Quite the dilemma. What is? My stay at a bar. Well what do you mean? It’s just overkill. Why am I even holding a dialog with myself? It’s not even a dialog if one is speaking, right? Does it then become a monolog?
Mon·o·logue: v. mon·o·logued, also mon·o·logged mon·o·logu·ing, mon·o·log·ging mon·o·logues, mon errr…..What’s worse than that?
mon o·log ic (-l j k) or mon o·log i·cal (- -k l) adj. mon o·logu ist (m n -lôg st, -l g -) or mo·nol o·gist (m -n l -j st, m n -lôg st, -l g -) n.
Definition: A long speech made by one person, often monopolizing a conversation. In other words, shut the ~^bleep~^~up already!
What blog doesn’t monopolize a conversation? It’s almost as bad as reading some long-winded email from a friend. Or it’s almost as worse as spying on someone else’s email if you’re just a ‘lurker’. Even worse, it’s like talking when nobody’s listening. Now I’m depressing myself.
Where was I? Oh did I just pull a “Mike”? Sorry. I’ll try not to follow his style. Nor will I tryta’pulla’Stevo cuzdatz jis’not cool. Jis' sayin...
All I want to do is show you some fricken pictures of last night and all I do is keep yapping away. My apologies. I’m apologizing on my own blog. I’ve been living in other people’s comment sections earlier today, and it was just a mess. Sorry to Mike—I think someone actually told him to moderate his comments. They even advised him to delete me. Oh I’m so depressed!
Okay. So last night was fun. Madelene and I went out to our favorite restaurant.
“Hey! Bellas! You ova’ at da’ bar! Take care of our new a’bartenda!” The owner says, in his deep Italian accent. I’ve known him forever. The first time I met him, I believe I was like eight years old or something. He was working at another restaurant as a busboy. Yep. He was pouring my water every single time I took a sip.
I felt bad. It was the bartender’s first day. Being a ‘fill in’ bartender from time to time and having experience in that type of work years ago, I felt his pain. Especially in this highly demanding restaurant—he had his hands full. Regulars come in there all the time---picky ass regulars who want their bread burned to a perfect crisp. Italian customers who will knit pick at the slightest error you make. These customers aren’t your typical restaurant going folk---they mean business. For the love of God---didn’t I say Italian???
So we head over to the bar area. A nice looking gentleman awaits us with the typical white shirt, tie, slacks and even a dishrag hanging out of his pocket. It was actually nice seeing a little testosterone behind that bar. I love all my female bartenders who serve me there—and know every single thing I’m going to order—food-wise and drink-wise, but this was different. I enjoyed him. (No, I didn’t eat him up like a steak!)
I guess the bartender was nervous. He was pacing back and forth asking for help. The cash register was one of those touch-screen computers. I know them all too well, and wanted to help—but each system is designed so differently. Plus, I didn’t want to let him know I noticed him struggling. I waited in between drinks for him to figure things out, before I said, “Scuse’ me? Can I bother you for another chardonnay?” all low and sweet, so he wouldn’t get nervous.
Madelene orders are Michelob Light Ultra. What the??? What’s the point? It’s pure water to me. What’s wrong with an Amstel Light—which has a taste of a real beer? And—the truth is, there’s not much difference calorie-wise and carb-wise. Just a little tweek in their advertising—and BAM—you’re a sheep to those low-carb cults.
Anyway, after four fishbowl-like goblets full of chardonnay, the owner ventures behind the bar to help out the new guy a little.
“I a’knew a’Deb-bie when I was a’only a busboy! She a’always treated me with a’respect and talked to me. Her a’family treated me so a’nicely!” He says, to the bartender loudly, so that I would hear.
”More water please!” I said, jokingly. Now he’s a proud owner of a very successful restaurant. He came a long way from being a busboy straight from Italy—to owning one of the best restaurants around the area.
There’s not one person who sits at this bar, who doesn’t order something to eat. It’s not possible with the good food they have there. We’re friends with some of the regulars who come strolling in for their quick dinner before they go back home to their wives. It’s usually a bunch of older Italian men surrounding the bar, unless the wife convinced one of them to bring them along. We always receive that old man perverted stare from across the bar. It’s okay though. I’d rather have one their looks than a ‘one eyebrow up--come hither-type of look’ from a younger guy. That’s just awful.
I’m tanked at this point. I didn’t eat much all day, and the alcohol took center stage. I figured I’d order my espresso with Sambuka to sober me up a little. I know Stevo, you don’t like that word either. It’s offensive. I’ll try not to use ‘sober’ anymore.
How can you go wrong with a little espresso? Well—yeah, it did have a large cordial glass full of Sambuka on the side. Let me tell you, I had one of the most ‘highest’ drunks ever! I was talking a mile a minute and I believe I was twitching almost. One of the old men probably thought it was a wink—not sure. Probably why I found a phone number in my pocket. “If a woman answers, hang up!”
There I am---laughing and giggling amongst all that testosterone flying in the air. You know it’s last call once the camera comes out. Oh yeah! That’s when Madelene needs to take my drunk ass back home where it belongs. I start taking pictures of the owner. He’s very modest. I told him I was going to plaster his face all over the net.
Last call, and we were all still talking and laughing—having a great time. This was the owner's attempt to call AA for me. He knew there was a major concern. The smile on his face is somewhat insulting, almost as if he doesn’t want me back at his bar anymore. Maybe he wanted to go home since it was almost closing time.
I can just hear him now, “Please a’take her outa’ here now! I can’t a’take it anymore!”
Naw, he wouldn’t do that to me. Or would he? We eventually left the bar, so they could go back to their lives and go home. Madelene and I continued our own little party at home. What the hell was I thinking? More cocktails on the way! I couldn’t believe it. I don’t even remember it. Apparently I had sex at some point of the evening. When you have to be told what happened the night before, that’s when you know you have a problem. But for me? It’s not a problem---I like forgetting sometimes. (But not the sex part—I wish I could remember that.) Of course it was with Madelene! I hear you all talking!
Needless to say, I am very hungover today. I took my much needed nap---thank you very much Mike for suggesting that… I promised pictures—so pictures you have. My eyes look like little slits and my smile is just way too wide. Drunk…ass!
I woke up this morning half crocked. I went to see my mother downstairs. I was shaking. “You cold mama?” My mother asked. Yes she calls me “mama’. It’s a term of endearment. Shush!... I explained to her that I was hungover.
That question is almost as bad as asking someone while their sleeping—“Are you sleeping?” Even when I come home and she’s outside where I park my car, she’ll ask, “Ya home?”
NO! I’m still out, I’ll be back later!
Gotta love her though. Wouldn’t have her any other way. Even if she does ask me the strangest questions.
“Have a drink—it’ll calm you.” She says, suggesting that I make a bloody mary. I couldn’t even think about having one. The thought nauseated me.
“Hey Deb!!! You gotta come and see what I got for ya!” My father calls out from his smoking room. I walk in and he’s shaking something uncontrollably.
“Dad? Whaddya’ doing?”
”I boughtchoo’ dese’ flashlights that need no batteries! All you do is shake em’ up and they light up like anything’!” He says, as he’s still shaking this God awful flashlight.
”I gotta’whole case of em’!” He says, proudly.
My mother shot him a look like he was some sort of madman packrat. He’s become an infomercial addict. He’s already got a truckload of the Magic Chef and probably ten cases of little keychain flashlights. This is worse than my drinking problem.
“Here—shake it and watch it light up!” He says, as his eyes light up like a kid’s.
I shook it. I was tired. I was shaking already due to the alcohol withdrawal. It was all I could do to yell, “You’re a crazy sonova’bitch!” But I love my dad, and it’s sort of comical watching him go through this psychotic phase of his.
“Ya fatha’ keeps buyin’ all dese’contraptions and junk on T.V. Debs!” My mother says, as she shakes her head in disapproval. That was my indicator that I needed to head back up to my apartment and sleep whatever alcohol I had left in my system off.
I hope you enjoyed my shameful evening. Oh no—wait---another big contradiction—or wait—an oxymoron that I can add to the list of names to call myself: The Christian republican lesbian alcoholic. That can’t sit right with you---unless you’re a ‘left winger’---they always love to see drunken republicans making a fools of themselves.
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