My name is not Sarah.

I pride myself on avoiding profiling new guests.
But sometimes its hard to avoid the smell of douchebag in the air.

When i introduce myself to you. Please. Remember my name. Or, if you don't, please do not call me by someone elses even after several attempts on my part tonight to gently correct you.

"SARAH! HEY SARAHHHHH! SARAH!!"

Who the fuck is Sarah?

Battin' For the Other Team...

Is it wrong that when guys start inquiring about whether or not i have a boyfriend, i respond with some clever phrase implying that i'm a lesbian?

Tonight I was "...battin' for the other team..."

All of my regulars are familiar with this game. And i oft' call upon them to back me up in a time of need. (Which they did so beautifully, if not graphically tonight.)

Thanks guys. You're a life saver. :)

Yoga for Bartenders?

Memorial Weekend....
As a bartender you come to dread Summer holidays. In fact, you come to dread Summer in general. It's what we call the SLOOOWWW SEASON. In the mitten, where warm weather comes and goes in a wham bam thank you ma'm whirlwind of three months, bonfires and backyards lure even the most die hard regulars away from the bar rail.
So clocking in this past Sunday I had my crossword in hand sandwiched between two, count it, TWO, back up packs of cigarettes. I mean, there was nothing but an awkward couple at the wood, and a table of underage teens playing pool in the back when I walked in. The last of the servers clocked out, (thanks to our new manager who actually knows how to cut a floor), and then the guests trickled in.
One table. Two tables. Three tables. Four. Five more guests came a'walkin through the door.
Within an hour I had a full bar and dining room--and its never felt so good to get my ass handed to me on a serving tray. AMEN.
If only they'd let me work the whole house every Sunday night I might be able to quit stealing internet from my neighbors.

---->Insert rant on corporate run restaurants thinking the quantity of servers/bartenders on the floor is more important than the quality of the employee HERE<----------

I mean, all you need is a level head and half a brain to serve the masses. And not tootin my own horn here, but I handled the night beautifully. And this was before I started doing yoga.

Yes. Yoga.
Lower back pain and leg cramps made me do it. The stretching and breathing exercises are wonderful. I never thought core muscle strength and inner peace could come in so handy, but I made it through tonight's shift without one charlie horse or flashing my whale tail mid pour to touch my toes and prevent imminent muscle spasms (much to a few of the regs dismay.) Maybe I'll get certified and start teaching a yoga for bartenders class. Talk about an untapped niche.

I can feel it callin in the air tonighhhttt....

Atmosphere in a bar is a BIG DEAL. And usually Bailey's is a party every night. Really.

But tonight something was just off. It was quiet. The regs cleared out early, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't get my head into it, let alone get the guests out of whatever funk lay over Canton. The night was filled with one and done's and diet cokes.

I wonder if it has anything to do with the recent DUI epidemic plaguing the state.

And considering yours truly is currently suffering from nasty symptoms such as random breathalyzers, alcohol counselling, community service, mandatory AA meetings, and a very empty wallet i can't blame them. I mean, if thats what's weighing on everyone's mind. (Which I've come to find that more than half of the people i know have done the dooey shuffle. Amazing.) Hooray for being responsible.

In other news, one of our waitresses went missing tonight. And not in one of those fuckthisplaceiquit no call no shows...


.

Six Dolla Holla!

Sometimes your shift is a bust.
You work harder. Cleaning fruit fly sex sauces out of drains. Windexing. Wiping down bottles. etc. And get so pissed about your night that you drink away the whole six dollars you made.

Deal.
Tomorrow will be better.
Promise.

1, 2, 3, 4...

I click my teeth when i'm counting my pours. Is this something new? Or have I been doing it for years now and only noticed last night...wierd.

---

I also hate Cinco de Mayo. And Sangria. And Mojitos. (Two items that are not usually on our drinks menu.) I squeezed more fruit and muddled more mint leaves in one night to make up for the rest of my life. Really. I still smell like mint leaves. And, my feet still hurt.

You know how you manage to con yourself into doing something? Skydiving. White water rafting. Playing with sting rays. Wearing cowboy boots with two inch heels behind the bar. It seems like a great idea. I mean, more people die in car crashes on the street everyday. Right?

I walked out of work the other night like a bow legged cripple born without toes. Six hours into the shift my dogs were barkin. Loudly. Was it the fact that there was no cushion support sole? Or that we were crazy busy? The heel? The gallons of beer that managed to find their way down my legs and into the boots creating some odd sort of friction? And I'll tell you, no matter how cute your halter top is, especially with your short shorts--there is nothing attractive about your bartender limping around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Nor is there anything fun about bruised and swollen feet partaking in the ice then heating pack shuffle. Though I have had several offers for foot rubs...

Why do drunk people have such an aversion to cabs?

With a recent DUI under my own belt, (Sorry mom.), I've began taking great care in making sure my guests make it home safely. So when a guy walks in, orders shots from the other bartender, then tosses the shot glass at my face as i'm washing dishes I no longer have to fight the urge to hurdle over the bar and start swinging, I have to fight the urge to dial up ABC cab.
You see, I've come to find that a drunk persons worst enemy is a cab. Or so they think.
We cut the guy off, gave him a water, and then watched him try to leave.
"Hey! It's Kristina from Bailey's...again...we need a cab. No i don't have an address. He won't give it to me. I know. I know."
Even the cab drivers know that the odds are against them. Most of the time the person they're picking up sneaks off and drives home.
This one ended in following the fellow to his car, writing down his license plate number, and calling the cops.

Now you tell me, who would you rather have pick you up? A cab or a cop?