The Absolut(e) LAMEST things ordered over the last two weekends:

1. Top shelf Long Island Iced Tea

This is the stuff of legend. I'd heard tell of it being ordered in earnest, but thought it was an urban myth. Somebody out there really doesn't realize that when you mix vodka, gin, rum, tequila, triple sec, sour mix and coke, it's gonna taste like crap and make you sick, whether you use Zemkoff or Chopin? Really?

2. Shot of Sour Apple Pucker

Bright green, tastes like plastic (or to quote LZP, "a My Little Pony") and has about four percent alcohol.

3. "Sweet Action"

Ordered thus: "Can I get Sweet Action?" I just shook my head, knowingly and sadly.

4. Absolut, Malibu and pineapple

This from a man who looked old enough - and franky, hard enough - to know better.

Special mention goes to the woman who wanted something called a Vodka Russian (it's red, apparently, and has nothing to do with the black or white varieties),

"Hey, you were here last week...

...you were so drunk that you fell off your stool."

"What? I did?"

"Yep."

"Are you sure it was me?"

"Yep. I'm sure."

"I don't think that was..."

"It was DEFINITELY you."

"Oh...okay."

"I'm not surprised that you don't remember."

"Okay...well..."

"You were really, really drunk."

(blank stare.)

"What are you having, then?"

I've named him Marvin

Not good at all.

I have a crush on a mouse

There is a tiny mouse who has popped into my room twice today and just hung out behind my dresser for a little while before popping back out. I don't know what he's doing, there's nothing back there and he isn't making any noise. When I see him and yell at him to get out he looks askance at me for a moment before hiding himself guiltily. He's so freaking cute I can't stand it.

Arrrgh. This is not good.

Just to follow up...*

...on that last post:

Today, in a staff meeting, in the company of my co-workers, I was forced to view video footage of myself on the aforementioned Saturday night. (Not, I hasten to add, because anybody thought that watching me would be a good anti-drinking lesson or even remotely interesting, but because other stuff went on that night and damned if we weren't made to watch it, for our own improvement.) Seeing myself booze-annihilated on camera, all pixelated and 'cutting a rug,' as my boss wryly commented, filled me with a potent mix of emotions including a) the desire to run the f away, to like Brazil or some shit and b) the desire to ask for a copy of the tape in order to study it in great detail, you know, to check out the correlations between my memory of the night and the actual, physical record of the night. For metaphysics sake. And narcissism's sake. Caught thus, I rather stuttered and stood there, and no one really cared, because let's face it, no one really cares what embarrassing things you do or how drunk you may become unless you screw them over somehow.

The moral of this story: well, there is no moral to this story. I will continue to serve alcohol. I will continue to drink alcohol. Occasionally, I will become utterly retarded from over-indulging in said alcohol. I will waste entire days feeling riotously hungover, and I will fail to recognize people when I see them in the street the following day. I will kiss boys and then not call them back. I will dance poorly and behave like a complete and utter moron.

You probably will too, so don't get all high and mighty with me.

(* This blog was supposed to be about adventures serving booze, not consuming it, so apologies to all of those who are feeling misled and, frankly, badly used.)

To the kind of cute guy who got WAAAY too drunk on Friday night:

I looked at you with scorn and derision, even as I noticed your attractively shaggy haircut and clean, even teeth. I thought to myself, man, this guy is wasted. He can't even sit up straight on a barstool. What a dumbass. What a freaking loser.

It was 3:30 in the morning, and I was not feeling charitable.

I laughed at your friend when she demanded back her debit card, because she had been paying in cash. I gave her a Look when she told me I was wrong, and sniffed a bit when she pulled her card wonderingly out of her wallet. I walked over to Rigo, my bartendering companion, and said 'Man, there's an ad for giving up drinking if I've ever seen one. Don't drink, cuz you look like a stupid idiot. Like that guy.'

Then Saturday night rolled around.

On Saturday night I drank six glasses of wine before breaking one all over someone's shoes, waltzed clumsily and loudly, shared inappropriate secrets with people I barely knew, tried to flirt with three different guys at the same time, told someone I went to high school with but haven't seen in 5 years that I am hoping to meet a Sex God in the near future, asked him if he was a Sex God, and then fell over. Much of this was done in the exact spot where the dumbass drunk guy had been sitting.

I'm sorry, dumbass drunk guy. Clearly, it happens. In the future, when you are behaving like a freaking loser, I promise to be more charitable.

Meet Your Friendly Neighborhood Bartender

Imagine, if you will, a young woman much like any other young woman, except that this young woman works at a bar in your neighborhood. She works at THE bar in your neighborhood, your bar; she's YOUR bartender. She knows all your neighbors by name, knows your favorite three drinks, has the lowdown on your ex (and your ex-ex), and has seen you in at least a couple of compromising situations.

When you had too much to drink on your roommate's birthday, she swept up broken glass and called you a cab. When you got dumped by that darling blonde who everybody thought was going to be your salvation, she kept the tequila shots flowing and refused your debit card. When you were sure you couldn't face even one more day with your boss, she gave you some bracing advice and promised to be there when the day was over. And then, the next night, she was there.

When graduate students begin their PhD studies in the field of psychology, they are told that bartenders are thought to be more effective at helping people cope with their problems than psychiatrists. We listen, and we despense medication, and then we listen some more. And sometimes, when we feel able, we advise. It's what we do.

So pull up a barstool, raise your glass, and tell Your Friendly Neighborhood Bartender all your troubles. I may not have a leather couch, and I can't prescribe you any Xanax. But if you've got a creepy co-worker, or you keep striking out with the opposite sex, or if you just want to know a good place to get a facial, or feel like trying a brand-new cocktail - then you've come to the right place.