Just Your Average Wednesday

You would think Wednesdays at a bar would be rather dull, but they're not.  At all.

More Self Discovery

I have discovered more things about myself: 1.  I have an attitude "problem", and 2.  I drink like a real champ up against seasoned veterans (white guys who work for the federal government).  

On Discovery 1: so, I thought my outfit for work was cute: a bright yellow bikini top and little boxer short-shorts.  I had my hair up in a side bun with a swoosh falling over my eye.  I did look cute, but my boss told me that my shorts weren't appealing and said, "you're not going to work with that bun are you?"  I said nothing, and turned to do his bidding.  Kind of rude of me.  Then, as I was taking out bobby pins, I said to one of the other bartenders, "this is ridiculous.  I look good no matter what I'm wearing or how my hair is."  Eep.  Pretty Girl Syndrome: thinking you can get away with whatever you want because you're attractive.  <--Not attractive.

On Discovery 2: there were these two older white men, standing towards the back of the bar.  They finally came over and sat at the end towards the middle of the night.  "You finally got tired of standing around and decided to sit down, huh?" I winked.  

"I've been coming here for little over a year and I always stand over to the side," he answered.

"Intimidated by the bar?" I flirted.

Because I called him out about standing away from the action, he challenged me to go shot for shot with him, my choice.  ...So of course I chose Jameson.  No one thinks the little girl with bright eyes and a big smile can down the whiskey without a problem.  This guy takes his shot and pulls the most twisted face; I'm standing there, still smiling.  We do two more and I'm still standing with my equilibrium intact; he's slurring his words and heavily leaning on the bar for support.  <-- You don't want it with me at a bar, son!  Oh!  And his friend said my boxers were cute.  Humph!

I'm getting more and more mercenary too, but it's only in the bar.  That same drunk white guy had a stack of singles beside his drink.  The other bartender came over to him to ask him if he wanted anything else to drink and he shook his head and looked at the stack of money, "I don't know whose money this is though.  It's not mine; it must be yours."

She started to shake her head, but I grabbed it and said, "take it, girl!  He said it must be yours!"

...Yeah.  'Cause we all split tips at the end of the night.  You better take that money.

Why I Can't Date Outside of My (American) Culture

I can date outside of my race; I can't date outside of the American culture.  It's been my experience and observation that men of other cultures are more controlling and don't let their women have any independence; everything is done on their terms.  I'm an American woman: I don't play those games.

We had a new bartender come in today, but she left after like an hour.  Why did she leave?  Her boyfriend came in and gave her the Macho Man Stare.  Her boyfriend came in, said nothing to her... just stood against the back wall and looked over at her, maybe once, as she was standing by the register... and within minutes, she was out of her bikini, into her street clothes, and out of the bar, into his car.  Her boyfriend, not even her husband.

I'll be damned if some man I'm not even in a secure relationship with dictates what I do with me life; controls me with a look.  You must be outta your mind, sir.  And she had been talking earlier about how when she used to strip, she used to pull in $1,300 a week, but he made her stop.  ...Again: if you're clearly capable of supporting yourself, why are you allowing anyone to take that away from you?

Hood Girl Logic

So of course, one of the other bartenders reprises this at the end of the night and adds her own Tales From the Hood anecdote on the end of it:

"That's why my mother told me: leave a man with a wet ass and an empty wallet."

I'm not entirely sure what the wet ass part means.  I was thinking the catchphrase means something like, "clean him up and clean him out," or "turn him out and clean him out."  Whatever.

One of the bartenders is a suburban girl like me, and also like me, she just laughs at the way the other two say things.  Sometimes I'll chime in with my own Hood Girl Logic too though.

One was talking to a customer about penis size by race.  "Man, I can't mess with no Puerto Ricans, they all got little dicks."

"Well, you messed with the wrong Puerto Ricans, then," the customer said.

"Yeah, you can't go by race," I shook my head.  "I messed with a dark, chocolate dude and his jont was like..." (I pulled a face and put my thumb and index finger about two inches apart).  <--True story.  I was The Most upset.  You wonder why I never called you back?  Look down.  What's that?  You don't see anything?  Exactly.

Tongue Twister

So, I'm serving this guy, and out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of a lot of silver in his mouth.

"Wait a minute.  What is going on in your mouth?" I asked.

He stuck out his tongue, and lo and behold: not one, not two, but THREE tongue rings were inside.  Curiosity warred with disgust.  I'm sure tongue rings have their uses, but I'm really not turned on by a guy with piercings beyond the ear.  Tattoos are cool... piercings... I just can't get over them.  It took me 18 years to get my ears done for a reason: the idea of metal going through the body just makes me shiver.  He was cute, otherwise.

"You think these would get caught in your braces?" he asked me.

"Probably," I answered.

"They might... if I was an amateur."

"And you're a pro, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that... but I'm far from an amateur."

Alright bud.  

All Worked Up for Nothing!

Which brings me to: flirting and dancing all night is not good for sexual frustrations.  Seriously, it's like getting all worked up for nothing again and again and again.  If I had a steady, reliable boo... trust: he'd be reaping the benefits of my job.  I don't know how much longer I can take this!  

Prime Example:

Dude with the tongue rings: I'm feeling kinda hungry.

Me: Oh really?  And what would you like to eat?

Tongue Twista:  Depends what's on the menu.

Me:  (singing) The best you eva had; the best you eva had.

THAT is my job.  And not that I would take them up on it, but it's frustrating to have men (just the CUTE men, though) telling you all the wicked, wicked things they would do to you and for you and then go home and not get anything.  Sigh.  Keeping my standards up.

Tip Jar:

If you don't have to work hard for your tip, don't.  These two guys probably spent 1/4 of their paycheck in the bar... just kept passing out ones.  One of them even said, "don't say thank you, just keep dancing."  Fine by me.  And for part of the time, I was just standing there.  You must be trippin if you don't think I spent a good chunk of my time with him, standing there, taking dollars.  Thank you for paying my rent with no sweat equity paid by me!

PS:

YES!!  They played WALE - CHILLIN up in the bar in WAAAAY uptown NY!  DC, baby!