Tanqueray Up

glasses: ARMY eye-wear dress: Emma & Michele purse: charming CHARLIE shrug: Old Navy necklace: vintage

Sundays are never a day of rest for me.  In fact, in my house, days of rest are few and far between.  Because of today's Super Bowl my mother is preparing a small feast of wings, wings, more wings, and some mini corn dogs.  My mother NEVER eats mini anything.  She will also probably be tired of the football before it even starts, but alas, not everyone is as thrilled as I am at the potential of a double victory for the City by the Bay.  As you may or may not know, I am a die hard San Francisco Giants fan, as well as vehement Northern California enthusiast.  What the hell am I doing down here? I don't know.  It's like I always say, "I stepped behind this bar and I forgot what I was doing...for seven years." 

This week's adventures behind the bar were only highlighted by a visit from one of my favorite patrons, whom we will refer to as Tanqueray Up.  In life you are not going to like everybody.  My mom once told me, "if you're not having fun...lower your standards."  I've tried that, and most times it works.  However, there are always moments and specifically people, who are going to piss you off by just being in the room.  Tanqueray Up is one of them.

Dressed like a frumpy golfer, he usually arrives sometime between 2 and 3 pm, just about the time where you are read to go home from your day shift and your patience is at an all time low.   He usually manages to show up when I am not physically behind the bar, so it's the sweetest surprise when I come around the corner to see him sitting at my bar top. 

He has to sit rightnexttothtetap and rightinyourface.  His hair is grayish white, but for some reason he combs it down in the front, a-la Howdy Doody and it accents the lovely frames he probably found at the local Walgreens.  This week I was lucky enough to be entertained by tales of his recent trip to Vegas.

"You see, my daughter goes both ways so I told 'er, hey...we'll go to Cheetahs! I used to be in Vegas all the time and those girls love me.  They're like 'Wheeeeeeere have you beeeeen?' when I walk in the door."  Oh, I bet that's what they say.  They probably also love it when you demand they turn the Golf Channel on during baseball playoffs, or ask why the bar is not showing the Presidential Debates with the sound on.  They probably really enjoy your lectures about the difference between a lemon wedge and a lemon twist.  Oh wait...I bet those experiences are saved only for me.  Also, I'm sure your poor daughter loves you discussing her sexual orientation with a complete stranger.

His most recent comments include, but are not limited to: "All the bartenders here are either pregnant or grouchy, what's the deal with that, huh?" I wanted to tell him that I'm sure no one at Cheetah's is either grouchy or pregnant, and apparently they really seem to like you there.  Please go.  Go now.

He is also convinced my husband is a cop.  Two things: I don't have a husband (not yet, but soon) and there is no way he would ever be a cop.  No offense to law enforcers and the like, but if you know me you know I have a few paralyzing fears: police, jail, police cars, police lights, police knocks on the door, driving by the police...just to name a few.  I have probably told Mr. Tanqueray Up that I am not married, nor is my husband a cop about 600 times.  Without missing a beat, he asks me this week, "Your husband's a cop right?" Apparently, there is no need for me to answer because he continues without pause.  "Well then you know what it's like when the boss calls, you gotta go."  I am never sure what this means.  He says it EVERY TIME.  Who is this illusive "boss?"  Do you only know him or her if you are a cop?  I don't really give a damn but if I can get his/her contact info I'd love to be able to make this guy disappear with one call to said "boss."  In fact, I'd like to give this "boss" some sort of thank you for always making Tanqueray Up disappear right before I am about to kill him.

The best part about the experience is always his final joke before departure.  When I hand him his tab he always chuckles, "Whoops! I have to pay for this?!?!"  That never, ever gets old.

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