, usually male, about all kinds of facsinatingly interesting stuff. I can’t help it. I actually brought a grown man to tears one night. His friend, who was driving him home, told him it was time to go. He said to me, “You’re blowing my mind with the things you say. I don’t want to leave you!” I’m like, Whoa dude! Whatever. Beat it. I have to leave soon myself or else my husband is going to be pissed.
See, inevitably the fact that I am married and/or have children enters into the discussion. More often than not, that pretty much puts an end to the conversation. I was talking to this one guy a few months ago for about forty-five minutes in between waiting on other customers at the bar. Someone I know came up next to him and asked to see a picture of my kids. I brought it out. The guy looked at it too.
GUY: So you have kids, huh?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Are you married?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Happily?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Well I’m going to let you get back to work now. I’m going over to talk to my friends.
ME: Bye.
The guy usually thinks he just wasted so much time working towards getting himself laid only to realize that it won’t be happening with ME. I’m thinking that you can’t really fault me for anything. Am I supposed to wear a sign that says, “Will Talk, But Will Not Fuck You For a Million Dollars” or something? No. That’s not fair. I think HE should wear a sign that says “Only Looking To Bang Some Drunk Chick. Please Don’t Say Anything To Me Unless You Are Willing or Might Become Willing if I Get You Completely Wasted.”
My point is this: Why can’t two adults simply engage in enlightening conversation? Why does there always have to be the hint of potential copulation lurking in the background? It’s really disheartening to me. I think that we would be more productive as a species if we could have a healthy exchange of ideas and a reasonable dialogue to make changes in the world without some guy nodding in earnest at some chick but thinking in his head, “Wow, this girl has some crazy ideas about how we can improve the lives of farmers in impoverished nations. . . I wonder if she’s this crazy in the sack?”
Like this guy Wednesday night. He said he was from Panama. I’ll give him credit, at one point he flat out asked me what I was doing later, that the only reason he was out here was because some other guy said there would be a lot of drunk chicks. As it happened the bar was beat that night. I think I might have been the only drunk chick in there. We were just talking about all kinds of crazy shit. But like I said, about halfway through the night, he was straight up honest that he needed to be having sex with SOMEONE that very night. I made it glaringly apparent that he would not, under any circumstances, be having it with me. That didn’t stop him though. He started getting touchy/feely, which really skeeves me out. If you don’t know me, don’t touch me.
So I started talking about how Panama used to be a part of Columbia and the only reason they even got to be a country was because Teddy Roosevelt needed a place to build his canal. I thought maybe it would bruise his patriotism, make him not like me so much anymore and back off. Nope. I went over to the back bar where my friends/regular customers were sitting; he followed me. I went upstairs; he followed me. Man! This guy was persistent. At one point I was telling him to be careful driving back to his hotel, as the particular stretch of road upon which he had to travel was fascistly patrolled by one rookie State Trooper who does everything ‘by the book.’ He asked me if I felt safe going home and I told him I did. Then he laid his hand on top of mine and looked me in the eyes and said, “You really feel safe? You feel safe walking out of here tonight?” That’s right about when I fled upstairs to completely get away from him. I mean WTF? That seemed like a threat to me. Ef that. Freak. He finally left. For that I was most thankful.
I guess it serves me right, I shouldn’t talk to guys in bars. Ever. It’s just that I like hearing other people’s points of view, their thoughts and feelings and ideas. I’m completely facsinated by what goes on in other people’s brains because I don’t think like normal people. Aside from the mess I got myself into described above, I had a pretty fun night. I was actually talking to lots of different people about lots of different things.
I’m beginning to become concerned with this talking to people in bars thing because my worst fear is to say something stupid. Unfortunately, I tend to do that all too often, but mostly when I’ve been drinking. At another point of this particular Wednesday I was with a guy I work with talking to this older couple who were boozing at the upstairs bar. The next day, the guy from work said to me, “We were talking about some serious shit” [or something like that] “Do you remember what we were talking about?” And I’m like, “SHIT! NO! Did I say anything stupid!” He claims I didn’t. I can only pray . . .
But this all brings me to the second phase of this post; Why I Drink So Much. It really is a problem. And I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to be a full-fledged alcoholic or worse yet, a recovering alcoholic. I can’t imagine never drinking booze again. That would flat out suck.
I just don’t seem to know when to stop. Correction: most of the time I DO know when to stop, I just keep going anyway. And I think I figured out why I do this. I am SO afraid of saying something stupid that I figure if I am frequently engaged in the actual act of beverage comsumption, I can’t possibly be speaking. That’s why I feel I constantly have to have an inverted bottle of Miller Lite in my mouth or my bottom lip supporting the rim of an overflowing shot glass.
On this particular night in question I didn’t really have THAT much to drink. I started with an abnormally large shot(s?) of Jaegermeifster. Then I had two pints of Troegs and a pub can of Chocolate Stoudt. After that I figured I better lay off the alcohol. So I had a Miller Lite. And then another. And then another (and a shot of Jaeger). Then a few more Miller Lites and maybe another shot or two and possibly another Miller Lite. I remember being really tired so I lined up three bar stools and to lie down. My ususal M.O. is to crash on one of the pool tables but I think there may have been actual patrons using them at the time. My co-worker/the bartender asked if I was okay because apparently I was on my back with my arms sticking straight up in the air. Like a dead bug. [This is an actual Yoga pose. Though for me to honestly say I was doing Yoga at this point in time would be, well, false.]
I finally left, after getting a walk out from my friend (because I envisioned that creepy Panama guy jumping out from behind a tree), got in my car and went home. Without incident. Again.
I’ve got to tell you, the gods of drunk driving have looked down upon me with favor too many times to count. Sure, I might have put a dent or two in a vehicle or two (or as one friend once said, “What happened to your car? It looks like you’ve been running Nascar or something”). But my record is untarnished by a DUI. I’ve never had to call my husband from jail in the middle of the night. And I was thinking all day Thursday how sooner or later the gods WILL ask me to pay up if I step over some invisible line, which is unmarked and unknown to me. That brings me to the third and final phase of this post . . .The Malfunctioning Breathalizer.
I worked Thursday night and got done at a reasonable hour so I decided to go and see my friend’s new apartment. Upon entering the place I was greeted by a Jaeger Bomb and a Miller Lite. We were hanging out and someone had the brilliant idea that we should go catch last call at the bar down the road and I should, actually was, the only one with the capability to, drive. The Voice of Reason in my head (man, I freaking HATE that thing) said, “Nope. Bad idea. Just stay here for a bit. Then be on your way home.” When I opened my mouth to repeat the words of The Voice of Reason, the weirdest thing happened; this is what came out: “Good idea, come on, let’s hurry.” FUCK! What did I just say? I’m absolutely RETARDED! When we got to the bar the bartender just shook his head, as in “No Way. You missed last call. Too late.” But we’re in the business. We know the rules. It was still before two. The boys talked our way onto barstools complete with drinks sitting in front of us. We dropped the name of a mutual friend and I think it maybe also had something to do with that Andrew Jackson guy. And his twin brother. I only had one Miller Lite (I think) and a few (I think) sips of a Jaeger Bomb. Then we were on our way back to the apartment.
Let me tell you something about Malvern. I used to spend a great deal of time with the wrong crowd loitering in Malvern as a young teen. There was an arcade and the Mobil station sold cigarettes for eighty-five cents a pack. This was a time when the government wasn’t all that weird about selling cigarettes to fourteen-year-old girls. Maybe if there were such restrictions then as there are now, I wouldn't be as close to death as I currently am. Anyway, back then Malvern was known as a One Stop Light Town. These days Malvern is known as a One Stop Light and Four or Five New Stop Signs Town. It was one of these Stop Signs that very nearly brought my life as I know it to a screetching, sobering halt.
We were pulling into the apartment complex when I noticed the flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I immediately thought, “Thank merciful Jesus I’m not completely wasted.” But then it dawned on me that I had been drinking and very well could be over the legal limit. That fight or flight response kicked in to the point that my Blood Adrenaline Content could very well surpass and nudge out the Blood Alcohol Content.
Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: No officer, actually I don’t.
Cop: You failed to make a complete stop back at that stop sign.
My friend in the passenger seat: {cough, cough} BULLSHIT!
Oh hell! Here we go! I’m FUCKED! In my friend’s defense, he obviously had more to drink than I and was still reeling from a previous encounter, involving alcohol and the operation of a motor vehicle, with that rookie State Trooper I mentioned earlier in this post. The cop shined the flashlight in his face and gave an obligatory “Excuse ME!?!?” But luckily that quickly blew over. I looked over and my friend had a picture of my grandfather in a swing chair on the porch of his home in the midwest. My friend just explained that he thought it was bullshit that the man in the photo was my grandfather. Good cover Pop Pop!
I told the cop I was dropping off my friends; we had been at work and stopped at the bar for a few. I had to get out of the car and do the Breathalyzer test. As I said, I was about 50/50 here. A little nervous but also somewhat confident I may actually be under the limit. I blew the first time.
COP: It doesn’t look good Teresa.
Me: No?
COP: No. It says point-one-two.
My blood pressure started rising.
COP: We’re going to do this again. You really have to wrap your lips around it tightly and blow really hard.
Hmmm. That sounds a little sexually suggestive. Maybe I can sue him for harassment. I blew again. I see the little display read: .88
ME: Shouldn’t I be dead? That CAN’T be right.
COP: Yeah something’s wrong with this thing. Hold on.
He started shaking it and tapping it and whatnot.
I blew again - .88
Again - .88
Again - .88
Again - .88
He released the little plastic thing you put your mouth on and let it fall to the ground. The tree hugger in me was appalled.
ME: Oh! Don’t litter. Can I pick that up? I’m going to pick that up.
COP: Leave it alone! Don’t touch it!
He got a new plastic thingy and put it on. As if THAT had anything at all to do with why his shit wasn’t working.
Again - .88
Again - .88
COP: Let me ask you something. After you drop your friends off, where are you going?
ME: Well I was going to go home, but I guess I’ll stay for a little while and give myself some more time before I drive.
COP: No. You’re staying till morning. Park your car right over there. I’ll be checking on it and if I see it gone, I’ll find you.
ME: Yes sir.
And that was that.
I remember thinking during the whole thing how hard it would suck if I actually got busted when I wasn’t even really fucked up. I felt like saying to the cop, “You should have nailed me last night, because I was out of my fucking mind! I would have blown a .2 AT LEAST! I barely remember driving home for shit’s sake!” I don’t feel like transcribing the whole coversation I had with my husband immediately following this scene but it started like this: “The good news is I’m not in jail. But the bad news is I’m not allowed to drive home.”
So I guess that was my final wake-up call. I hope it was anyway. I’ve seen DUI charges majorly fuck with the lives of people I care deeply about. I really can’t afford it. In any sense of the word. I mean honestly, how bad would it look if I had to send my children to school with a note that says, “Please excuse the kids for their absence yesterday, but they missed the bus and I couldn’t drive them because my licensce is suspended for driving drunk.”
Yeah I think the party may be over. At least in the sense that I have to be more aware of the whole drinking/driving aspect. It’s time to be responsible. I have way too much to lose. I’m going to have to restrict my heavy drinking to times when:
a) I’m at home.
b) I’m out with friends and someone sober is driving me (which is never).
c) I can just crash for the night where ever I am (which, according to my husband, is never. Unless of course an officer of the law has ordered it, but I don’t ever want to be in that position again).
That or maybe there’s someone out there who wants to just drive me around and take me home when I’m plastered.
I can’t pay you.
But I’m very fun and interesting to talk to.
Terri's Tip of The Day: My mother just read this. Think about that. If you, for whatever reason, think that you have some kind of story to bribe me with, forget it. My mom has the most salaciously juicy stories about me that are possible. It's not a matter of what you can dig up to bribe me to keep from my mother; it's how much I can come up with to keep my mom from telling YOU!
So I was in the bar where I work enjoying some adult malted beverages, which I think sounds a bit more sophisticated than "getting hammered" which is what I was actually doing. Almost every time I am at work, whether actually working or patronizing, I end up talking to someone, usually male, about all kinds of facsinatingly interesting stuff. I can’t help it. I actually brought a grown man to tears one night. His friend, who was driving him home, told him it was time to go. He said to me, “You’re blowing my mind with the things you say. I don’t want to leave you!” I’m like, Whoa dude! Whatever. Beat it. I have to leave soon myself or else my husband is going to be pissed.
See, inevitably the fact that I am married and/or have children enters into the discussion. More often than not, that pretty much puts an end to the conversation. I was talking to this one guy a few months ago for about forty-five minutes in between waiting on other customers at the bar. Someone I know came up next to him and asked to see a picture of my kids. I brought it out. The guy looked at it too.
GUY: So you have kids, huh?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Are you married?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Happily?
ME: Yep.
GUY: Oh.
(Pause)
GUY: Well I’m going to let you get back to work now. I’m going over to talk to my friends.
ME: Bye.
The guy usually thinks he just wasted so much time working towards getting himself laid only to realize that it won’t be happening with ME. I’m thinking that you can’t really fault me for anything. Am I supposed to wear a sign that says, “Will Talk, But Will Not Fuck You For a Million Dollars” or something? No. That’s not fair. I think HE should wear a sign that says “Only Looking To Bang Some Drunk Chick. Please Don’t Say Anything To Me Unless You Are Willing or Might Become Willing if I Get You Completely Wasted.”
My point is this: Why can’t two adults simply engage in enlightening conversation? Why does there always have to be the hint of potential copulation lurking in the background? It’s really disheartening to me. I think that we would be more productive as a species if we could have a healthy exchange of ideas and a reasonable dialogue to make changes in the world without some guy nodding in earnest at some chick but thinking in his head, “Wow, this girl has some crazy ideas about how we can improve the lives of farmers in impoverished nations. . . I wonder if she’s this crazy in the sack?”
Like this guy Wednesday night. He said he was from Panama. I’ll give him credit, at one point he flat out asked me what I was doing later, that the only reason he was out here was because some other guy said there would be a lot of drunk chicks. As it happened the bar was beat that night. I think I might have been the only drunk chick in there. We were just talking about all kinds of crazy shit. But like I said, about halfway through the night, he was straight up honest that he needed to be having sex with SOMEONE that very night. I made it glaringly apparent that he would not, under any circumstances, be having it with me. That didn’t stop him though. He started getting touchy/feely, which really skeeves me out. If you don’t know me, don’t touch me.
So I started talking about how Panama used to be a part of Columbia and the only reason they even got to be a country was because Teddy Roosevelt needed a place to build his canal. I thought maybe it would bruise his patriotism, make him not like me so much anymore and back off. Nope. I went over to the back bar where my friends/regular customers were sitting; he followed me. I went upstairs; he followed me. Man! This guy was persistent. At one point I was telling him to be careful driving back to his hotel, as the particular stretch of road upon which he had to travel was fascistly patrolled by one rookie State Trooper who does everything ‘by the book.’ He asked me if I felt safe going home and I told him I did. Then he laid his hand on top of mine and looked me in the eyes and said, “You really feel safe? You feel safe walking out of here tonight?” That’s right about when I fled upstairs to completely get away from him. I mean WTF? That seemed like a threat to me. Ef that. Freak. He finally left. For that I was most thankful.
I guess it serves me right, I shouldn’t talk to guys in bars. Ever. It’s just that I like hearing other people’s points of view, their thoughts and feelings and ideas. I’m completely facsinated by what goes on in other people’s brains because I don’t think like normal people. Aside from the mess I got myself into described above, I had a pretty fun night. I was actually talking to lots of different people about lots of different things.
I’m beginning to become concerned with this talking to people in bars thing because my worst fear is to say something stupid. Unfortunately, I tend to do that all too often, but mostly when I’ve been drinking. At another point of this particular Wednesday I was with a guy I work with talking to this older couple who were boozing at the upstairs bar. The next day, the guy from work said to me, “We were talking about some serious shit” [or something like that] “Do you remember what we were talking about?” And I’m like, “SHIT! NO! Did I say anything stupid!” He claims I didn’t. I can only pray . . .
But this all brings me to the second phase of this post; Why I Drink So Much. It really is a problem. And I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to be a full-fledged alcoholic or worse yet, a recovering alcoholic. I can’t imagine never drinking booze again. That would flat out suck.
I just don’t seem to know when to stop. Correction: most of the time I DO know when to stop, I just keep going anyway. And I think I figured out why I do this. I am SO afraid of saying something stupid that I figure if I am frequently engaged in the actual act of beverage comsumption, I can’t possibly be speaking. That’s why I feel I constantly have to have an inverted bottle of Miller Lite in my mouth or my bottom lip supporting the rim of an overflowing shot glass.
On this particular night in question I didn’t really have THAT much to drink. I started with an abnormally large shot(s?) of Jaegermeifster. Then I had two pints of Troegs and a pub can of Chocolate Stoudt. After that I figured I better lay off the alcohol. So I had a Miller Lite. And then another. And then another (and a shot of Jaeger). Then a few more Miller Lites and maybe another shot or two and possibly another Miller Lite. I remember being really tired so I lined up three bar stools and to lie down. My ususal M.O. is to crash on one of the pool tables but I think there may have been actual patrons using them at the time. My co-worker/the bartender asked if I was okay because apparently I was on my back with my arms sticking straight up in the air. Like a dead bug. [This is an actual Yoga pose. Though for me to honestly say I was doing Yoga at this point in time would be, well, false.]
I finally left, after getting a walk out from my friend (because I envisioned that creepy Panama guy jumping out from behind a tree), got in my car and went home. Without incident. Again.
I’ve got to tell you, the gods of drunk driving have looked down upon me with favor too many times to count. Sure, I might have put a dent or two in a vehicle or two (or as one friend once said, “What happened to your car? It looks like you’ve been running Nascar or something”). But my record is untarnished by a DUI. I’ve never had to call my husband from jail in the middle of the night. And I was thinking all day Thursday how sooner or later the gods WILL ask me to pay up if I step over some invisible line, which is unmarked and unknown to me. That brings me to the third and final phase of this post . . .The Malfunctioning Breathalizer.
I worked Thursday night and got done at a reasonable hour so I decided to go and see my friend’s new apartment. Upon entering the place I was greeted by a Jaeger Bomb and a Miller Lite. We were hanging out and someone had the brilliant idea that we should go catch last call at the bar down the road and I should, actually was, the only one with the capability to, drive. The Voice of Reason in my head (man, I freaking HATE that thing) said, “Nope. Bad idea. Just stay here for a bit. Then be on your way home.” When I opened my mouth to repeat the words of The Voice of Reason, the weirdest thing happened; this is what came out: “Good idea, come on, let’s hurry.” FUCK! What did I just say? I’m absolutely RETARDED! When we got to the bar the bartender just shook his head, as in “No Way. You missed last call. Too late.” But we’re in the business. We know the rules. It was still before two. The boys talked our way onto barstools complete with drinks sitting in front of us. We dropped the name of a mutual friend and I think it maybe also had something to do with that Andrew Jackson guy. And his twin brother. I only had one Miller Lite (I think) and a few (I think) sips of a Jaeger Bomb. Then we were on our way back to the apartment.
Let me tell you something about Malvern. I used to spend a great deal of time with the wrong crowd loitering in Malvern as a young teen. There was an arcade and the Mobil station sold cigarettes for eighty-five cents a pack. This was a time when the government wasn’t all that weird about selling cigarettes to fourteen-year-old girls. Maybe if there were such restrictions then as there are now, I wouldn't be as close to death as I currently am. Anyway, back then Malvern was known as a One Stop Light Town. These days Malvern is known as a One Stop Light and Four or Five New Stop Signs Town. It was one of these Stop Signs that very nearly brought my life as I know it to a screetching, sobering halt.
We were pulling into the apartment complex when I noticed the flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I immediately thought, “Thank merciful Jesus I’m not completely wasted.” But then it dawned on me that I had been drinking and very well could be over the legal limit. That fight or flight response kicked in to the point that my Blood Adrenaline Content could very well surpass and nudge out the Blood Alcohol Content.
Cop: Do you know why I pulled you over?
Me: No officer, actually I don’t.
Cop: You failed to make a complete stop back at that stop sign.
My friend in the passenger seat: {cough, cough} BULLSHIT!
Oh hell! Here we go! I’m FUCKED! In my friend’s defense, he obviously had more to drink than I and was still reeling from a previous encounter, involving alcohol and the operation of a motor vehicle, with that rookie State Trooper I mentioned earlier in this post. The cop shined the flashlight in his face and gave an obligatory “Excuse ME!?!?” But luckily that quickly blew over. I looked over and my friend had a picture of my grandfather in a swing chair on the porch of his home in the midwest. My friend just explained that he thought it was bullshit that the man in the photo was my grandfather. Good cover Pop Pop!
I told the cop I was dropping off my friends; we had been at work and stopped at the bar for a few. I had to get out of the car and do the Breathalyzer test. As I said, I was about 50/50 here. A little nervous but also somewhat confident I may actually be under the limit. I blew the first time.
COP: It doesn’t look good Teresa.
Me: No?
COP: No. It says point-one-two.
My blood pressure started rising.
COP: We’re going to do this again. You really have to wrap your lips around it tightly and blow really hard.
Hmmm. That sounds a little sexually suggestive. Maybe I can sue him for harassment. I blew again. I see the little display read: .88
ME: Shouldn’t I be dead? That CAN’T be right.
COP: Yeah something’s wrong with this thing. Hold on.
He started shaking it and tapping it and whatnot.
I blew again - .88
Again - .88
Again - .88
Again - .88
He released the little plastic thing you put your mouth on and let it fall to the ground. The tree hugger in me was appalled.
ME: Oh! Don’t litter. Can I pick that up? I’m going to pick that up.
COP: Leave it alone! Don’t touch it!
He got a new plastic thingy and put it on. As if THAT had anything at all to do with why his shit wasn’t working.
Again - .88
Again - .88
COP: Let me ask you something. After you drop your friends off, where are you going?
ME: Well I was going to go home, but I guess I’ll stay for a little while and give myself some more time before I drive.
COP: No. You’re staying till morning. Park your car right over there. I’ll be checking on it and if I see it gone, I’ll find you.
ME: Yes sir.
And that was that.
I remember thinking during the whole thing how hard it would suck if I actually got busted when I wasn’t even really fucked up. I felt like saying to the cop, “You should have nailed me last night, because I was out of my fucking mind! I would have blown a .2 AT LEAST! I barely remember driving home for shit’s sake!” I don’t feel like transcribing the whole coversation I had with my husband immediately following this scene but it started like this: “The good news is I’m not in jail. But the bad news is I’m not allowed to drive home.”
So I guess that was my final wake-up call. I hope it was anyway. I’ve seen DUI charges majorly fuck with the lives of people I care deeply about. I really can’t afford it. In any sense of the word. I mean honestly, how bad would it look if I had to send my children to school with a note that says, “Please excuse the kids for their absence yesterday, but they missed the bus and I couldn’t drive them because my licensce is suspended for driving drunk.”
Yeah I think the party may be over. At least in the sense that I have to be more aware of the whole drinking/driving aspect. It’s time to be responsible. I have way too much to lose. I’m going to have to restrict my heavy drinking to times when:
a) I’m at home.
b) I’m out with friends and someone sober is driving me (which is never).
c) I can just crash for the night where ever I am (which, according to my husband, is never. Unless of course an officer of the law has ordered it, but I don’t ever want to be in that position again).
That or maybe there’s someone out there who wants to just drive me around and take me home when I’m plastered.
I can’t pay you.
But I’m very fun and interesting to talk to.
Terri's Tip of The Day: My mother just read this. Think about that. If you, for whatever reason, think that you have some kind of story to bribe me with, forget it. My mom has the most salaciously juicy stories about me that are possible. It's not a matter of what you can dig up to bribe me to keep from my mother; it's how much I can come up with to keep my mom from telling YOU!
I Came, I Saw, Used Your Computer and Drank All Your Beer
Work tonight was decent. Corporate bar tabs rule. I even was finished in time to go to the bar down the road. But after I had one beer, all of a sudden, I had missed last call and couldn't get anymore to drink. (Long story really, not getting into it here). But then I thought to myself, "Where can I go get drink at this hour?" And it dawned on me. Mom's! I went to my mom's/sister's house and since mom is in Boston (Hi MOM! How are the Brandy Old Fashions up there?), I didn't really feel badly about waking anybody up.
I didn't wake anyone up mind you, I just wanted some high-speed internet access (we still have dial-up at home) and a nightcap. I managed to finish the previous post and scour the refrigerators for something to drink. It was somewhat disheartening. Sis gets growlers, which are big jugs of draft beer, to go. Lately she's prone to a jug of Bass and a jug of Guinness to mix black and tans. I was met by just that. Only it was the last little bit of Bass and the last little bit of Guinness in the fridge. My heart sank as I realized that it would be both totally inconsiderate and downright rude of me to drink the last of both sources of beer. But then I figured that, as Scarlett O'Hara says, "tomorrow is another day" and she can just come get more beer. From ME! At MY bar. So there was no more morality playing into it. I'll be seeing her tomorrow.
TerriTheBartender
Terri's Tip of The Day:
If you live between where I work and where I live, and you have booze, and I know how to get into your house, expect me. Eventually I will be there.
I didn't wake anyone up mind you, I just wanted some high-speed internet access (we still have dial-up at home) and a nightcap. I managed to finish the previous post and scour the refrigerators for something to drink. It was somewhat disheartening. Sis gets growlers, which are big jugs of draft beer, to go. Lately she's prone to a jug of Bass and a jug of Guinness to mix black and tans. I was met by just that. Only it was the last little bit of Bass and the last little bit of Guinness in the fridge. My heart sank as I realized that it would be both totally inconsiderate and downright rude of me to drink the last of both sources of beer. But then I figured that, as Scarlett O'Hara says, "tomorrow is another day" and she can just come get more beer. From ME! At MY bar. So there was no more morality playing into it. I'll be seeing her tomorrow.
TerriTheBartender
Terri's Tip of The Day:
If you live between where I work and where I live, and you have booze, and I know how to get into your house, expect me. Eventually I will be there.
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