"You know it makes me horny when you talk like that," said my Clueless Ginger Co-worker to his obviously angry girlfriend's back as she stormed away from him.

"Actually, she said don't be such a cunt," I said quietly and with as much sympathy as I could muster.

His face fell first, followed by his shoulders, and all hope disappeared.

"It's okay, man," I offered. "Just give her some time."

For some reason, we have had a flood of newborn babies through the Local Grocery in the past week. Babies that look to small to be real. Babies that, even when they're screaming (and in the LG they usually are), barely make a sound. Babies that would probably be better off at home. In an unusual twist, I haven't really said anything out loud about it. I think my sense of humor is starting to wear on Barbara. For some reason, she seems to be getting defensive when I respond to the sound of a shrieking toddler or a whiny six-year-old with
"Can't somebody put a plastic bag over that thing?", or the ever-charming "If that thing doesn't shut up I'm going to throw it in the river."
I wouldn't do this, of course. And no matter how tempted I might be to say something to their clueless parents, I need my job, so I usually just mumble something snide or go hide in the kitchen until the noise passes. But lately I've noticed Barbara getting a little testy, so I have made an effort to quietly ignore all but the worst offenders. (I'm not perfect, after all). So the newborns were something that I noted, but chose not to mention. After the third one on Saturday, though, Sven had had it. He leaned over, and putting on his Green Mountain Goober voice (imagine Bill Murray talking to himself about blowing up the gopher in Caddyshack, and add a Kennedy-esque twist to the vowels) said quietly but with a definite note of exasperation
"Uh, gee honey, I know you just gave birth like, two hours ago and all, but do you think you could run down to the Local Grocery?"
I've gotten a lot of mileage out of that mark with each repetition. I just have to make sure Barbara is out of earshot.

So I am at the Local Dive Bar with the b.h. We have come to see our friend D's band play. I do not frequent the LDB. In fact, I have really only gone there to see D play, or when I haven't finished drinking for the night and everything else closes. There is a reason for this.
The b.h. and I approach the bar at an open space between two filthy biker types in leather and a scary toothless old man. The b.h. pulls money from his wallet and turns to me to give me some.
"In case you need one later without me."
I thank him and give him an order for Switchback, which is the only beer in the LDB that is even close to palatable for me. The b.h. turns back to face the bartender, and as he places the order, the Leatherclad Biker Guy nearest me turns and looks me up and down from his bar stool, leaning back and nearly falling off of it.
"Hi," he slurred in what I assume was his sexiest pick-up tone.

"Hi" I deadpanned, not turning to face him.

"I'm Randy," he slurred, thrusting his hand toward me.

"Hi Randy" I deadpanned again. I looked down at his filthy, outstretched hand, wondering how many times he had used the bathroom since he had last washed it.

"Forgive me if I don't shake hands."

I was so proud of myself for finally remembering to use that line. Tombstone, aka the Best Movie Ever (aside from Brazil, The Accountant, The Future is Unwritten, and all of my other favorite movies) was released seventeen years ago. That line was delivered by Val Kilmer in the role of Doc Holliday, then watched (and re-watched, and re-watched ad nauseum), and then it waited in the back of my brain for seventeen years before finally being served up at an appropriate moment. I was nearly giddy.
"That's okay!" he slurred, louder and more animatedly now. "What's your name?"
"Denise," I answered without pause. (This is not my name.)
The b.h., in the meantime, collected our beers, tipped the bartender, and turned to give me my beer without acknowledging any of this conversation. One of the reasons why I love him is that he knows when I can handle a situation and generally lets me, rather than bothering to get involved and winding up in an unnecessary argument with an obvious idiot. We walked away together without another word.
"Nice meeting you Denise!" the guy said cheerily at my back. I wondered briefly exactly what the point was and then forgot about it completely until just now.

It reminded me of a time back in Athens. I was working at yet another dive bar, with my good friend Jared. His girlfriend at the time was A, who has since become a very good friend. On this particular night, A was sitting at the bar by herself having a drink while Jared and I slung drinks to filthy hippies and pool hustlers and the few frat kids who were daring enough to come in. We would each spend some time talking to A when we could, but for a while we were pretty busy and she was left to her own devices (and defenses). It was during this rush that a guy came up and asked if he could sit next to her. There were no other seats at the bar, and A isn't a bitch, so of course she said he could. He ordered a beer from Jared, sat quietly until it was delivered, and then started talking to A.
"You want a drink?"
"No, thanks. I've got one." She gestured at her beer which was three quarters full.

"You wanna dance?"

"No, thanks. I don't dance."

"You wanna play pool?"

"Um, no. I'm really just hanging out."

He paused for a minute or two, looking slowly around the room, and then turned back to her as if another thought had just occurred to him.

"You wanna go to the lake?"

"."

Somebody keeps leaving comments on my blog that are written in a different language. How can I decide whether or not to post them if I have no idea what they say? What if they're lewd comments? Or it's Nazi propoganda? (And why does Blogger insist that the word "Nazi" get capitalized? I'm not really for paying them even the tiniest respect.) I guess the other question is how did this person find me, and how could they possibly enjoy the blog if they don't speak English? Has anyone else had this experience?

This is fantastic. I can't wait to read the autobiography.

The b.h. went to visit his folks in North Carolina last week. He left bright and early on Thursday, and I had several long and difficult days at work, after which I mostly moped around the house eating bread and cheese and bemoaning his absence to no one in particular. When I wasn't at work I was dragging the dogs off to the woods or the river (on some days we did both). I knew they were going to be hysterical during the fireworks on the 4th, so after about two and a half minutes of nervous barking and whining and running around the house, I threw them in the car and drove around town looking for a place to park so we could watch them. The problem with being in the house is that they can't see the fireworks, so they have no idea what is happening and why the house is shaking. In the car, they're used to all kinds of noises and lights and whatnot, so they were completely calm. We sat on an empty road about half a mile from the house, windows and music both up, and everyone was totally happy. I can't believe it only took me eight years to figure this out.
After the fireworks were over, we went back to the house, I gave them each a treat, and then I headed out to meet my friend C for a drink. When I arrived at The Black Door, C was with his brother and a group of people I didn't know, as well as another friend, M. We all sat around and shot the shit and had a few beers, A and D stopped by a bit later, and we were pretty much the only ones there. We sat out on the patio, the weather was amazing, and eventually the bartender came out and sat with us for a bit. Good times were had by all.
When they closed, C and M and I went down the the venerable Charlie O.'s, the sort of dive-ey hell hole that you only enter because your friend's band is playing or every other bar in town is closed. There we ran into Harried Manager from the Local Restaurant, who was completely obliterated and invited us to his house for an after hours party. Moments later the door guy started shouting for everyone to leave, so we followed M and HM back to HM's place, which was about half a block away. I should mention that C and M both had a shot of tequila at Charlie O.'s, which I was smart enough to decline.
Anyway, we got to HM's and opened a couple beers, walked around admiring his decorating style (which was the thing that finally convinced me of his heterosexuality, by the way), put on some music, and found ourselves a chair.
Soon half of the town was pouring in the door, and C and I found ourselves rather pressed into a corner. There was a big weird guy kind of hovering over me, and C and I were both looking for a polite way to escape when we realized that the big goofy bastard was bleeding. Not from like, a gunshot wound or anything, but there was blood dripping all over his arm, which he was flailing around in our general direction. This realization caused us both to scramble clumsily out of our seats and to the other side of the kitchen. I even left my beer behind.
We watched from the corner as the Bleeding Guy and some woman took our seats.
"Probably just a ploy," I muttered to C from inside the refrigerator door. "I think they just wanted that table."
When we finally got back to the table a short while later, my beer was gone. The glass was there, but somebody (some drunk, bleeding scumbag, no doubt) had killed off my Guinness. Bastard.
The night finally ended when C and I were too tired to talk anymore and we realized that we were two of only five people left in Harried Manager's apartment. As we made for the door, I was accosted by HM's sister, who started to drunkenly embrace me before I was rescued by C and pulled out the door. Note to self: Never, never stay out until 4am in this town. Never again.

And now for something completely adorable: