#bartenderbook

Proposed Title: Chronicles of a Barmaid

Chronicles of a Barmaid would be a book for bartenders and consumers alike. It’s the millennial, anti-asshole, how-to that we so desperately deserve. As a bartender for almost six years, I can tell you with confidence that a surprising amount of people have no idea how to behave in public. Luckily, I’ve written my experiences and encounters down with my own sarcastic, feminist, and reactionary commentary. I’m a social worker and comedy writer with a keen knack for attracting the loneliest, and seemingly bravest, of people. The book would contain some scathing one-liners, longer stories of about a page or two in length, and entries that fall somewhere in between. Chronicles aims to be a graphic and satirical look at society when society is at its most vulnerable - intoxicated on a Friday night. 

Some examples from my blog that would be grouped according to “rules” such as: “what not to say when you enter the bar,” “if you’re already wondering if you’ve done something wrong, you have,” and “you’ve said too much, it’s time to leave”:

1. Title: Reasons.

One day when I wore a flannel shirt to work:

Him: I really like your shirt. I like it for a number of reasons.

Me: What are they?

Him: Well first, because it looks so roomy, I feel like I could crawl inside it and hug you. I just feel like I could crawl up in there and hug you from the inside. And second, because it reminds me of my grandmother.

…Nothing to see here, folks. This is totally normal.

2. Title: Mother Dearest.

Him: What’s that tattoo say on your wrist?

Me: It says “I love you” in Greek in my mom’s handwriting.

Him: Oh, cool. Is she dea - uhh…

Me: Is she dead? No, she’s alive.

Him: Oh, okay. Would have been cooler if she was dead, you know?

No. I don’t.

3. Title: Margarita.

Her: There’s no mixed drinks with tequila.

4. Title: War.

Him: Can you imagine if you were in a war? Like, my dad was in a war, your dad was probably in a war… World War II… World War III.

I don’t think my dad was in World War III.

5. Title: Round Two.

So. This girl that we’ll call Leslie is drunk, douchey, and blonde. She wants to close her tab, but unfortunately hasn’t reached the $10 minimum. Upon hearing this news, she screams, “OKAY, JUST GET ME ANOTHER STELLA!” Which was an appropriate response to a relatively calm situation. I bring her the second Stella and ask her for her last name in order to close her tab. She misunderstands this (I assume this happens a lot for her) and screams, “JUST BRING ME WHATEVER’S CHEAPEST!”

This is a strange thing to say. Thankfully, Leslie’s friend tells me her last name and I bring her the card. She mumbles an, “I’m sorry” for her attitude and I walk away, unmoved by her apologies and thankful she’s leaving.

But she doesn’t leave. She milks her beer and mopes in the corner until a man starts chatting her up. Her mood instantly changes. She is excited to be getting so much attention and leans over the bar a lot, giggling and flipping her hair like a show pony. 

The man orders two Budweisers from me. I tell him that unfortunately, I can’t serve the girl he’s talking to. This is true - she’s wasted - and also gives me the kind of savage pleasure I so look forward to at three in the morning. He tells me that the second beer is not for her, while she stares at me like I just murdered her puppy in front of her eyes. (Let’s be real though, she could never love a small creature.) I bring him his drinks, remind him that she is not allowed to have one, and he pays. Leslie is still looking at me but in an attempt to save this flailing hook-up potential, redirects her attention back to said man. 

About two minutes later, after that guy has moved on to bigger and better (tits) things, I hear her say in a dramatic stage whisper, “time to go” to her friend. She grabs her bags and her coat - I can see her out of the corner of my eye - and right as she begins to step away, she grabs someone’s beer bottle from the bar and flings the contents at me. Before I even have a chance to scream, “you dumb cunt,” she runs out the door, and my life, forever. 

You see, drunk, douchey, blonde girls named Leslie… they scream when things don’t go their way. They fling beers that don’t belong to them at people who don’t deserve it. They run away because they are cowards.

I usually try to fight people with wit, and no doubt I would have won had I tried to school her in etiquette, but there’s a time and a place for everything and this was not a time for words. So Leslie, if you’re going to throw a drink at me (and miss, as a matter of fact) you sit tight and wait for me to punch you in the mouth like a fucking lady.

6. Title: Starter.

Him: I don’t know if this is offensive or not, but you’d make a great starter wife.

Me: Explain that a little more.

Him: Well, you know, a guy would totally be excited to marry you right away because you’re hot. But then he’d leave you for someone he has a real connection with, you know? Someone smarter.

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