A Heartbroken Alcoholic

Apparently when you see those advertisements in the classifieds for School of Bartending, they teach you a whole lot more than how to make drinks… that’s only section B on the syllabus… section A is how to make the ladies come back for more.

Those Schools of Bartending even have free job placement… what a fucking perk.

Graduating at the top of your class means you’re the supreme smooth-talker… you make good eye contact, throw out the “I love you’s” as easily as you’d say hello, you place the napkin before her and say, “what can I get for you sweetheart?”, yes, sweetheart naturally rolls off your tongue… you remember her drink, it seems like you care, you tell her she’s looking beautiful… sometimes you gallantly kiss her hand while staring into her eyes… and us ladies fucking buy it.

We fucking buy it, and we buy the more drinks… we spend extensive hours there in hopes of some words that make us feel “special.” That bartender becomes our alcohol. We become addicted to his charming words and the occasional touch of our hands.

So yes, to get those highly coveted bartending jobs knowing the ingredients of a drink is the simple part, but it’s that imperative lip reverence that scores you those jobs.

I’ve been a sucker for this twice now. First with Obsession from Cheers, who got me in the sack (minus the actual penile/vaginal intercourse ‘cuz I was surfin’ the crimson wave) and now with iBartender.

I held out for a very long time with iBartender. Over the past year, I bore witness to his spot-on Bartending School antics. It was only recently with Monday Night Dice that I started batting my eyelashes and falling for his soulful glances and charming words.

Totally duped. I’ve been totally-totally duped.

We just like to think that we’re different… that he looks at us differently.

Uh. I was sooooo onto his game for so long. I can’t believe I’ve found myself here. Made a fool. I made myself the fool. I should have known better. I did know better. Fuck.

And he must have graduated Bartending School with High Honors and would be heavily recruited… a strong asset to any bar-owner.

At the end of the day, I blame that bar-owner. I blame that bar-owner for making me a heartbroken alcoholic.


From where did this post come? Yesterday during my chit-chat with Green Eyes, we discussed the prospect of me putting myself out there to iBartender… perhaps getting some “out of the bar” time.

But then… I read this:

http://cocksanddolls.blogspot.com/2007/03/low-down.html
(her March 7th post, “the low down”)

This story couldn’t be anymore of mirror image of my own situation. My jaw was dropped the entire time I read it. It’s as though this was written by the East Coast Miss Curious. Living this same silly life anywhere I’d go. To me, this is un-fucking-canny.

So… enough feasting on the crumbs of Obsession and iBartender. Enough. I will no way – no how ever put myself out there.

The great thing about her post is that it made iBartender into a character… into a cliché. Fiction. He fits the classic stereotype. And that makes me feel much better.

Now, I’ve decided to block any thought of him with vocabulary words that I’m studying for the GRE.

FABULOUS. AND FUCK BARTENDERS (WELL, NOT LITERALLY FUCK THEM)!