Watercolor Memories of Memorial Day Weekend

Last week was fleet week in NYC. You know what that means? Gigantic ships docked along the West side, an increased police presence at the piers and alcoholic uniformed men roaming the streets in search of a party every night. In honor of Memorial Day, I served countless cocktails at a military discount, 86'd two underage sailors, and even carded a few Blue Angels (how was I to know how important those dudes are??). Most importantly, on my Sunday off, I attempted to challenge my own memory with an overabundance of alcohol. Isn't that what Memorial Day is all about? By now I've almost pieced the entire weekend together... I didn't lose my phone, my wallet or my relationship. Unfortunately I may have lost some dignity, my dinner and my ability to stand up and function on Monday, which was followed by losing my regular Monday night shift. Also lost: the desire to put vodka anywhere near my mouth ever again. I will return to my better side of the bar, behind it!, this weekend. I may or may not have mixed too many types of liquor, broken a few laws, and even urinated on the street (so I'm told) but I DID remember to tip my bartender. So learn from me, people. You can be as sloppy as you want to be. As long as you tip your bartender extra for putting up with your stupid ass. Some other memories will have to remain misplaced. But what can I say? Mission accomplished.

Let's talk crazy.

This one goes out to all the lunatics who are drawn to the bar like moths to a flame. Those nutty mother fuckers who walk in demanding drinks, lose their money, get into fights, talk loudly, lie pathologically, dance, laugh and cry - all within a matter of 60 seconds. This is how people get 86'd. I'm not against hearing a sad story here and there. "I've never met my father." "My son thinks I'm crazy." "No one loves me." "My girlfriend beats me." Blah Blah Blah. You're depressing everyone in here. And you just tipped me one dollar. Now, I might not be a licensed therapist, but I deserve more respect than that. You just tortured me for a fucking hour with your personal tale of woe and now I can't even afford to buy myself a candy bar? How am I supposed to console my mind, which is now ravaged from how depressing you are? How unjust is that? And now you're playing sad songs on the jukebox and singing them to yourself while crying... Great. Now you've got to go. This isn't your bedroom and you're not a fourteen-year-old girl dealing with unrequited love. You're a fat, old, sad person who needs some fucking Prozac, stat. More tales of crazy customers to come... If I get angry enough, I might even reenact them on camera...

You're a creep.

Have you guys seen this video? I have. Months ago. If you haven't, watch it. Then ask yourself if showing it to a hot girl as an icebreaker is a good idea. I'm gonna go with "no." But it happened. A random guy at the bar asked me if I'd seen it and then told me he thought human beings were innately sexual animals. First of all, duh. Second of all, that doesn't make you deep or smart - it makes you a creep. Here's a tip: leading your pick-up with a chimpanzee raping a frog is the worst idea ever. Next time, avoid anything that suggests rape, has to do with rape, or HAS "RAPE" IN THE TITLE you fucking moron. The end.

Riddle me this!

What is it with guys trying to pick up bartenders? We are literally the ONLY females in the establishment who did not choose to be there to meet people or socialize - we are working. And we'll probably tell you anything you want to hear for $10. Are you really so cocky and convinced that you're different from every other guy that tries to pick us up? Here is what makes one different from the other - where they land on the spectrum of stupid pick up lines. There will certainly be a series devoted to this one, stay tuned for that. But we'll start with this little gem from last night:

Guy: There's a difference between being a man of the world and a man of the earth.
Me: Okay...
Guy: It's a man's world but a woman's earth.
Me: uh huh (subtext: what the fuck are you talking about?)
Guy: You know, I would light you up! Make you shrimp marinara.
Me: Oh, that's very nice (just tip me).

Okay... Why are you talking in riddles? That is definitely not a panty dropper. I know you're trying to sound profound but you actually sound like Dr. Seuss. Now you just sound crazy or confused. And then after making no sense at all, you offer to make me shrimp marinara? Who does that? Does that ever work for you on non-bartenders? Please, just tip me and I'll buy myself the shrimp marinara and eat it in solitude where no one bothers me with non-sensical riddles or trying to get in my pants.

I don't like liars.

Don't tell me you're going to meet the tab minimum with a big tip when the truth is: I'm going to make and alter your drink five times while you change your order around because you have a lack of communication skills and/or a crippling inability to make decisions. Tell me what you want! My job is to serve you! Help me help you! And then after I finally give you what you finally decide you want, you write a big fat "0" in the tip section of your check. Seriously? How's this for service? The next time a customer makes me jump through hoops because of their own failure to be human and then leaves me no tip, I'm going to cut them. Not cut them off, just cut them. And trust me, the law will be on my side with this one.

I am not an DJ.

If this dumb bitch doesn't stop asking me to play Mariah Carey's Heartbreaker I'm going to break something else, like her face. I am not a DJ. I am a bartender. I make drinks. See that shiny blinking appliance over there? That's a jukebox! It plays music. I make drinks. Music. Drinks. Music. Drinks. See the difference?

Comic Illustration by Liza Biggers.

Slow and steady

Whenever someone asks me for something "real quick', I feel the burning desire to move obnoxiously slow - just because I can. Also because I think said someone is an a-hole for asking for a glass of water "real quick." You didn't cross the Mohave to get to this bar, you just let too many ugly, sweaty fat girls grind on you on the dance floor and now you're thirsty. Until you grow some manners and a pair of balls, I'll just take my sweet time with your bullsh*t order. Thanks.