lesson #6: don’t sh*t where you eat

I have to find a new bar. Now, it’s not like I’m Norm from Cheers or anything, where everyone knows my name or is raising a glass when I walk in the door, but I found a great little spot that was fast becoming my preferred Friday night escape. It had my favorite kind of beer on tap, a cozy cocoon like atmosphere, friendly staff (too friendly as you will soon find out), and I never felt remotely out-of-place, which I sometimes do, in fancy pants LA nightspots. It wasn’t an all out dive bar, which have the true soft spot in my heart, but it was a nice fit. That all came to an abrupt end about two and a half weeks ago when on a peculiarly rainy Los Angeles Friday night I met the bartender (and yes, it is the bartender who has been the catalyst for this experiment in storytelling).

I had seen this bartender before. He had poured me a beer or two on occasion and I had always thought he was so good-looking  in a “he’s obviously an actor” type of way. But this particular evening he did something that most guys in LA don’t do, he paid attention to me and not my beautiful blond friends. I’m not sure the reason for it, maybe I was unusually witty that evening (the option that I’m rooting for), maybe it was the fact I’m from Illinois and he was homesick for the alluring midwestern accent, or perhaps he spotted an easy target (the option I’m leaning towards). Whatever his motivation it was a sights set, target locked situation. Well that isn’t exactly true; I did leave an unsolicited phone number (in the midst of one of my carpe diem fits), and when he called I proceeded to break every good Catholic girl and common sense rule that I had ever been taught…I’ll leave it at that mostly because I try to block out my less than stellar moments with a strong dose of self-induced amnesia.

Now, perhaps if I had just left the whole thing alone right there, maybe if I had worked a little bit harder at being the 97.5% girl that I know I have deep down inside of me, in time I could have reclaimed my stool at my favorite dark oak bar. But as we are all fully aware…that’s just not my style. I will never handle a situation with grace; I very rarely emerge with my dignity intact… using one my favorite 80-year-old woman analogies that are integral parts of my vernacular, I just can’t let sleeping dogs lie. To his credit the bartender handled the 2.5% girl like a champ.  And as a reward for dealing with the crazy I hope that the next  phone number he receives turns out to be a girl who’s great at beginnings…and for me that the next bar stool I warm is tended to by a nice grandma-esque character who is just mixing cocktails to pass the days and nights of retirement.

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