Something a LIttle Different Part IV - The Irish Car Bomb

The Irish Car Bomb

Whenever someone orders an Irish Car Bomb (ICB), I feel like bowing down to them. That is, if they actually have balls enough to take the drink like a shot – in one big ass gulp. Anyone can drink a beer, but few can drink an ICB.

Not a lot of people request an ICB. The crowd that is most likely to be an ICB is the frat-boy crowd, men celebrating a bachelor party, or the athletes at the university after a win.

I’ve gotten pretty good at gauging if it’s going to be an ICB night. If there are a lot of pretty boys channeling Jersey Shore with the popped collars and spiked hair on a Thursday night, the cheap beer will turn into Guinness and shots of whiskey dumped into the cups and then chugged. I hate to admit it, but frat boys can drink. They may be first-class tools, but they keep the coffers full.

Bachelor parties are easy to spot. There’s normally a group of guys (some do pop their collars) all sitting together and girls dressed in really skanky clothes. Sometimes I do wonder if the girls are just random slutty chicks that someone knows or if they are strippers. They all gather around a single man (the groom-to-be) and begin to force alcohol down the single man’s throat. Not many bachelor parties end without an ICB being consumed.

The athletes, they are by far the easiest to spot. Before I start serving ICBs, I’ll get a handful of fake IDs. I make sure those individuals are escorted out before we can get hit with fines. You’d think the rest of the team would leave, but no. The Strauss is a legend. College athletes have come into this bar to have a drink for over a century. Under-age friends will not keep the rest of the team from enjoying a beer to celebrate a victory in the bar. Before they know it, a few beers have turned into shots and soon enough, the guys will make their way over to the bar and begin to order ICBs.

I have imbibed an ICB a total of five times. Each time, I was completely drunk out of my mind. I had to be in order to drink Guinness. It took me years drinking the hard stuff and paying more until I finally forced myself to down a brew. I chugged it and gagged and since then, I’ve been a big fan. I’ve just never been able to drink the dark stuff. I’m a light girl all the way.

After those five times drinking an ICB, I can say that my morning wasn’t exactly storybook. I did my first ICB on a dare from Jazz. I did the other four also on dares from Jazz. Those five morning-afters, I awoke in a strange bed with a badass headache that only intensified when I opened my eyes to the extremely brilliant sunlight streaming through the windows. It always took me a good five minutes to distinguish the room as Jazz’s.

As if that wasn’t enough, it seemed like something completely random and out of left field always happened. One morning, I even had gum in my hair. Another morning, my bra was wrapped around my midsection. If that wasn’t bad enough, there was the morning that I awoke with my underwear only around one leg. Jazz swears no men accompanied us home on both of these nights. On another morning, I even awoke to the DVD title screen of My Little Pony, a DVD set that I gave to Jazz for Christmas one year as a gag gift. The last time I drank an ICB, I awoke with a big bruise down my spine and my t-shirt was ripped. We’re still trying to figure out if we were playing WWE and I was channeling Hulk Hogan.

The point I’m trying to make is that when ICBs get involved, things happen that wouldn’t normally happen. If my headache wasn’t enough to make me regret the night’s binge-drinking fest, then the roiling, queasy feeling in my stomach certainly was. Every morning after I grieved my decision to drink. And yet I answered Jazz’s dare a total of four more times knowing exactly what was in store for me. Glutton for punishment? I most definitely was.

“So you’re going to do it,” Jazz asked me on Thursday night, the night before I was to go on a very important date with Levi.

“Yes, Jazz. I called him Tuesday and told him I had Friday off for him to impress me.”

“I think he certainly has earned it,” Jazz replied. “The boy did watch Bring It On for you. I’ve never been able to get a male to do that for me. Ever. I’m a bit jealous.”

I laughed at Jazz and then laughed even harder as a male co-ed elbowed his way through a throng of college kids to order a fifty-cent draft. She gave the kid a dirty look. The look was clearly lost on the kid. His eyes roved over my friend from top to bottom, taking in her cleavage and finally settling on her face.

“Need a drink?” he asked.

“Do I look like someone who drinks cheap-ass beer?” she snipped.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Who doesn’t like beer?”

I flashed her a look. The boy was right, who didn’t like beer. Jazz certainly liked beer. Jazz just didn’t like fifty-cent draft night. Unfortunately, fifty-cent draft night was the only night Jazz could get to the bar to go over the details of the date and the night that Levi’s benefits would finally kick in.

“Do I look like a fucking cougar to you?” Jazz asked letting her first f-bomb of the night fly. She waited thirty minutes; I was impressed. The boy stared at her, shocked into silence. “Mature men are like fine wines,” she said turning back to me and ignoring the college kid. He stared daggers at her. “Hard to fine and rich as hell. This one, he’s a dime a dozen, a Natty Ice.”

“Hey!” he shouted clearly not happy with being called common and poor. The common part was probably true, but I doubted the poor part. College students at our local Jamestown University were anything but poor. Locals got in on scholarships, but a good number of kids were from out of state and paid big money to get into the private school.

“Walk on, kid,” Eddie said materializing from the kitchen. He looked at me and then looked at Jazz. “F-bomb disposal unit reporting for duty,” he kidded.

“Thanks, Eddie,” I said.

“Pain in the ass little frat boy,” Jazz muttered. “Why don’t you go iron your shirt collar, there’s a part that’s starting to fall.”

“Jazz,” Eddie remonstrated when the boy turned around and glared at her.

“What?” she asked, the complete picture of innocence.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I didn’t sign on for this tonight,” he huffed. “I’m going back to the kitchen. Don’t worry, I’ll listen for more f-bombs.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” I said and waved at him. I turned back to Jazz. “Behave yourself.”

“Behave myself? Please. It’s college fucktard night. It is completely impossible for me to behave myself.”

I laughed. “You know, I love how when we were in middle school, we laughed at the fifth-graders. And then when we were in high school, we laughed at the middle schoolers. In college, we couldn’t stand high schoolers, and now that’s we’ve graduated and are working we-“

“Hate everyone else. Fifth graders, middle and high schoolers, college students, and parents.”

“Parents? Really, Jazz? You hate parents.”

“Yes, I do. With a passion. More than I hate Mr. Jersey Shore back there who tried to pick me up.”

“Pray tell, why do you hate parents?”

“Simple, they think they’re better than me. Like having a kid suddenly makes you a worthwhile member of society. Well, you suck, and your a kids douche and will be a drain on society. Looks like I’m the one winning, bitches.”

“That’s only you’re second martini for the night. How have you gone off the deep end already?”

Jazz gave me a dirty look. “All I’m saying is that I pay my taxes, I own my own condo, I pay for my pretty little Maxima out there. I may not have a kid, but I have an amazing wardrobe.”

“If Daddy accountant could you hear now.”

“I’m ignoring that because I’d much rather discuss wardrobes. Your wardrobe in fact. What are you wearing tomorrow night? Evaluation night always means you need to look stunning.”

“Do you no longer trust my judgment?” I asked her.

She narrowed her eyes at me. I knew that look well enough, and it meant she did not trust my judgment. “You do own a pair of Seven jeans, do you not?”

“Aren’t those a bit…pretentious?”

Jazz shuddered. “You’ve been hanging in this bar too long. No, they are not pretentious. Wear the Seven jeans. They’re dark and I like that top you got from Express last spring. The hot pink cotton tube top with the fitted bodice and three long ruffles. Gold shoes. Do I need to bring by a pair of my shoes? I have some gold Kenneth Coles you can wear.”

“I think I can manage, Jazz.”

“Well, where are you going?”

“He has reservations at Lakeside at seven. Then he said something about that new chocolate and wine shop that opened. I don’t know though. I’ve never been able to do chocolate and alcohol without getting sick.”

“And tonight is not a night to get sick.”

“Exactly. I think it would be fun to play putt-putt golf or something. I haven’t done that in awhile. Or go to Los Pesos for margaritas.”

Jazz smiled. “Margaritas do mean good nights.”

I nodded my head and filled another fifty-cent draft. “Good nights, but bad mornings.”

Jazz waved my words away. “It doesn’t take alcohol to make a good night a bad morning. You do realize that I’m going to want details.”

“Sunday afternoon?” I asked her.

“You know I will definitely be here for this!”

I nodded my head and began to wonder about Levi and these past four weeks. This, whatever it is that this is becoming, I forgot about how the nerves could wrack me. I was nervous, excited, and fearful all the same time. I wanted to get the night over with, and yet I wanted to savor it too. Evaluation night is one great big oxymoron of feelings.

That night, dressed to the nines in the outfit Jazz handpicked, my hair blown out to perfection, and my make-up hiding my imperfections, I excitedly and nervously awaited Levi. He was picking me up at my house. When my doorbell rang, I nearly ran into my bedroom and hid under my big goose down comforter.

But I was a big girl. I was a big girl letting someone else into my life, something I use to be able to do with no problem. Yet as my hand turned the doorknob, I paused halfway between an open and a locked door. I breathed in deeply. This could be a wrong decision. It could very well be a bad decision, and yet, I would survive. I had Jazz and my aunt and Eddie said I even had him.

I opened the door. Levi stood there in a pair of chinos and a thin blue merino sweater, his sleeves rolled up onto his forearms. I hadn’t bothered to notice before, even when we were cuddled up on his couch together watching movies, but Levi did work out.

“Hi?” he said nervously and his dark hair flopped across his head. My nerves seemed to match his. “I never thought I’d get you to consent to this. For a minute, I actually believed you had changed your mind and decided to work.” He smiled though to show he was joking. Probably half joking, anyway.

“Nah,” I said stepping out into the spring air. “Besides, Jazz would kill me if I did.” He looked at me quizzically, but I didn’t elaborate. He led me to his car, a Jeep Cherokee and even opened the door for me. “Wow,” I said thoroughly shocked by his actions.

He looked over at me from the driver’s side seat. “And my momma said I’d never learn my manners.”

“Well, if she starts harping on you, I’ll tell her otherwise,” I said as he put the car into gear.

The drive over was nice. We both talked about our week and various things that we had in the works for the future. It was a little different making small talk with Levi. In fact, thinking about it, we had never really made idle chit chat like this before. Majority of the time, our conversations were heavy with sarcasm as we debated different things like Ilsa’s motives and that a libertarian was a real political affiliation and not me rebelling against societal constraints.

We arrived at Lakeside and Levi grabbed my hand. Holding hands, we walked into the restaurant together, very nearly a real couple. I found out that he had a table reserved on the veranda. It was late spring and the rays of the setting sun were touching the lake, the namesake of the restaurant, and before long it would be dark. Once it was dark, a piano player would begin playing old school classics that everyone would know.

The piano would be later. Now I was focused on the menu. Lakeside was known for its fish. I don’t know where the first comes from, but its never bad. And as long as it doesn’t come from the lake or the river right outside city limits, I don’t quite care where it does come from.

When the waitress came I ordered lemon pepper tilapia with butternut squash. It was my favorite dish, the light, flaky tilapia covered in lemony goodness and then that pepper! Oh it was always a pleaser. Levi ordered salmon in teriyaki and steamed vegetables. To cap off the evening, he also ordered a bottle of Chardonnay for us to enjoy with the meal.

Dinner was great. The wine was the perfect compliment and by the time the bill was brought, I had a nice happy buzz. I quickly added the numbers together and realized that Levi was probably paying a hundred for this meal.

With a one hundred-dollar dinner, watching movies I like no matter emasculating they may be, visiting me at work, and being patient for our first date, Levi’s evaluation was going along quite nicely. Not that I had expected him to fail. But still, a scorecard is a scorecard, and I really wanted him to score high.

After dinner, he tried to persuade me to visit the chocolate bar, but I stood by my decision to not mix chocolate and alcohol. When he heard my reasons why, he quickly saw my point of view and swept me off to Los Pesos.

Los Pesos was a popular Mexican restaurant and bar with the Americanized favorites and wonderfully strong margaritas. Once upon a time, Jazz and I were regulars here. Such regulars, in fact, that a good number of the servers knew our exact order and within one minute of sitting down, a litter of strawberry and lime margarita would be sat down at our table before they did confirm the dinners we always ordered.

Around 9 p.m., Los Pesos was still crowded, but starting to thin out. A booth in the back was open, and Levi and I decided to go ahead and sit there. He surprised me by going against the grain and sitting on my side of the booth with me. As soon as our drinks were ordered, I felt an arm landed around my shoulders. I turned and looked at him.

“Sorry, but I’ve been wanting to do this all evening.” I smiled and cuddled into his shoulder. “Actually, for longer than that.

When you’re behind a bar tending to everyone’s needs, it makes it hard to cuddle you.”

“Because I’m so cuddle-able.”

Levi laughed. “Oh get over it. The girls with hard shells are the mushiest on the inside. It’s just a matter of cracking them.”

I stared up at him and raised my eyebrows. “A nut, I am?”

“Nuts make life interesting,” he said. “Anyway, I think my sanity is clearly up for debate after watching Bring It On.”

I started to laugh, but stopped once I felt Levi’s lips crush my own. I knew we were in a restaurant, but it was a back booth and the waitress had just left. Knowing that, I tangled my hands in his silky hair and didn’t mind indulging myself in his kisses.

Levi was a good kisser too. I thought it the first time he kissed me outside in the parking lot beside my car with the streetlight illuminating the empty, darkened lot. It was a brief kiss, caught in between a peck and some tongue, but it was nice. I was ready to make the kiss last longer, but Levi pulled away. I believe he knew exactly what he was doing, knew that leaving me wanting more from him gave him the leverage. Well, it gave him leverage for the moment anyway. It was after the kiss that I persuaded him to watch Bring It On.

Later, our kisses consisted of heavy make out sessions on his couch. Those were nice. We’d started cuddled together, both with a beer in our hands as we watched TV, a re-run of the The Office or perhaps Millionaire Matchmaker if I didn’t feel like expanding his filming-industry horizons. Then we’d finish our beers and cuddle closer. At some point, we’d forget what was going on and lose ourselves in each other, kissing and squirming on the couch until my body began to tell me to screw the month-long wait. Once that point came, I’d pull away and remind him we still were strangers getting to know one another.

I pulled away and thirty seconds later, as if our waitress knew what was going, the margaritas were deposited on our table. They were as good as I remembered. After two drinks, Levi paid the bill and suggested a stop at the movie store. I picked out Dazed and Confused. It was a movie we had both seen which meant it wouldn’t matter that we weren’t going to watch it.
And we didn’t watch it. Levi went through the pretenses of putting the movie in, but as soon as we sat down together on his couch, the movie was completely forgotten, clothing was discarded, and I was carried to his bedroom, my legs wrapped around his waist.

The next morning, feeling fuzzy headed and a little queasy, I opened my eyes and nearly had a heart attack. I was lying naked in a bed that was not my bed. I looked around trying to get my bearings. This bedroom did not belong to Jazz either. I was…I was…I wracked my brain trying for the life of me to remember last night. I didn’t have to remember for too long because Levi’s hand landed across my body and tugged me against him.

The entire evening suddenly unfolded in my brain and I had brief moment of panic. I had finally done it, finally succumbed and let another person into my world. At the moment I was still alive, unhurt and unscathed. It didn’t matter; the future was a blank slate. The happy endings that the movies show you are fake, completely fake. Because those happy endings that the movies show, they are just stories that haven’t yet been written. In real life, things just end. They run their natural progression and that’s it. It’s more sad than happy to see something die like that.

“Sunshine,” Levi asked using his new nickname for me. He decided to call me it after I told him that Aurora meant dawn.

“You’re so tense. Are you okay?”

I didn’t know how to tell someone that I was having second thoughts. Especially when those second thoughts were because I was a neurotic head case. Levi would never believe me; he’d think it was something he did last night when everything he did was so completely right.

That meant I had to lie. “I’m not on anything,” I blurted out. Well, it wasn’t why I was so tense, but it was a truth.

“I wore protection, Sunny,” he said and I could see the smile gracing his lips, lips that kissed me senseless last night.

“I know but I just…I can’t get pregnant,” I said well aware how crazy and bumbling I looked. “I’ve got to go…go get that…yeah, that stuff….the morning after,” I babbled and threw the covers back. I just have-“

Levi grabbed my arm and drew me back onto the covers. “Rory, I picked you up.”

“Right, I’ll call a cab.”

“Sunny,” he said in a slow, patient voice and as pulled me closer to him. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is I can’t get pregnant. I’m not ready; I’m sure you’re not ready. I just need to get that stuff, Levi, I need it and the sooner, the more effective it is,” I said struggling to move back to a sit.

Levi held me reassuringly close. “Okay, okay,” he said and glided his fingers through my hair. “I’ll get dressed. But you have to look at me in the eye and promise me that you’re only worked up because you’re not on any birth control.”

“Yes,” I said in a rush and then bit my lip.

Levi regarded me for a moment and then brought himself to a sit. “Let me get some clothes on,” he said and swung his legs over the bed.

I watched him stand up, hunting around the floor for his clothes and suddenly wanted to pat myself on the back for my excellent choice in men. Levi did have a body. It was all lines and contours and all of my doubt suddenly fled.

So what if it was a mistake? In the grand scheme of things, nearly every action we took led to an ending of some sort. I knew that things with Levi would end. I just hoped that this particular mistake might hang around longer than I had anticipat

A LIttle Something I Just Started Working On Part III - Champagne

We don’t serve champagne or any mixed drinks like a Bellini or mimosa. The Strauss is not a nightclub, a dessert bar, or a wine bar. The Strauss is nothing fancy. Our patrons know we’re nothing fancy and during my tenure as a bartender I have yet to hear someone order a bottle of wine let alone a glass of champagne. Beer and liquor, that’s our modus operandi.

So when a semi-regular named Lenore Wilde walked in with a $200 bottle of Krug, I was more than a little surprised.

“Got any nice glasses?” she asked in a depressed voice that didn’t match the celebration of the champagne.

“I can scare up something,” I replied and turned back.

We had a total of four goblets. I reached for one and began to clean it out, but Lenore, or Elle as she liked to be called, stopped me.

“I don’t care,” she said and reached for the glass and poured, filling her goblet to the top. “Grab a glass.”

“Oh, Elle, I couldn’t.”

“Yes, you could,” she replied to me.

“That is a $200 bottle of champagne.”

“No, this is a $500 bottle of champagne that was given to me for my new demotion that was disguised as a promotion. Now, drink,” she said holding the bottle ready for my glass.

I grabbed a glass down and placed it on the bar. Elle began to pour. “Not so full,” I told her. “I am working.”

She nodded her head and took a long gulp of the wine. I was a bit shocked. I figured Elle would do the whole production of looking at the light, smelling, and lightly tasting before committing to drinking. “If this hasn’t been the shittiest fucking month,” she said. I nodded and remained quiet. I could feel that she was on the verge of a rant. “I should have seen this fucking demotion coming. I should have. But when I found my fiancé cheating on me on my thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets, I lost a bit of my focus.”

I looked at her shocked. I had no idea she was – had been – engaged.

“Don’t look so shock. I had to buy myself the ring.”

“Elle,” I said because what did you say when one of your patrons told you she was demoted at work and caught her cheap, penniless fiancé cheating on her.

“I’ll be okay,” she said and quickly finished off her glass. “Especially after I finish this bottle. Douche bag tools,” she said under her breath.

“I’ll marry you, Elle!” Eddie called from the kitchen.

“Thanks, Eddie,” she replied and braved a smile. “What do you think of the champagne?” she asked me.

I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip. Immediately the heady feeling of tingly bubbles filled my head. No matter how well conditioned my liver was, one sip of wine immediately brought me to my happy place. It was a mystery how a single sip of champagne could render me as incapacitated as three beers within an hour, an extremely stiff Long Island, or two shots of bourbon.

My happy place was the memory of my first sip of champagne. My junior year of college, Jazz and I turned twenty-one in September and November, no more than five weeks apart. That New Year’s was our very first New Year that we were able to drink legally.

To honor our newfound adult-dom and begin to entice Jazz into the family business, Jazz’s dad invited us to his accounting firm’s New Year’s Eve party. Every New Years, her dad started the New Year and the last free minutes of his life until April 15th with a party for his clients. It was a tax deduction. Being an accountant, Jazz’s dad was big on deductions.
Jazz and I had not missed a New Year’s together since we first met in third grade. My parents would drop me off at Jazz’s house for the evening. They were always crazy busy on New Year’s Eve. Jazz and I would watch her mother get all dolled up in make up, gorgeous diamond-encrusted jewelry she hardly ever wore, and these amazing dresses with her hair chicly piled on top of her head. One year, she was especially proud of Jazz’s dad for buying her a real Armani dress when he went to New York for a conference.

At some point, a sitter would come to the house. Jazz’s parents would leave with kisses for the two of us and instructions for the sitter. During the evening, Jazz and I would giggle and watch movies, driving the sitter absolutely nuts while we waited for the Big Apple to drop in Manhattan. The sitter had strict instructions to whisk the two of us off to bed as soon as the clock turned 12:01 a.m., but we couldn’t help but lay awake in her bed and think about what her parents may be doing.

We were positive that the party was a glamorous affair with glitter, balloons, magnificent fountains, and a live band that went absolutely nuts at midnight when everyone would wave their party favors and honk their horns. One such daydream of Jazz’s had her parents arriving in a gilded pumpkin carriage to dance the night away. Prince Charming was very disappointed with them for not brining their beautiful daughter and her daughter’s friend. What can I say except we loved our imaginations.

Needless to say, when Jazz’s father told her that we were both more than welcome to see what actually happened at the glamorous event, we were more than happy to make our thoughts and daydreams a reality. Like he did for her mother, Jazz’s father bought her an exquisite dress. It was a black Juicy Couture cocktail dress. I also had a surprise on Christmas morning. Jazz was in touch with my parents and they were more than happy to provide me with a black cocktail dress by Nicole Miller.

I spent the night at Jazz’s place the night before the party so we could get up early to work out. I still maintained my athletic discipline by running three days a week, but Jazz wasn’t one for sweating. Still, she was sure she’d look my like a size four than a size six if she ran. After our workout (which went better for me than for Jazz), we had our appointments for hair and nails. My nails were painted Midnight in Moscow, a dark blue that looked nearly black. Jazz’s nails were Va-Va Voom Red. With our manicures in place, we then skipped over to the hair salon. Jazz had a sleek chignon and mine was done in a loose French twist.

We had three hours to kill before we would leave for the party by the time we were done with all of our appointments. The time was spent drinking diet Coke and musing over friends, male friends, and boyfriends, conversations we thought high society women would engage in. Jazz said it was a pity that we weren’t married with children and spouses to complain about.
And then it was time for the party. We expected a limo to pull up in the drive and escort us in style to the glamorous event. Instead, we rode with Jazz’s parents in their Yukon. That was disappointment number one.

Disappointment number two was the location of the event. We should’ve known that in this town there was nowhere posh enough for the shindig we had pictured in our minds, but we were still pissed when we realized the event of our New Year’s Dreams was taking place in the downtown Holiday Inn.

While the tables and chairs were draped in satin linens, there was no flowing fountain, no silver and gold balloons. In fact, the only thing ornate about the whole thing was the 15-foot Christmas tree draped with white lights and icicle ornaments. Pretty? Yes, but not fit for our imagination. So the decorations were extremely scaled down. That was disappointment number three.
Not satisfied with the decorations, we took to people watching sure we’d find some men for the night. But as we gazed around the room, we found disappointment number four. We were the youngest people here.

From there, the disappointments kept stacking up. The hors d'oeuvres were terrible. Having skipped dinner, we were miserable and starving while Jazz’s parents expected us to put on happy faces and greet everyone with them. Also, we did not receive one New Year’s Eve hat, horn, or noisemaker. But once the majority of guests had arrived, Jazz’s mother took us over to the bar and gave us a glass of champagne.

With one sip from the champagne flute, the night didn’t seem so bad. At school, Jazz and I could both drink like a fish, drink some of our boy friends to shame, but once the champagne touched our tongues, our heads lightened and the world began to dance. It no longer mattered that the event we had dreamed about didn’t live up to our expectations, it didn’t matter that we were starving because the food here sucked, and it didn’t even matter that everyone in attendance was middle age and not attractive in our eyes. None of that mattered because once under the magnificent spell of the champagne all that mattered was that we were young, glamorous, and having a great time.

It was amazing what one sip of champagne could do, especially when that sip came from a $500 bottle of Krug. Coming back to down to Earth, I realized that Elle was still venting and I had missed quite a bit too.

“Men!” she complained.

Men. The tingling bubbles sighed the word breathlessly and my thoughts went to Levi. I hadn’t realized it before, but the start of a relationship was a bit like drinking champagne. Both parties went out of their way to impress the other, dressed up, got butterflies, worried over the right thing to say. And once the initial attraction was clear, there was the build up to sex.

Ah, the build up to sex. I don’t believe it is any possible for a woman to feel more sexy than those few days, hours, weeks, maybe even months before you agree to consummate the deal with your partner. For me, the wait was always at least a month. I lived by the dating credo that you should treat a new partner like a new job. Therefore, all benefits do not kick in for one month from the start date.

The One-Month Plan is partly to keep my virtue and self-respect intact. The other part is because like my namesake and unlike my surly demeanor, I like to be treated like a princess. It may take awhile to convince me to take a chance on you, but once I’ve made that decision, I like to make sure, I made the right decision. Hence, I take great pleasure in being wined and dined. Dinner, movies, drinks, walks in the park, intellectual conversation, pointlessly random conversation, and any other activities are how I evaluate my date’s performance at the one-month mark. I take my evaluations very seriously too.

So far, Levi wasn’t doing too badly of a job. Dinner, movies, drinks, and walks were a bit hard to do with me working as much as I did, and despite it all, he still tried to get me to actually leaving the tending to others. I probably could have switched shifts, but it just wasn’t ingrained in my DNA to shirk my duties onto someone else. Still, he did do conversation of the intellectual and pointlessly random variety quite well.

Since he first watched Casablanca and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest he had watched Apocalypse Now, Doctor Zhivago, Some Like it Hot, To Have and To Have Not, Dr. Strangelove, and Bring It On. Two of those, while I’ll admit I like, I mainly asked him to watch to see if he would indeed follow my advice. He did. He also made sure to give me plenty of shit for having him watch a movie about crazy, power-hungry cheerleaders.

We also discussed politics, a topic that is normally a no-no for me. He was a left-wing democrat and I am definitely a libertarian who believes people need to be held accountable for their own actions without the government cleaning up after us whenever something goes wrong.

From politics to cartoons, I was impressed he watched Transformers and had seen the movies as well. He also remembered the cartoon Jabberjaw, the Scooby Doo-esque great white shark that plays drums and foils many a villainous plot. Eddie laughed and said Levi was only agreeing with me to impress me. Like most people, Eddie believes this is a cartoon I have made up. I’ve told him numerous times to Google it.

With the one-month mark of my time with Levi looming, I decided that I would actually take a Friday night off so he could take me to dinner and let the activities begin. I hated to admit that Jazz was right. I didn’t mean too, but I had been hiding. I chose work over companionship. Work because it was there, it was solid, and it wasn’t leaving me. Companionship, no matter how loving and well meaning was always fleeting. While I wasn’t a person that could completely shut out the world, I could shut out the rest of the world, those people who hadn’t already barged into my little hidey-hole.

“I don’t even know why I try,” Elle huffed and all of those beautiful champagne bubbles began to pop inside my head. “I guess I didn’t believe that the glass ceiling was real, that I could possibly find the love that my parents have. I want to sit here and complain about fairness, but life isn’t fair. It’s something I have known. Had life been fair, things would…” her voice trailed off and Elle actually looked mournful. It was nothing compared to the anger and rejection she felt, and my mind began to wonder what she had left behind. Before I could wonder too much, Elle disrupted my thoughts, “My hard work, my loyalty…it’s all for naught.”

“Elle, I wish there was more…” my voice trailed off as I watched Elle begin to chug from a $500 bottle wine. Chugging from a bottle was never a good sign, but chugging from a bottle worth half a grand? That was a horse of a different color altogether. “Will you need a ride home?”

Elle laughed. “Am I that bad?”

I shook my head. “Not yet, but you’re chugging champagne that costs five bills.” Elle was silent but did look at the bottle in amazement. She didn’t seem the type to act first and think later, but tonight didn’t seem to be quite her night. Maybe for tonight acting first was exactly what she needed.

“So I am,” she said half shocked half completed unfazed. “I can manage to call a taxi.”

“Look, I don’t do it for everyone,” I said. “But over in the corner playing darts is Jill, the other full-time bartender. I’m sure I can twist her arm for long enough to mix drinks for the next hour while I get you home.”

Elle looked in Jill’s direction. I wasn’t sure if she knew Jill, but she seemed curious. “I can manage fine on my own,” she said in an uncharacteristically petulant voice.

I gave Elle a thorough once over. She may have about five years on me, a better job, and better standing in the community, but she didn’t have my knowledge of people. “I’m sure you can manage fine on your own, Elle. I manage fine on my own too. But everyone now and then, it is nice to sit back and let someone else manage for you. It doesn’t have to be every day; it may only happen once a year. It doesn’t necessarily have to be to your best friend or some seemingly male soul mate. Just let someone else manage for a minute.”

Elle sighed and became engrossed in the champagne label. “I have two more of these bottles in the car,” she groused. “This one was from Hansbury, my CEO. He asked me out last month after he noticed my engagement ring was gone. I told him no. The other bottle is from Peter Hankinson, the CFO who is an absolute idiot and knows I think that. And then third bottle, that’s from board chairman Wes Roberts who hugged me and said ‘Honey, do us proud.’ I always thought he had a clear head on his shoulders and could see the number fudging that was going on, but…he has no idea! None! And Hansbury and Hankinson now have me out of the way.”

I laughed and Elle looked at me a little stunned. “If that’s true, imagine the scandal when that comes out in this economy. Do you really want to be surrounded by that?”

She mulled my words over. “Smart words for a bartender.”

“Don’t knock bartending,” I said and gave a smile. She had come into the bar enough for this to be a running a joke – me being too smart to be a bartender. My standard is to say that we come in all shapes and sizes and that I can pay my bills. Jazz mocks my standard answer.

She smiled at me. “I think tonight, I can let the bartender manage.” She nodded her head and stretched her arms. “I am going to need some strips. And how about a whiskey sour?”

“If the bartender is managing tonight, that whiskey sour is a beer.”

She wrinkled her nose at me, but relented. “Before that comes out, I’m taking a trip to the little girls’ room,” she said and then stood up. “Whoa,” she swayed and reached for the bar. Her eyelashes flicker a couple of times and then she righted herself. “Champagne bubbles. I always forget how fast they hit me.”

I answered her with a smile, “And they always seem to take you to a happy place.”

Elle laughed. “That they do. But so does a bottle of whiskey.”

I laughed as Elle walked, or more correctly stumbled a bit to the bathroom. Champagne and whiskey did make you feel happy. The problem was learning to say “when” to that happiness. Like all good things, the ending comes way too fast. In the case of whiskey and champagne, the ending came in the morning when the jury rendered its verdict on your indulgence. Indulge in too much happiness and you just might wake up to a sentence served out on the bathroom floor.

Something a LIttle Different Part II

Sex on the Beach


Nothing can by more grating than on Thursday nights when college co-eds sick of beer start ordering sex on the beach. It is always, always, always done with a high-pitched, slurred, giggle. After the order is placed, the coed then looks around to see which, if any boys in the vicinity heard.

While the more sexually aggressive or sexually extroverted girls have no problem using a screwdriver to lower their standards, the girls that order sex on the beach are not quite as adventurous. Sure, they want to get laid, but they don’t want to seem either way too drunk to have sex or want the guy to feel like he is the aggressor. By ordering a sex on the beach, they hope that this signals to others that they are fun, flirty, and like sex without being way too easy, just somewhat easy.

Ironically enough, sex on the beach is made with vodka and orange juice too. The difference is that sex on the beach also includes peach schnapps and a splash of cranberry.

I have had sex on the beach (the drink) a grand total of two times. Jazz, who has a complex against this drink too, does not know I have ever drank one in its entirety. Both times was with my aunt. My aunt is ten years older than me. When I was a ten that was a big age gap. When I turned twenty-three and started enjoying the flavors of alcohol and stopped drinking to get drunk, that age gap wasn’t as big as it seemed. One of the more vivd, times I drank with her, I wanted to get good and plastered, deserved to get good and plastered. And things be as they were, my aunt was the one the family member who volunteered to take care of me. That night, I started out with whiskey and diet coke, did two shots of sex on the beach (I refused to drink it as a cocktail), and finished the night off with liquid cocaine. There was way more in between, but that's neither here nor there. I also begged for absinthe, but at the time, absinthe was still illegal in the U.S. and no one in the family had it on hand.

Yes, I was majorly hungover. Crazily enough, I was glad. I was glad because I’d rather feel the physical pain the alcohol had ravaged on my body then deal with the emotional pain. True, I’d have to deal with it at some point, but at the current point, I didn’t want to deal; I just wanted to drink. That was two years ago. Since that day two years ago, my life completely turned upside down. My life had changed its course. I haven’t had time to date since that day, haven’t had sex since before that day. That had become known as The Unmentionable.

Levi was something of a normal fixture in the bar for the past two weeks. During those two weeks, Jazz and I were too busy to get together. Sure, we talked on the phone and check in on each other during the past two weeks, but our works schedules made it hard to get together. I almost always worked on Friday and Saturday night, not to mention I also worked on Sunday. Saturday and Sunday were Jazz’s days off. If she wasn’t busy preparing for work, she’d stop in and visit me on Sunday. And that is how we finally saw each other again.

Two weeks after first meeting Levi at the dessert bar, Jazz was waiting out front of the bar for me to arrive to work.

“How’s the weekend going?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Eh. Busy as usual.”

“Anybody interesting?” she asked and quirked an eyebrow.

“The usual. Regulars, college kids looking to chill, a few businessmen and women trying to show they’re down with the working collar regulars…”

She laughed. “Why not invite some congressman in here then and we can have some campaign parties.”

I gave Jazz a dirty look. She knew exactly what I thought about politics. I happily claim no political party and go out of my way to vote for the name on the ballot that no one recognizes. Some people hate me for this. My answer is why should I vote? No matter who is in office, that person’s loyalty is to getting reelected. Getting reelected may mean that they need to honor their pledge as a public servant and uphold their constituents’ interest…or it may mean that cave to pubic interest groups and more powerful public servants. True, it’s better than some crazy tyrant renouncing the holocaust, but it is flawed. And by voting, but not voting for these people, I don’t feel I have contributed to the mess of society.

“Eddie should be here soon,” I said ignoring her little jab. I didn’t feel up to a political debate at the moment. “Chicken fingers and fries?”

“Did you get the good ones back in stock?” she asked.

“Yep, and I made sure the distributor knew how unhappy some of my patrons were that they screwed the order up, that they would rather have lightly breaded and not deep battered.”

“I love you,” she gushed.

Falling into our Sunday routine, I began to stock beer in the fridge and take note of the liquor bottles. Jazz fell into her own Sunday routine and walked around the bar to grab the remote and turn on the TV.

“Do the Colts play at noon or three?” she asked me.

“Noon, I think,” I said.

“It is noon,” Eddie said walking into the bar. “Nice to see Stalker Number Two back,” he said giving her a small wave.

“She’ll like some chicken fingers,” I said to him.

“Yeah, get to work instead of saying mean things about patrons. Stalker! Hah! I am Rory’s best friend not to mention the fact that I do the taxes for this place! I have every right to be here! Wait…what? Stalker Number Two?”

Eddie shook his head as he tied his apron strings. “Yeah, some guy has been coming in for the past couple of weeks and pestering Rory.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” I said.

Jazz gave me a dirty look. “Tell me more about this guy, Eddie,” Jazz said and fluttered her lashes at him.

Eddie looked at me, clearly distressed. “Go fix the chicken fingers,” I said to him.

“You hadn’t mentioned 501 to her?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “No Eddie, don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry, girl,” he said and then ducked into the kitchen.

Jazz hadn’t stopped giving me her dirty look. “501?”

“It’s his nickname.”

Her frown deepened. “So you’re nicknaming guys with Eddie and discussing them with him?”

I couldn’t tell from her tone if she was made at me for keeping 501 (Levi) a secret or jealous because Eddie knew about him. My money was betting on jealous being the foremost emotion at the moment. Well, she had nothing to be jealous about. Eddie only knew about Levi because Levi was always here. As far as my keeping it a secret went, I still wasn’t committed to anything with Levi and wasn’t sure I did want to commit to anything with Levi.

“He’s been coming in here for the past two weeks, Jazz. It would be kind of suspect if Eddie hasn’t noticed him. And as far as mentioning him to you…well…I’m not even sure I like the guy.”

“Ok, well, who is it? I want some details!”

I sighed. “Fine. Well, remember the last time we went out.”

“Oh my god! 501’s! The jeans! Levi! He’s stalking you!”

“Uh, don’t be so happy about it, but yes. I can’t seem to shake him.”

Jazz resumed her dirty look. “Why would you want to, Rory? He’s cute, smart, going to be seriously accomplished and best of all, he’s not from here!”

I sighed.

“Oh, Rora! What is the matter?”

“Why me, Jazz? Could I not have been sending him stronger ‘no’ microwaves that night?”

“Maybe he has a thing for a nice ass. I’ve always said-”

“Seriously, Jazz. From the get-go his appearance annoyed me. And I made sure he knew I didn’t want him around. But what does he do? He comes to my bar. He watches Casablanca and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest for conversation starters. Why put all this effort into someone that you know nothing about!”

“Rory, you make it sound like he’s slaying dragons or something. I mean, well okay, when you get down to it I’d prefer slaying dragons to watching Casablanca, but Rory, those are movies! They cost him two bucks to rent and about five hours of his life. And considering how many hours there are during the 78 years of the average life expectancy in the U.S., that is a minimal, minimal, minimal sum. I mean, he probably spends more than five hours in the bathroom a year. And no, I’m not talking about bathing.”

I shook my head. “Still.”

“Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth.”

“What if the gift contains anthrax?”

Jazz rolled her eyes. “Anyway, the thing I’m most disgusted about is the nickname.”

“Why? I’m sure he doesn’t wear Levi’s. Definitely the cheapest he’d buy would be Lucky or Express. Still, the nickname is a distinct signifier.”

“I thought we learned our lessons with nicknames?”

I shook my head. “No, you learned your lesson with nicknames after calling your male nurse “Pothead Focker.”

Yes, Jazz’s ex, Allen Brodbent was a male nurse. No, I do not think there is anything wrong with a man being a nurse.
Nurses make bank nowadays. However, there are several male nurse jokes courtesy of Meet the Parents. The main character Gaylord, nee Greg, Focker is a male nurse. He is commonly referred to as “Greg RN” and there is a scene with De Niro interrogating Greg, asking him if he is a “pothead,” hence Jazz drunk dialing Allen and asking him “Are you a pothead, Focker? She then badgered him until he admitted he had smoked pot in high school. After his admission, Jazz happily called Allen a “Pothead Focker” over and over for about a full two minutes until he hung up on her. I was just amazed he had listened for that long.

Honestly though, he had to know she was mocking him behind his back – not that she did it maliciously – because she called him “Allen RN” to his face. She even introduced him to people as “Allen RN.” On our Sunday afternoons at the bar, she’d meet and tell me things went well with the “Little Focker.” It wasn’t said maliciously, I’d know if she was being malicious and Allen RN would’ve known she was being malicious. Jazz didn’t hide her true feelings. No, Jazz said it because “fuck” was probably her favorite word and when she called her nurse boyfriend “Focker” it made her giggle.

Before Pothead Focker, there was Rainbow Brite (The Star Stealer), Lt. Dan, and The Gecko to name a few.

Rainbow Brite (The Star Stealer) was named after one of our favorite 80’s cartoons that came to the big screen in Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer. Rainbow, Heath Cliffton, earned his name when he met Jazz. I had just got off work and Jazz had met me here for a few drinks. We were sitting around a four-person table drinking beer and propping our feet on the extra chairs.

Heath came by and asked Jazz for her chair. Before she had a chance to say “No,” or “Go to hell,” or “Seriously, this is a nearly-empty bar,” he grabbed the chair from under her feet and hauled it over to another nearby table. Some friends with Heath started laughing at him. Jazz started complaining loudly at how her ankles hurt from crashing into the ground because some douche bag grabbed her chair when she could count at least ten empty chairs in the immediate vicinity.

Heath heard her complain. Hell, everyone in the bar heard her complain despite my riotous laughter through her entire tirade. He apologized, returned Jazz’s exact chair and then grabbed one of the ten empty chairs Jazz must’ve been talking about. Five minutes later, clearly drunk, Heath and his new chair were at our table and he was back apologizing. Apparently he fell for sarcastic and sassy because he asked Jazz for her number when they were leaving.

I know that calling him Rainbow Brite is a bit of a jump, but being quite drunk ourselves that night, we started referring to him as the Chair Stealer. Somehow, in our alcohol-addled minds, we put together Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer and Heath’s nickname was born.

I know for a fact Heath never found out he was nicknamed after a blonde-hair, blue-eyed little girl who rode a magical horse into the sky via a rainbow to bring spring to the planet. Jazz broke up with Heath because after six months he started playing summer softball and Jazz thought he wasn’t paying her enough attention. Had he known he was nicknamed Rainbow Brite, I’m sure he would’ve been the one doing the breaking up.

Radio was by far one of our favorite nicknames for one of Jazz’s men. Radio was Patrick Thompson. Patrick went to high school with us and after college, we ran into him. Patrick was now a cop and took his job very seriously. How seriously? Well, that first night we met, Jazz asked him if she could call him and have him take care of a speeding ticket if she got pulled over. Patrick said he could never interfere with another cop’s business then excused himself to get another round.

Jazz looked at me and said, “How about you get a liter of cola and take it easy on the wait staff, Radio.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Why would Jazz date a guy that was so stuffy? Well, the first reason was because he was buying beer for both of us. She agreed to a date because she found out he had tickets for Jimmy Buffett in a couple of months. She continued to date him after Jimmy Buffett because while he was a bit of a self-righteous prick, he was something quite amazing between the sheets.

I can assure you that Patrick didn’t find out about his nickname. From talking to Jazz, I knew that Patrick had seen the movie Super Troopers and did not find it funny. Ironically enough, Patrick was nicknamed after Officer Rod Farva, called Radio, who was the most ridiculous and inept of the characters.

The Gecko was another drunken, roundabout nickname. Jazz’s dad wanted her to date a respectable man. He had a friend who wanted his son to find a respectable girl and settle down. Sounds like a nice story, right? Well, the respectable man was really a greedy, obnoxious jerk, and the respectable girl was not Jazz.

The Gecko, Michael Axel Paulson III, worked with his father at Smith Barney. Michael Axel Paulson III was nice looking, smart, and knew he was a catch. In Jazz and my humble opinion, knowing you’re a catch makes you way less of a catch, especially if you think you can boss your girlfriend around.

A couple of weeks after going out with Michael twice, Jazz and came to the bar to dissect. She had learned that Michael was all about money, all about the best money could buy, and might go so far as kill someone if he knew he’d get rich and get his clients rich from it. When I asked her if she meant hypothetically, she raised that eyebrow at me. She looked at me and said, “Really, does this man think he is Gordon Gekko. Some corporate bastard looking to bankrupt companies for a cheap buck? Because really, Rory, he would, I know he would.” She laughed. “Respectable. Ha, Dad! If you only knew.” From Gordon Gekko, it was an easy stretch to call him The Gecko, the little green guy on the Geico commercials.

Had Michael known he was The Gecko, he would’ve assumed, somewhat rightly, it was from the movie Wall Street. I’m sure he would be quite proud at our nickname for him.

As far as that relationship went, they lasted until Michael proposed after eight months. It’s a wonder they lasted that long. Jazz and The Gecko seemed to be always fighting. He would want her to do something simple like pick up his dry-cleaning and she would say she wouldn’t have time. He then wouldn’t understand why she didn’t have the time because she was a woman who worked for her dad, so surely she could find time.

The entire relationship was toxic. Jazz knew it too. Jazz stayed in the relationship for two reasons. The first reason is because the longer she stayed with him and the more he raged and became a jackass, the more her father urged her to break up with him, the more guilty he felt for pushing her into the relationship. Jazz always said that a guilty parent was an easy mark. She used his guilt to get more responsibilities in the company and to get more training. When it came to her career, Jazz could be just as ruthless.

The second reason she stayed in the relationship was because she had masochistic tendencies. It gave her some twisted thrill to be with a guy who would do whatever it took to piss her off. As if that wasn’t thrill enough, she enjoyed it even more when she got to yell at him and let him know that he was privileged just to date her.

When she said no to the engagement, I don’t know who was happier. And for the life of me, I still can’t understand why he stayed with her, let alone proposed. The only possible explanation I’ve come up with is that maybe he knew the proposal would drive them apart instead of solidifying the so-called sacred bond between the two of them.

I didn’t care how much Jazz might protest, the nicknames would never go. And deep down, I knew that Jazz didn’t want to get rid of the nicknames either. Hell, if we couldn’t come up with a quality nickname, we often didn’t go on date number two or three. Lack of nickname was just as significant to us. If we couldn’t find a nickname for them, then they were too boring. Despite how totally ridiculous some of the nicknames might be, the nicknames set them apart from all of the other fish in the sea.

“Rory, I’m not saying he’s going to end up being Mr. Right. But honey, we both know how long it has been since you’ve been with a guy. You work way too much to get out and meet someone let alone have it survive long enough for something to happen. But 501,” she said and gave me a smile, “he’s at least trying to show you he can cope. Sure, we don’t know why, but this is what you need right now.”

“And if he’s wrong?”

“Sleeping Beauty got lucky and found love with the first one. But that isn’t real. You have to date some toads to appreciate a prince.” I shook my head digesting her words. “And can he really be as bad as The Gecko?”

“I guess that is true,” I said.

Jazz smiled at me. “Of course it’s true! And if he did turn out to be as bad as the Gecko, you’d get out of the situation immedaitely.”

“I don’t like to argue as much as you.”

She laughed. “Rory, that is so not true. You just argue for things that you think are more worthwhile. And when you do argue, you argue louder and harder than I ever would.”

“Ok, guilty.”

“So let me hear more about Levi,” she said.

“Order up,” Eddie said sitting Jazz’s food on the ledge.

I gave Jazz her chicken fingers and then began to rehash all that happened with Levi, all that I hadn’t yet told her and more.

When I finished, she was no longer jealous. Like a cat full from a bowl of cream, Jazz sat back in the chair satisfied. The chicken fingers filled her belly and her mind full of enough Aurora gossip to make a tabloid journalist happy.

“Listen, Rory,” Jazz said once we had discussed and dissected. “If he isn’t the right man, if he turns out to be a master predator, a complete douche bag, a tool so big we have to call him Home Depot, you will still have me here with you. Not only that, but you have your aunt as well. We may be few in numbers, but we are mighty in heart,” she said and I laughed.

Suddenly she turned serious. “Its just time, Aurora. You’ve been hiding behind work since the Unmentionable. Not that I blame you in the least, lord knows I’m not sure how I could cope with that despite how much I may bitch, but we both know that if things were different, they would want you with someone, being happy, pursuing your dreams.”

“I know, Jazz. I know.”

“I don’t know many people who are stronger than you or any more capable than you are. Levi may not be the right person for your forever, Rory. But you have a person that is trying his hardest to get your attention. Give it to him. That is all I’m saying.”

“Give it to him or have sex?” I asked trying to lighten the mood.

“Sex of course!” Eddie shouted from the kitchen, and the two of us immediately started to laugh.

“Sex should come from it only if you want it to, Rory. I know you don’t do that with anyone, and I wouldn’t push you to do it with some random person. Although, if you wait much longer I may hire a gigolo for you. I just want you to remember what it is like to feel a bond of attachment begin to grow again.”

And with those few simple words, I ignored all of the red flags and decided to give Levi a chance.