Sunday, April 16, 2006

Drunkity drunk drunk

Two things seem to happen when I go out with Kristin:
  1. I get drunk.
  2. Strange men hit on me.
Last night, I met Kristin and two other friends for a drink at a favorite and convenient (for me and Kristin) local bar. Kristin arrived first and we sat inside for a while. When the others arrived, we moved out of doors. We sat outside, enjoying the warm weather, watching people arrive at the bar and occasionally stagger out.

During that time, I drank one beer.

I biked there and figured even if I drank a little, riding home would not be a problem.

When everyone else was leaving, around midnight, Kristin and I decided to reclaim our spots at the little bar downstairs.

I started on my second beer--which I intended to be my last. I figured that I would go home when I finished it and leave Kristin to her own devices.

We chatted with the bartender, Carl, talked to each other and said hello to many of the folks who came up to the bar. When I was just about to finish my second beer, Paul (not the bartender) slipped behind the bar and pulled out another beer for me. The bartender had stepped away for minute.

Did I mention that I was drinking Bud(weiser) in a bottle? Generally, I don't drink Bud, but sometimes, it hits the spot. (Remember, I'm from Seattle, which means I'm a beer and coffee snob.) I'm not sure why I started with the Bud last night, but it was a good idea. Since it's only a 12 oz serving, I drank 12 oz less beer than I would have if I'd been drinking pints. I think I'll stick with bottles--of whatever--from now on.

Paul wasn't exactly working there that night. I believe he works at that bar and at some of the other bars on Penn SE as a manager. But he was helping out Carl, pulling in dirty glasses, hanging out with him and paying for a steady stream of Jameson's. When the Carl (the bartender) came back and saw the beer in front of me he looked surprised. "Did you steal that beer?"


"I know you slipped back here when I wasn't looking."

"No--it was him." I nodded to Paul.

Paul said, "You'll take it and you'll like it." Ok then.

I said to Kristin, "What are you doing to me?"

Right around then, a friend of Kristin's, an Irish guy, came up to the bar and bought seven shots of Jaeger for his friends--and us. And Paul. When someone buys you a shot, you can't just say no. I mean, you could, but I didn't. Though I did curse, after the generous fellow left, about why when someone buys you shot it has to be goddamn Jaeger. (This has happened to me at this very same bar on another occasion with Kristin.)

"If someone wants to buy you a shot, the least they could do is ask you what you want to drink. Goddamn Jaeger."

A fellow standing at the bar said, "It's not just Jaeger. It's goddamn Jaeger."

He was telling Carl, "I never drink alcohol. It gets you into trouble." (Note: that business about people pouring out their hearts to bartenders? SO TRUE. I never knew because I don't do it.)

I said, "I can't get into trouble no matter how much I drink." Sad but true.

The guy at the bar continued and said something about being in love with a stripper and having a restraining order. Carl laughed at his joke and added, "It's just a piece of paper."

Later, Mr. Restraining Order came back for another soda and said to me, "Is this 100 yards?"

I didn't get it. "What?"

"Am I at least 100 yards away?"

"Um, no. You're not even..." I held up my fingers in the space between us, "...a hundred millimeters away."

He got his soda and walked to the other side of the bar, next to Kristin. "Your friend doesn't like me."

Kristin said, "Why do you say that?"

"She doesn't like my joke. She said I wasn't even 100 millimeters away from her."

"Hey," I said, leaning over Kristin, "I was making a joke too. Why doesn't anyone ever get my jokes?"

He smiled at me. Kristin stepped away. I started rubbing my neck. For the last couple of days, my neck has been killing me. The guy looked at me and asked what was wrong--pulled muscle?

"It's just sore. I don't know what's going on."

He walked over and gave me a neck rub. A really good one. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I can't even begin to tell you how uncharacteristic this is for me. I'd probably be more comfortable kissing a strange guy in a bar (actual times this occurred: once, about five years ago) than receiving a neck rub from a strange guy.

Oddly, it wasn't my first neck rub of the night. Let's back up, shall we?

Some time around the Jaeger shot (is it a surprise that things went blurry around then?), Paul put his arms around me and rubbed my shoulders. I was sitting on the bar stool and he hugged me. He whispered how wonderful I was and how every time he's seen me, he's told me so.

For the record, I've spoken to Paul one other time and he DID NOT flirt with me. I've seen him a few other times and said hello, but he didn't seem to recognize me. Needless to say, I was lost.

He said, "It's too bad you're taken."

"Taken? By whom?" Don't you love that I still use correct grammar when I'm drunk?

"You have a boyfriend. A really nice boyfriend."

"No I don't. I don't have a boyfriend." I said.

"You don't? I thought you did." I guess I must seem like the kind of person who has a boyfriend. Nice. That's the reason I'm single! Guys take one look at me and think, "No way is she available." And they don't even bother to approach. Yah, sure. That's it.

When Kristin came back (she'd stepped away again), he slid away, back to his spot at the bar. Why did all these boys make their moves in Kristin's absence? I told her, in tidbits what happened, because Paul was standing next to her for most of the night. "He thought I had a boyfriend. He must have me confused with someone else."

"Do you want him to think you have a boyfriend? I can tell him you do."

"No. Just tell the truth." I said.

"I always do."

That was kind of funny because, earlier, when the Irish guy bought us the shots he asked what my name was and I turned to Kristin and said, "What's my name?"

She said, "This is Jamy!"

Irish said, "You forgot your name?"


Later, Paul took one more opportunity to flirt with me, telling me what a great woman I was. I was embarrassed. Paul is a good guy. Can't say I'm interested in him, though. And I certainly can't handle such an excess of compliments from a stranger.

Last call finally came and Kristin and I walked out together; she to a cab, me to my bike. I was a little fuzzy, but the ride home was pleasant and cool.

Except for a fairly significant headache today, I feel pretty good. I may even leave the house.

I believe the moral of this story is that I should go out with Kristin more often.

Grateful for: 12 oz beers.

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