Is that blog title a copyright infringement? I kind of feel like no because it is only a small portion of the title of the kids book but I also kind of think I am only saying that to make myself feel a little less like Fareed Zakaria. If you have any insight or opinions, kindly leave them in the comment section below. Thanks.
And now, on to the blog post! As I have done before, I would like to preface the actual telling of this tale by saying that if you think girls are made of raw cookie dough and scotch, you probably should skip this post. I refuse to feel badly for the men-folk out there who read this post despite my warnings and then complain to me about how they wished they hadn’t read it. It’s happened before. You know who you are and you have been warned. Very well.
So yesterday before 2pm, about 1/4 of the way through my bartending shift, was a really shitty day. Like epically, epically shitty. Nobody died or anything so don’t go getting that idea. It was just one of those days where nothing of consequence really happens but all of the non-events just generally blow. It all started at 12am the night before when I decided to go to sleep rather than watching an episode of Friday Night Lights with my boyfriend. I was trying to be responsible. So, I got myself all ready and got into bed. Generally, I am a very good sleeper. One game (or part of a game, let’s be honest) of sudoku and I am sleeping like a baby. But not that night. I played a game, then another, and another. Midnight turned to 1am…2am…3am. I listened to my kittys running around the room with one of their favorite toys: a wrapped straw. I got annoyed at the noise it was making, got up, and hurled it down the hallway. They brought it back and continued with their game. At some point, I fell asleep. And then, at 8:30, I awoke with a start. Wide awake! So, I went down the hallway to the bathroom to discover the thing that every woman hates to discover first thing in the morning. Leakage. God damnit. Well, that’s okay. Actually, looking back, I didn’t feel like it was okay in the moment, to be entirely honest. I looked in the mirror to see an angry Rebekah staring back at me. A Rebekah who wanted to rip her ovaries and uterus out of her body and then get back into bed and sleep soundly, and cleanly, for the next 10 days. I decided instead to seize the moment and do the thing I had been putting off all week — I would wash my hair! For those who know me, I have incredibly thick hair practically down to my ass so washing it is really nothing to sneeze at. Afterwards, I felt much better. I started packing for my upcoming trip to visit my Aunts in Pennsylvania. I decided it wise to pack my back-up running shoes instead of my actual running shoes for a myriad reasons that I don’t feel it necessary to go into at this time. I went over to the line of shoes outside my bedroom door, picked up my back-up pair and…what is that smell? Ew! What’s running down my arm?! CAT PEE! I stood there in disgust and disbelief, called to my boyfriend who was in the room presumably playing a game of backgammon on his phone.
Peeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeete? Will you come out here for a sec…?
I was trying to sound relaxed but I imagine there was a serious degree of panic and murderous rage in my voice. I can only imagine the face he opened the door to. The next 10 minutes saw me and Pete with bleach and paper towels, him calmly cleaning, me angrily cleaning and cursing the kittys at every opportunity. It sounded something like this.
Me: Stupid kittys. Why do they do this? No one else’s kittys ever pee on things. Carrie’s kitty, she doesn’t pee.
Pete: Actually, I’m pretty sure Carrie said she has gotten pretty adept at cleaning cat pee smell out of laundry, so…
Me: (Stewing in silence at being proven wrong.) Well, whatever. These ones are the worst. Why do they have to be such assholes? Right now I hate them so much I wish we never got them.* Ew! Ew! A drip! Oh god.
Once the cleaning was complete, and I had sufficiently scoured my arm so I felt about 75% as clean as I did when I got out of the shower, Pete and I headed off, with packed bag in tow, to the bar. Going to a bar job when you are already in a bad mood and having a bad day is not something for the faint of heart. But I persevered (in all honesty, I didn’t have much of a choice). One of my customers ordered a Chelsea Hop Angel. It immediately kicked. Had to run down and change it. Ten minutes later, someone else ordered the Kelso Pils. It kicked. Had to run down and change it. Then the same fool who ordered the Chelsea Hop Angel ordered his fourth Brooklyn Lager and, wouldn’t you know it? It kicked. Had to run down and change it. By this point I was so frustrated that I was storming around the walk-in fridge imagining that I was hearing a strange humming and that something in there might explode at any moment and wouldn’t that just figure? I went to change the third and, as it turned out, final keg of the day and, in my haste to avoid death or dismemberment by walk-in fridge disaster, I didn’t put the sankey in properly and BOOM! Beer geyser! It was everywhere, but mostly it was everywhere on me. Dripping down my face. Stinking-up my hair. Soaking into my clothes. I was dripping and I was furious. I stormed upstairs and stomped into the bathroom, likely alarming my few customers on the way through. I took a quick sink-shower, praising myself for the choice to go make-up free at work that day. No running mascara for this girl! I went back behind the bar and begrudgingly served the offending beer to my normally-offensive sometimes customer. Even he knew to keep his mouth shut (actually…he knew after I told him talking to me was probably not in his best interest at that particular moment. Whoops).
Then, 2pm came around and as fast as the bad day started it came to a grinding halt. I ate some snacks. I threw some darts (4 bulls!). I made some money. And then I headed back to New Jersey for the first leg of my vacation. And that’s where I sit right now. At my grandpa’s old desk, looking forward to the week and hoping that I am a few good laughs away from my crappy day.
*I would like to say at this juncture that this is a sentence that leaves my mouth every now and again. Truth is, I love the kittys. I think they are the cutest kittys in the world and if you let me I will show you a picture of Grete in a bag. I just wish they wouldn’t piss on my things.
franklyrebekah 