So, I work at a bar...

    Being a bartender is a sort of fantasy for all of those college students romanticizing the starving-artist lifestyle. Doesn't it just sound edgy? Doesn't it just seem like a job stuck out of time, like it was from a century grittier than our own, rife with possibilities of self-discovery? A time when one could just wash away the grime of life's suffering with a cheap drink and easy conversation? Just imagine yourself, cracking a beer with the local hairy weirdo who wastes away his days mumbling to himself on a park bench, feeding pigeons from boxes of Russell Stover chocolates, to hear that he actually carried his entire platoon out of the bullet-ravaged jungles of Vietnam after being shot (in the ass. In this fantasy you're serving Forrest Gump after Forrest Jr. finally got sick of being raised by a man-child and ran away). Or maybe some hot-shot hyper-masculine chauvinist punk comes in and starts talking shit about how well you serve because you're a woman and demands a sandwich, and you challenge him to a drinking contest, and the two of you pour back shot after shot until, through your vodka-soaked vision, you see him finally collapse from his bar stool, and you win a victory not just for yourself, or the bar, but for all of womankind.

"I claim this victory in the name of VAGINA!"

    But here's a fun fact that they don't mention in movies: it is actually illegal to drink on the job as a bartender. And if someone gets too drunk from your serving, and they drive home and get in an accident, guess who's to blame. Not the driver for still being too stupid to be able to say "enough" after over 21 years of life. Not that pesky telephone pole for being so inconveniently placed in the driver's path. Nope! It's yours. I hope you've also romanticized jail, because you'll need those warm dreams to get you through those chilly, prison nights.

    Obviously,  the no-drinking-on-the-job rule is one that most places get away with regularly breaking, but unfortunately the bar I work at is not one of them, for various unfortunate reasons. So let me paint you a picture of what my job is like a lot of the time: think about the last time you were a designated driver. Now imagine that, instead of being responsible for two or three friends, you're responsible for fifty. And none of them are your actual friends. And in addition to making sure that they don't puke anywhere or get into any fights, you also have to serve them. All night. When put that way, how much fun does it sound?

I needed a drink just thinking about it.

    And my bar is not just for the roving packs of horny college students. It's also the kind that old, racist people go to to feel at home. I can’t really call them out on their bullshit because it’s essentially pointless because they’ll never learn. This is not the type of place where change begins; this is the type of place where their brand of outdated ignorance comes to die. And I’m broke and fresh out of college so I’m banking on their filthy, racist tips. I’ll feel guilty when I can finally move out of my parents’ house.

    I love working in customer service, because if left with my own thoughts I won't get anything done, and then I'll blog about it, thereby wasting even more time. But it's hard sometimes. Trying to dodge the attempts of conversation from someone who thinks that the world has "gone to shit because of the gays" (direct quote) is morally exhausting. Trying to find yet another kind way to say no to girls who want some frilly shit shot with expensive, obscure liquor that we don't carry ("...and can you set it on fire?!" NO.) is obnoxious. And trying to explain to drunk guys of all ages that, just because a customer service job demands that I'm friendly and accommodating, it does not mean that I want to date you.
    By date, I obviously mean bone. I have a particular blend of social awkwardness and general stupidity that doesn't allow for commitment.

Web MD diagnosed me as "undateable."

    "But Johanna, why are you telling us all this?"
    I'll tell you, random Facebook friend who noticed that I had posted about my blog in my status update but really meant to click on the Buzzfeed quiz of what your hidden talent is (I got painting. Apparently, guiltless late-night snacking wasn't an option). I'm telling you this because there are so many shenanigans that happen at that place, shenanigans that will probably wind up being worth writing about. Like these shenanigans, for instance. And anytime I mention going to the bar, or being a bartender, I don't want you to picture some young, charmingly broke post-college bohemian who values living more in her head than in a career, getting through her struggles with the drunken version of Arabian Nights. I want you to have the right idea about the bar I'm at. It's tiny, it's grubby, and every possible surface is covered in graffiti that is 45% penises. I do very much enjoy my job, and I'm grateful to even have a job so quickly out of college, but it has the pitfalls of any customer service job. Only with alcohol.

Think about the last interaction you had with an inappropriately bitchy or rude customer. Now think about how many more terrible things they would have said to you if they were drunk. Now stop crying.

    Here on out, you will know what I'm referring to in the future when I mention "my job." Also, you can stop telling your bartending friends how jealous you are of their job. I have fun, but besides all of the shit I mentioned earlier, I now get to live through the bullshit of being asked my by relatives when I'm going to "grow up and get a real job." It's like that girl you went to high school with who was always jealous of her married-with-children friends, until she threw herself at the first guy to say yes and wound up with six hyperactive shitty monsters that she resents for stealing her youth. Mentally replacing the shitty parts of your job with the awesomeness of being a bartender is similar to that woman's desperate attempts to replace the shitty memories of her family growing up with a new family of her own. A lot of it will be shitty no matter what, because life.

This metaphor seemed way funnier in my head. Here's a picture of my cat as a kitten to lighten the mood.

    One more thing, while I've got you here: stop asking your bartender friends to give you free drinks. That shit is stealing. Every store has its product, and the bar's product is booze. Know that, a lot of the time that they give you a "free drink," they're the ones paying for it. Because if they didn't, they'd be thieving. Robbing the establishment and giving it to the sober, like Robin Hood for broke college students.

Free drinks for all! So long as your tip is more than the drink is worth.

Photo credit:
Victorious Vagina: http://blog.ewomennetwork.com/7-methods-to-achieve-balance-and-self-control/
Recovery drink: That would be me, in Brockport, NY, in November, 2012. Coping, as usual.
Undateable: Me again, failing at chair.
Bitchy customers: it's a screenshot from the Bitchy Resting Face video, which might possibly be the most hilarious and accurate video to grace the internet.
My cat: is my cat, 20 years ago. Yeah, she's still alive. That's some old pussy, ammiright?? That joke never gets old.
Robin Hanni: here to save the day, and all that shit.