Here I am, back again! I am terribly sorry to simply flop off from my blog, but the warm weather called for much prancing about in the out-of-doors. Also, as you go to hear much about, I am working as a bar-tender once a week. This kills two full work-days, as I do nothing but prepare to tend one day and recover from said tending the next day. I have risen from my prone position on this day to again assist all of my delight-ful readers in a most precarious art...
How Not To Piss Off Your Bartender(oh my goodness, look, I can make things in Bold!)
1. Let's start with tipping. Just this past evening, I had a lovely young woman purchase from me one Stella Artois, for which we charge $5 (plus tax). "That'll be five-fifty total, ma'am," I said. She carefully counted out one, two, three, four, five, six bills and graciously handed them to me. "Keep all the change," she said, grinning magnanimously.
May I simply say, fifty cents is not an adequate tip on a five-dollar beer, unless you wish that your karma bring you back as a knock-off brand box of Depends undergarments.
2. Did you come out with your friends? It is SO nice to have friends, huh? Now, look around. How many friends did you bring? Did you bring two or three? Well, okay, give me three credit cards and I will run three separate tabs and not think too badly of you. Now. Did you bring eight friends, like the group I had last night? First off, just don't, don't, don't give me eight different cards. If you HAVE to do that, then do NOT send a different person up each time for drinks. Think I'm an idiot? YOU try matching up the Person Ordering + Which Card + The Drink I Already Matched to One Person. Equals (=) Fuck all you guys.
3. Really quickly, about that idiot part: never assume that someone who serves you ANYTHING you put in your mouth is un-educated, stupid, un-savvy, or un-worthy of your precious non-serving time. We can tell, people. It's, um, kind of obvious. And it makes me seriously, um, want to kill you.
3a. About that non-educated thing. I realize that one does not need higher-level education to bar-tend. I realize now that one does not need higher-level education to do anything I am Doing With My Life.*
*Because of this conversation I had with my mom two days after my birthday.
Me: Jack's dad was a lot more friendly to me after he found out I had a B.A. I mean (chuckling) I'm not sure what it is about me that makes me look UN-college educated.
The Woman What Gave Me Birth: Well, the job you do doesn't require a degree. Most people just do that to get themselves through school, or they do it because they can only do menial labor jobs.
Me: (brief stunned silence) Right...I was just surprised that he...
Who Should Love Me More Than Anyone, Ever: You just don't want your child to be with someone who's going to drag them down. He's probably just worried that Jackie will be hampered by someone who isn't ambitious.
Me: (done)
4. SO. I recognize that I do several Stupid People jobs. I certainly understand why someone would look at me and think what apparently both my mother and Jackie's father do. Naturally, bar-tending demands huge patience, stamina, math skills, and every scrap of Social Nicety I've got, but it's trashy. I mean, sure, nannying takes immense amounts of love, creativity, patience, and (perhaps) just a smidgen of intelligence, but it is of course menial. I am just, after all, raising someone's child.
5. Whew! SOMEONE needed to blog, huh? Goodness gracious, didn't realize we had THAT in there. Back to the original point, proper care and tipping of bar-tender.
6. I really love numbered lists.
7. Let's take a minute to talk about ordering. In some places, you may certainly and with no worry what-so-ever order a "Cape Cod". You can tell which places these are by whether or not the tables are covered with cloths, and whether or not there is a glut of Gays about. You can tell when NOT to do such a thing when (ahem)
a. the bartender is me
b. the bar actually sells Natty Light in
bottlesc. our fanciest beer is Stella Artois
d. the bar is sort of, well, sticky
e. Actually, fuck you, just don't do it. Order a god-damned Cranberry and vodka with a slice of lime. There is no need, oh modern-day Adam, to prissily name what is really just another combination of fruit and liquor. Cape Cod. Cape Cod, my dick.
8. Don't make faces at the beer list. I can't change it, and I will forever bear a little shard of hatred in my heart for the person who sneers at our $2 Miller High Life deal. Not good enough, Mr. Congressional Staffer? Get your ass back up the Hill then, you shiny-tied little bitch.
9. When it comes to Touching the Bar-tender.
Don't.
You may have noticed soft and gentle caresses exchanged 'cross the bar betwixt me and other patrons. These are a. friends or b. big, big tippers. Do be warned, though, that big tips do not affection for you make. You can tip big and still be a monumental ass-hat (which means no gentle caress for you, ah-ha!)
10. No matter how much you tip me, no matter who you know, no matter your four-day bender on crystal meth and cocaine, no matter your deeply-rooted issues with women....never, never, never, ever, but NEVER touch my ass. I have a baseball bat behind this bar, and I won't use it, but I will tell the manager and the owner and all the other bar-tenders about it and oh my GOODNESS Mark the THINGS they were saying about you last night after you left!!!
11. Last and final, and perhaps a jumping-off point for the next one: Straight Man Customer...HEY.
STRAIGHT GUY!! You listening? Do not talk to me about how you are a "lesbian trapped in a man's body". I see that you're just trying to, you know, build a Bridge Of Understanding between us, but you're actually just being ignorant and obnoxious. Lesbian? In a man's body? THAT'S BEING A
STRAIGHT MAN, YOU DIPPING SHIT.
Good luck to you all in your future bar-going endeavours, and remember: the drink passes through my hands before it hits your lips.
And you don't know where they've been, do you?