Archive for the ‘cocktales’ Category

No Drunks on Board, Please

In cocktales on 09/21/2006 at 5:47 pm

What follows is an actual letter sent to a friend of mine (not me, honest) by Air Canada. Ha. Specifics changed for the purpose of safeguarding identity.

Dear Miss Waitts,

Thank you for your extensive email describing the events surrounding your travel on August 8, 2006. We are truly sorry to learn of the series of events which prevented you from travelling on AC225 from Edmonton to Vancouver. Based on your description we can certainly understand your frustration. Our staff is expected to carry out their duties in a professional, courteous and efficient manner at all times. Whenever we fail to meet the expectations of our customers we are concerned. Your concerns and comments have been documented and forwarded to the appropriate manager for internal review. As per the Canadian Domestic General Rules of Tariff No. CDGR-1 Rule 35AC Refusal to transport *Passenger’s Conduct – Refusal to Transport Prohibited Conduct and Sanctions * our staff felt it was in the best interest of all concerned, denied boarding on this flight was necessary.
At this time our staff requested the disposal of alcohol in a pop can which was in your possession at the gate. Our staff was able to accommodate you on AC349 departing two hours later. It is noted our staff in the lounge was able to assist you and we apologize for any inconvenience caused. While we realize this is not the answer you were hoping for, our staff was acting in good faith. Once again, Ms.Waitts, please accept our sincere apologies for the disruption to your trip. We appreciate your support and look forward to welcoming you on board again soon.

Cara Klump,
Customer Solutions

Author’s note: This is an ongoing and progressively nasty correspondence, if any one wants to hear more.

If Only It Had Been A Relay Race

In cocktales on 09/16/2006 at 6:48 pm

(Continued from Dr.Jekyll Y Señor Hyde)
By the time we were through a few more beers and some more or less useless conversation, the both of us being intensely aware that the majority of it was pretense since all we really wanted to do was start ripping each others’ clothes and do some serious porch-wrestling, I returned to the patio with two more Coronas. By now I was completely enthralled not only with the Auzzie’s couches, but the steel corner he had installed on his kitchen counter for the sole purpose of knocking bottle tops off. (I often tended to use park picnic tables or cement steps, depending on whichever was closest, and had sustained numerous injuries in the process) I returned to our little Island In The Sun (well, Terrace Over the Parking Lot,) and the amount of space on it had seemed to have shrunk considerably. It was time for the games to begin. I don’t really remember who started it, but someone touched someone and then there was kissing, and, funny how this seems to happen, but next thing I knew I was stark naked and enjoying everything that comes with two people being undressed in an enclosed space at the mercy of the Great Outdoors. It was just like camping. Rainproofed tarp folding chairs with cupholders and a Corona. Except that I was getting head while I was sipping my beer. What more could a girl ask for? Some time later, and another round of booze in place of traditional after-spooning, which would have been awkward considering our seating arrangements, a chill passed through the air and it became time to retire to the living room. I was certain that the couches were mine.
It was still relatively early, and Auzzie suggested we go out and make the most of the rest of the evening. I agreed, and we left to meet up with a friend of his at a bar with reddish lighting that made me question my earlier assessment of my exact degree of my drunkenness. When I returned from the ladies’ room, there were drinks on the table. Good. But then I noticed there were two beers for the boys, and some pretty little thing with a cherry in it for me. Bad. I became immediately suspicious. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who listens with even half an ear to any conversation with me for the majority of an evening, especially while we are drinking beer, knows that I don’t drink pretty little girly things, and am quite dedicated to brewed pleasures. I had the distinct feeling that something was amiss and that my status was being relegated to that of the token girl for the evening. I was certain that the maraschino cherry was mocking me. I started to feel concerned that my couches were slipping away.
Realizing that Dale was still drinking (I relaxed on my insistence that we take public transit after he insisted that he’s not a D&D) I was seriously questioning the wisdom of his being behind any wheel, even that of a beater which would have great difficulty running over a cat, as we continued on to the next place-a hip lounge with a great dance floor and an adjoining room with mood lighting and couches for the seal-the-deal conversations that are more difficult to orchestrate on the dance floor.
I was in the midst of a conversation and some shots with the Auzzie’s friend at the front bar when I noticed that we hadn’t seem him since we’d come in. As we started to do a tour of the lounge in search of our lost companion, it didn’t take me long to notice that he was quite comfortably parked on one of the said seal-the-deal couches with a quite attractive brunette. ‘Maybe she’s his cousin’, said the don’t-get-angry voice in my head. But then I also noticed that his friend was displaying obvious signs of discomfort, of the ‘I’ve seen this before and I know what’s coming’ kind. Hmm. Not the type to jump to conclusions, and reasonably certain that it was bad etiquette to pick up while escorting a two-hour-old fuck, I sat down on the couch, said hello, and was greeted with an ‘Oh! there you are,’ introduced to the mystery woman, and then promptly ignored as they reengaged in whatever obviously scintillating conversation they had been having before we so rudely interrupted. I turned around just in time to see his friend running for the door, fumbling excuses about having another engagement he had to attend. I had to hand it to Dale. Even I hadn’t successfully managed to get out of any interpersonal involvements this cleanly and with that kind of speed.
I debated letting him have it, dumping my drink in his lap, or alternately pickup up someone else myself etc.etc., but I honestly thought the latter option was kind of gross (I mostly limit myself to acquiring one new sexual partner per evening, unlike some people) and couldn’t muster enough emotional attachment to bother with causing any kind of scene, or wasting my drink, for that matter. I mostly just felt sorry for the poor girl beside him on the couch, who would,in a matter of hours, be stuck drinking the wrong drink, and mysteriously felt the sudden need to get an STD test. It was time to go to IKEA.

Leather love

In cocktales on 09/06/2006 at 5:47 pm

Cont. from Doctor Jekyll Y Señor Hyde)
As it turned out, our conversation was nearly the same as voicing my resignation, since apparently the lack of enthusiasm in my responses signified to Juan’s sensitive emotional state at that point that my heart just wasn’t in it anymore.
No more Friday-night after work margaritas with the staff , laughing and nodding along, pretending to understand most of the conversation. I, of course, became more fluent the more Tequila shots went around. Our level of conversation changed almost instantaneously from extensive dialogue to staccatoed rants from Juan regarding the insanity of my lack of awareness that we did, in fact, have shrimp for sale on a certain day or the laziness apparent in my having missed a spot sweeping the floor. I received only the edited versions of his upsets, though I witnessed the angry and unintelligible tirades in Spanish which accompanied many of these moments. Clearly there was much more Juan wanted to say to me, but couldn’t find the words.
So Jojo’s was out. My one consolation was that Juan forgot to ask me to return the keys, which left me with an open-ended option to do a midnight empanada run if ever I should so desire. It was time to re-acquaint myself with my CV. I have a love-hate relationship with my resume. We’ve been together, on and off, for a very long time. True my resume finds me work, but it also makes me tell little white lies. i.e. ” I was daytime manager at a fine dining establishment” equals ” I was the only person working during the day because the place was too small and unfrequented to need more staff and I spent the majority of my time picking gum off of the underside of the tippy tables “. Resurrecting my CV also brings the mental association of repeated rejection inherent in looking for work. It kind of requires putting your self-esteem on hold for a few days. We’ll call you. We’re not looking right now. We’ll keep your CV on file. I’ll pass it on to the manager. Get your silly ass out of here, we don’t take your kind.
After making multiple photocopies, of multiple CVs (I have the ‘serving’ CV, the ‘receptionist’ CV, and the shot-in-the-dark ‘maybe I’ll get a grown-up job’ CV.)
I decided to look for work in a bar. No more unlicensed work for me. I wanted drunk people who would tip me well and entertain me with personal anecdotes and terrible dance moves. Think Vanilla Ice on speed. I headed straight downtown, determined and on a mission. Later on in the day I took a pause from my CV snowballing and happened upon a relatively small place which was not necessarily exactly what I was looking for, appealed to me for some reason regardless. Little did I know, MC Squared (Slogan: ‘It’s hip to be square’) was under management by an Australian bloke who bore the typical hallmarks of the Auzzie bartender. Cute, Flirtatious, Nice Smile, deceivingly professional upon first encounter but likely to tickle your panties at any opportunity. Very charming, definitely a total slut, and I definitely wanted to sleep with him. I immediately became completely sidetracked and the conversation, mostly carried on by me, yammering away with scarce a breath in between the chunks of useless chatter, quickly steered to where I was from, what I was doing in the city, and how I had no furniture. As glamorous as a second-hand mattress on the floor may sound, it tends to gradually tilt ones’ posture forward, backwards, or sideways after a time. And though many of my clothes frequently find residence on my floor anyways, the lack of the option to fold (or Roll and Shove, my preferred method) and put away at will was really starting to get on my nerves. More than anything, the lack of couch in the apartment was a major problem. Couches are essential recovery locales for those of us who suffer from chronic hangovers. ‘What a coincidence’, said he (insert hot accent). ‘I have a few couches that I need to get rid of’. Ding Ding. We have a winner. How serendipitous.
Though MC Squared was overstaffed already at time, I left with a firm guarantee to be phoned at the first opportunity of anything opening up. This was satisfactory since the issue of the couches gave me a convenient pretense to stop by at a later date by which time, said he, he would be able to arrange to borrow a van from a friend. Keep in mind that though I say pretense, I really did want those couches. I had plans for those couches. I returned home daily and noticed the vacancy of the living room and cursed the yoga mat which ended up as default lounging equipment. I dreamt of upholstery. I actually couldn’t decide what I wanted more, the man, or the couches. Perhaps the man, on the couches. That would be perfect.
A week or so later, Dale and I had set a firm date for me to come to his apartment for a viewing of the couches. It turned out to be quite a nice, older building. Archways, terrace, couches. They were perfect. One was dark red leather. The other was navy velour, the plushy deathtrap kind that are so comfortable that they easily distract from whatever else one is doing and induce one into a nap or nap-like state. And it separated- excellent for spatial concepts.
Once I snapped out of my couch reverie I noticed that I was being offered a beer. Never one to refuse such an offer, and more than willing in this instance to allow myself to be taken advantage of, we moved the party out onto his terrace, facing the back of the other side of the building, and above a parking lot- though partially private due to well-planted and overgrown trees. Following the first beer there was another, and then, a few hours later, following the first six-pack, we went out and got another. The couches were forgotten for the moment, our chairs were inching closer together, and the both of us were feeling very friendly.

( to be continued…)

For Hire

In cocktales on 09/02/2006 at 8:45 pm

So after numerous half-assed attempts throughout the last year or so to find A) some sort of substantial relationship, and/or B) some sort of ‘real’ or ‘grown-up’ job, I have by some fortuitous mixture of fate and default re-committed myself to a life of wenching and whoredom. The former is defined by, at the very least, two phone calls and one occasion spent in mutual company involving no sex and at least one conversation, preferably not pertaining to whether the avocado is in fact a fruit or a nut . This occasion must be longer than five minutes. The latter is defined by, at the very least, one dollar per hour over the minimum salaried wage and responsibilities which exceed replacing garbage bags and smiling pretty for the customer. These last couple of months have been remarkable in that I have been able to combine my whoredom and my wenching by whoring my way through a string of wenching jobs. (Author’s note: I prefer to use the term ‘wenching’ rather than ‘serving’ partially because it is underused and partially because it more accurately connotes the stench and drudgery of workplace politics, spilled beer, and overly friendly bosses which most often typifies serving jobs) My most recent failure, or perhaps I should say success, having been entirely complicit in getting myself fired, was at an establishment that didn’t even have a liquor license, obviously a waste of time, though the other check points were firmly in place.
Said restaurant, which I will call JoJo’s (Any resemblance to any restaurant real or fictitious is purely coincidental, likewise for the pertinent personages) is the third in a triangle of restaurants of Central-American cuisine established by an impressive matriarchal figure, Yolanda, from the ground up. This location was in the opening stages and making the scary transition from counter-café to actual restaurant. So difficult was this transition that things like sterilizing dish-washers, food-safety manuals, and any sort of billing system were not in place by the time that I left, about one month following opening. Though some basics were lacking, as an interim job, it seemed like an alright place. This was due almost entirely to the fact that I was surrounded by young Latino men who spoke sweet things that I couldn’t understand and eyed me suggestively constantly, as well as the almost indecently flirtatious relationship I quickly developed with my boss, who I found attractive in an older-man, off-limits, authority figure kind of way. I should likely mention at this point that I find most men attractive in some categorical fashion or other. These factors made the general lack of any challenge whatsoever to the job tolerable since the atmosphere was fun, oversexed, and a major daily ego-stroke. However, it was a side effect that during my time there I almost always left work inconsolably horny and made some regretful decisions as to my sexual partners during those weeks. I blame it all on Jojo’s. More specifically, a couple of co-workers who occupied my daydreams of making out with them in the store room pressed against the ripened-to-freshness mangoes and in between the rows of burritos and enchiladas as I, in reality, continued to polish the glass beverage-display cases with renewed intensity and fervor.
(to be continued….)