What a good country song is made of
Kimber invited me to partake in a few drinks in Chinatown and given my faulty relationships as of late, I decided to give up a night of misanthropy for a pitcher of sangria.
The sangria being mostly weak and Kimber being my esteemed counterpart when it comes to all things fermented, we decided on an Irish bar down the street for she wanted to partake in ‘real drinking’ and I am nothing if not a ‘real’ drinker.
Upon approach of the second establishment an ID was required and none was produced on my part. Though I shook it off and we decided on Clyde’s. Though annoying and with a royal stick up it’s ass because of it’s claims on popularity, it’s there and easy and there wasn’t a burly black man at the door with a blonde Mohawk. So off we went.
We sat at the bar. I batted my eyelashes and smiled to pilfer a bar stool from two gentlemen who then proceeded to check out my ass. The bartender took our drink requests, Pilsner, Bud light…and before getting to me, he requested an ID.
Never have those words yielded such a look of pure pain and sorrow and essentially heartbreak. I stammered and stumbled something about taking my license out of one bag before putting it in another as I had recently been flying.
He responded with the look of ice cold seriousness that he needed an ID.
I ordered a diet coke and proceeded to look away in order to fight back tears when he actually produced a diet coke that tasted like ass flavored water, while those around me enjoyed the fruits of Czech labor. I literally went from jovial to humming a little diddy about how my man done left me and my ID has gone astray. A very sad and lonesome tale of a poor girl trapped in a bar unable to enjoy her much needed ketel one and tonic because she didn’t have proof of age*.
But by the look on my face you would have thought that my dog just got run over by a hummer just minutes after finding out about an unplanned pregnancy and a tornado done blew my home away. What can I say? I take my drinking very seriously.