The floor felt like a cold familiar tale next to my cheek as my head lay on the laminated tile of the Indianapolis airport. I could feel the drool start to seep out of the side of mouth. I kept my eyes closed, almost in protest that this was actually happening to me. After what seemed to be several minutes that passed, I heard the muffled screaming from about 50 feet away and started to quietly repeat to myself “This isn’t my life. This isn’t my life.”
Four hours before, I woke up in an unfamiliar bed. I rubbed the sleep and Vodka Redbull from my eyes and saw that I was at Hotel Sax Chicago. OH- I slept here on purpose- YES! This is good news. I was leaving for a tradeshow this morning. Flight leaves at 7:45AM. It was 6:45AM. NO- this was bad news. The night before starts to flash through my end as if I was watching myself on a Red View Master Toy, only its not the Flintstones, its me and I’m drinking. NEXT SLIDE- I am with my friend Christina at Crimson. NEXT SLIDE-We are laughing. NEXT SLIDE- she is on my back spider monkey style trying to take my phone away and I am spinning in a pathetic attempt to get her freakishly strong African American body off of me. I completely ignore the fact that Christina is missing and head to the airport.
Despite still being completely wasted, I am the most functioning person in the airport security line. I am barefoot, shoes in hand, laptop in plastic bin ALONE, purse and coat laying down in another plastic bin, toiletries all under 4 oz. safely sealed in a Ziploc bag no bigger than sandwich size laid gently on top of carry-on. I mean seriously- how hard can it be people. Since the line is moving at a glacier pace, that I decide that managing the security line is going to be the best way for me to catch my flight. From the beginning of the line-
“Yellow Haired Lady- yeah, you. Take off your belt and shoes.”
“Tall man in colored shirt. Empty your pockets and your wallet goes in the bowl, not the tray”
“Short Asian girt- laptop goes in separate bin. Separate Bin. SEPARATE BIN!!!”
Since this is moving the line along and I do enjoy positions of power, I now give directions to the people behind me. Not because this is going to make the line move faster for me but more in attempts of a public service for all of the other non-idiot travels trying to get off the ground on time. I sprint through the airport. I am a gisele. I am a cheetah. I am a crazy, intoxicated Mexican with no shoes on screaming at people to get out of the way. Sweaty and out of breath and kind of nauseous, I am the last person to board my flight.
Once in the air, the hangover starts to set in. You all know this feeling. The wide awake hangover. It’s the worst. I create a mastermind plan- if I can manage to keep a buzz for a little longer, I can go to the hotel and sleep until the tradeshow. I immediately order a vodka soda. This could have possibly been the smallest vodka soda in the world. I order another one. With a very Midwesten, non-descriptive dialect, the flight attendant says, “Ma’am, this is a 1 hour flight.” I stare at her, not quite understanding what she is saying. I repeat my order and she says “Ma’am, I’m not sure if you will be able to finish it before we land.” To which I reply, “In that case, let me have two more just in case we start to descend and the seat belt sign goes on again.”
To share a rental car, I am waiting for an industry associate to call me when his flight arrives. I’m starting to feel sweaty and sick again so I walk into the nearest Chili’s and order a double tall. After two of those bad boys and several explanations to the bar tender that I’m really not drinking alone at 10AM- I am waiting for someone, I grow impatient and go to check my phone. Which reminds me… where is my phone? I look in my purse. No phone. I look in my luggage, no phone. I panic and dump out all of my belongings in the middle of the Indianapolis Airport Chili’s. No phone. Great.
I am thundering through the terminal, dragging behind me a wheeled, yellow carry on bag, laptop case on top, and purse in hand. Each step towards the car rental area increases my anger by 10%. How stupid can I be? Where the fuck is my phone? How the hell am I suppose to get someone to rent me a car? About 6 steps out of the bar and just as I am about to beat myself up a little more, my right ankle gives away from my 4 inch heels and the world slows down. I can feel my old friend gravity gloating in victory as my knees hit the ground with the force of… well… the force of a 5’8 inebriated Latin girl. I feel an immediate burn in my left knee as the friction of the skid tears through my brand new pants. My finger tips release the handle of my bag and I watch it, along with my laptop, roll slowly away from me. I close my eyes.
The screaming was a random airport lady yelling “ARE YOU OKAY? ARE YOU OKAY?” I mean, seriously. How bad does someone have to fall for a complete stranger to come running over, screaming in the middle of a public place? As she helped me up, she explained that this type of thing happens to her all the time. She goes on to say that she falls EVERYWHERE she goes. I thanked her at first and then the more she spoke, the more I stood there and judged her. What kind of person falls all the time? I mean, really? At least I only bite it when I’m hammered at 10AM in an unfamiliar city along in an airport in front of the Chili’s. What a loser.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Elbow Molester
Not be a tardy drunkard, I arrive at White Rhino to meet Amy and Rachel about 5 minutes early. A small and familiar light vibrate comes from my hoodie pocket.
TEXT (Rachel) – My brother is coming with…. BLAH BLAH BLAH…. Won’t be there until 9:30PM.
Great. I walk into the bar and am greeted by the dinner crowd. Oh yes - The dinner crowd. You know this crowd. The “I’m so much better than everyone else” crowd. The “Look at me while I sit here and get shit faced but I’m not an alcoholic because I eat food when I drink” crowd. The “I’m in a healthy marriage because we have date night but sit across from each other for 45 minutes and don’t say a word” crowd. I hate them. I hate them and their napkins and their to go boxes. Fuck them.
Well- Amy has got to be here by now so I casually do a scan of the eating area. I am sure you are all familiar with this scan. The “FIND YOUR FRIEND” moment is always so awkward. I can feel the judging stares of middle aged moms and dads rip through my back like their over cooked steak knife. Must be nice to be so much better than everyone else with your functioning liver and your wet naps. Fuck them. I scan a few tables, take a few steps, scan a few more tables, walk around not to slow as to seem like I’m a weirdo but not too fast because then I will miss Amy. One would think that this would have been the most uncomfortable part of my night. One would be wrong.
Once I determine clearly that Amy is not yet at our chosen location of debauchery, I attempt to stake out a good purchasing position at the bar. Here is where I made my rookie mistake. The place decision was based on convenience and not out of strangers. Despite what you think- drinking with strangers is not always fun. Here was the exchange-
“Jamaican”
“Excuse me?”
“Jamaican”
“I’m sorry- Are you saying that you’re Jamaican or are you asking me if I am Jamaican?”
“What are you doing here?”
From this point forward- everything that happens is my fault. Why is it not a giant red flag to walk away when Barney from the Simpson’s stunt double has either just asked me if I was Jamaican or told me that he was? I digress. He then took his right hand and cupped my elbow. It was a cup very similar to only what I could imagine the turn your head and cough cup would feel like.
“Gjnuuenvdhfi jifds jfdii vnsfuei”
“What? I’m sorry. I really don’t understand you.”
“hGhdfet hudshf big breasts and nice elbows.”
At this point, there is not only elbow cupping happening, there is some definite caressing going on. I snatch my molested elbow away from him. I turn around and immediately find a table in the dinner section. I mean, if I am safe anywhere, its in the lame ass diner section, right? I pull my trusty 1 bar of battery cell phone out of the hoodie and text Amy. She tells me that she right outside just as the dinner waitress asks me to move. See- you thought I was kidding before about the stuck up dinner people. Nope. I wasn’t.
Amy arrives and we retreat to a table in the back. We immediately order two shots and a pitcher of Coors Light for a grand total of $8. I tell Amy the story, reliving every disgusting detail of the drunk stranger touching my elbow. Amy says “Jamaican? Did you tell him that he’s Jamaican you wanna leave?” The rest of the night was a blast and I will say that I had one for the books… but we can’t include that here because that is drinking with friends… and to be quite honest, those stories are private (That was for you Ang).
TEXT (Rachel) – My brother is coming with…. BLAH BLAH BLAH…. Won’t be there until 9:30PM.
Great. I walk into the bar and am greeted by the dinner crowd. Oh yes - The dinner crowd. You know this crowd. The “I’m so much better than everyone else” crowd. The “Look at me while I sit here and get shit faced but I’m not an alcoholic because I eat food when I drink” crowd. The “I’m in a healthy marriage because we have date night but sit across from each other for 45 minutes and don’t say a word” crowd. I hate them. I hate them and their napkins and their to go boxes. Fuck them.
Well- Amy has got to be here by now so I casually do a scan of the eating area. I am sure you are all familiar with this scan. The “FIND YOUR FRIEND” moment is always so awkward. I can feel the judging stares of middle aged moms and dads rip through my back like their over cooked steak knife. Must be nice to be so much better than everyone else with your functioning liver and your wet naps. Fuck them. I scan a few tables, take a few steps, scan a few more tables, walk around not to slow as to seem like I’m a weirdo but not too fast because then I will miss Amy. One would think that this would have been the most uncomfortable part of my night. One would be wrong.
Once I determine clearly that Amy is not yet at our chosen location of debauchery, I attempt to stake out a good purchasing position at the bar. Here is where I made my rookie mistake. The place decision was based on convenience and not out of strangers. Despite what you think- drinking with strangers is not always fun. Here was the exchange-
“Jamaican”
“Excuse me?”
“Jamaican”
“I’m sorry- Are you saying that you’re Jamaican or are you asking me if I am Jamaican?”
“What are you doing here?”
From this point forward- everything that happens is my fault. Why is it not a giant red flag to walk away when Barney from the Simpson’s stunt double has either just asked me if I was Jamaican or told me that he was? I digress. He then took his right hand and cupped my elbow. It was a cup very similar to only what I could imagine the turn your head and cough cup would feel like.
“Gjnuuenvdhfi jifds jfdii vnsfuei”
“What? I’m sorry. I really don’t understand you.”
“hGhdfet hudshf big breasts and nice elbows.”
At this point, there is not only elbow cupping happening, there is some definite caressing going on. I snatch my molested elbow away from him. I turn around and immediately find a table in the dinner section. I mean, if I am safe anywhere, its in the lame ass diner section, right? I pull my trusty 1 bar of battery cell phone out of the hoodie and text Amy. She tells me that she right outside just as the dinner waitress asks me to move. See- you thought I was kidding before about the stuck up dinner people. Nope. I wasn’t.
Amy arrives and we retreat to a table in the back. We immediately order two shots and a pitcher of Coors Light for a grand total of $8. I tell Amy the story, reliving every disgusting detail of the drunk stranger touching my elbow. Amy says “Jamaican? Did you tell him that he’s Jamaican you wanna leave?” The rest of the night was a blast and I will say that I had one for the books… but we can’t include that here because that is drinking with friends… and to be quite honest, those stories are private (That was for you Ang).
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Rossi's- the strangest strangers
Rossi’s is my favorite downtown bar. Location, price, and jukebox are just a few of the reasons for my dedicated patronism over the years. The weird smell, the women’s bathroom with a hit or miss toilet seat, the cash only policy, the receipts on post-it notes, the onsite liquor store and the free hot dogs at lunch time are all just icing on my cake of strange and wonderful alcoholics that come together every afternoon at 412 North State Street.
Rossi’s open’s at 7AM which is great and I can honestly say that I have been the first person served on many occasions but the 3PM crowd is where it is at and is when my love affair with Rossi’s began.
One particularly hard afternoon in the fall of 2008, I lied to my boss and said I had an offsite meeting. I guess, technically it wasn’t a lie since I was meeting – just with a pint glass and not a client. I wandered into the open door of what looked like a dark cave. The soft glow of Jeopardy playing on the 1985 rabbit ear televisions drew me in like a mosquito to a flame on a warm summer’s night. “Sacagawea” was bartending. I call him Sacagawea because, well, honestly, he looks just like Sacagawea. Tan skin, long black braid down to his moccasins, hates the white man… well… not that last one, but you get the idea. Its funny because he’s not actually Native American.
I place my cash on the bar. This is a place holder for all of you cash only establishment virgins. I order my draft beer. I take out my crossword puzzle and proceed to mind my own business. As I took my rightful place at the bar, I bellied up next to an elderly white wrinkly woman, a black man in a mailman outfit, a hippie at the end of bar, and an over weight middle aged white man in a suit and tie. As I sit and listen to the conversation around me, I realize that they are doing the exact same crossword puzzle as me – but together- and faster – and in pen. I knew I was home.
The first person I speak to is the lady. She is safe, smells like liquor and Noxzema, and reminds me of a crazy cat person. As it turns out, she is the “Gym Teacher”. She hates kids. She hates those fuckers. So bad in fact, that she after work, every day, she comes to Rossi’s and gets ripped right after school lets out. Once she gets up to use the restroom, the African American gentleman strikes up a conversation. First he warns me about the Gym Teacher. He wants to make sure that I don’t become friends with her because she is a tramp. His words, not mine- just in case she is reading this. He wants to know where I work. I lie. He wants to know where I live. I lie. I offer to buy him a drink and declines because he isn’t quite done with him mail route. That’s right ladies and gentlemen- he isn’t done delivering mail yet. He wants to get nice a toasty before having to brave the mean Chicago Streets of River North. This immediately makes me think of my handsome Hispanic mail man with the thin mustache and I quietly and quickly wonder if he is ever drunk when he is dropping off my fifth New York & Company coupon for the month. I am quickly brought back to reality when a thin crack head looking white woman storms into the bar screaming at Sacagawea. “My car was towed. My car was towed.” I think to myself- sheesh, this girl is pretty ticked. I wonder if her car was towed. Sac apologizes through his gap tooth smile and un-native American laughter. He offers to take her to the tow lot. With one crucial pocket dig, he places a set of keys on the bar and asks the middle age white man to watch the bar. He leaves.
By this time, Gym Teacher is already back from the bathroom and demands to know why she can’t watch the bar. I fight the urge to tell her that she can’t even watch teenagers for a few hours a day- how is she going to be able to handle to responsibility of a cash only dive. The middle age gentleman says that he is a lawyer (sounds made up) and this qualifies him to be in charge of the bar. He states that if he can get people off for murder, he can pour beer. I disagree but my name was Clemit and I wasn’t in it. Mailman verbally disagrees with Lawyer and now thinks that HE should be running the show. Hippie is in the corner still watching Jeopardy and saying the answers about a ½ a second after the answer is already announced an TV. I excuse myself to use the restroom.
While hovering over the toilet seat – not out of cleanliness, but because there really wasn’t any actual seat- I start to become concerned. Not about the children that are misguided by the drunk teacher. Not about all of the mail that isn’t going to get delivered. Not about the fact that “alleged” murderers are “allegedly” running free. While I do my final shake, I can’t help but think- “Now how the fuck am I going to finish this cross word puzzle?” What can I say? It was Thursday and those are the toughest.
Rossi’s open’s at 7AM which is great and I can honestly say that I have been the first person served on many occasions but the 3PM crowd is where it is at and is when my love affair with Rossi’s began.
One particularly hard afternoon in the fall of 2008, I lied to my boss and said I had an offsite meeting. I guess, technically it wasn’t a lie since I was meeting – just with a pint glass and not a client. I wandered into the open door of what looked like a dark cave. The soft glow of Jeopardy playing on the 1985 rabbit ear televisions drew me in like a mosquito to a flame on a warm summer’s night. “Sacagawea” was bartending. I call him Sacagawea because, well, honestly, he looks just like Sacagawea. Tan skin, long black braid down to his moccasins, hates the white man… well… not that last one, but you get the idea. Its funny because he’s not actually Native American.
I place my cash on the bar. This is a place holder for all of you cash only establishment virgins. I order my draft beer. I take out my crossword puzzle and proceed to mind my own business. As I took my rightful place at the bar, I bellied up next to an elderly white wrinkly woman, a black man in a mailman outfit, a hippie at the end of bar, and an over weight middle aged white man in a suit and tie. As I sit and listen to the conversation around me, I realize that they are doing the exact same crossword puzzle as me – but together- and faster – and in pen. I knew I was home.
The first person I speak to is the lady. She is safe, smells like liquor and Noxzema, and reminds me of a crazy cat person. As it turns out, she is the “Gym Teacher”. She hates kids. She hates those fuckers. So bad in fact, that she after work, every day, she comes to Rossi’s and gets ripped right after school lets out. Once she gets up to use the restroom, the African American gentleman strikes up a conversation. First he warns me about the Gym Teacher. He wants to make sure that I don’t become friends with her because she is a tramp. His words, not mine- just in case she is reading this. He wants to know where I work. I lie. He wants to know where I live. I lie. I offer to buy him a drink and declines because he isn’t quite done with him mail route. That’s right ladies and gentlemen- he isn’t done delivering mail yet. He wants to get nice a toasty before having to brave the mean Chicago Streets of River North. This immediately makes me think of my handsome Hispanic mail man with the thin mustache and I quietly and quickly wonder if he is ever drunk when he is dropping off my fifth New York & Company coupon for the month. I am quickly brought back to reality when a thin crack head looking white woman storms into the bar screaming at Sacagawea. “My car was towed. My car was towed.” I think to myself- sheesh, this girl is pretty ticked. I wonder if her car was towed. Sac apologizes through his gap tooth smile and un-native American laughter. He offers to take her to the tow lot. With one crucial pocket dig, he places a set of keys on the bar and asks the middle age white man to watch the bar. He leaves.
By this time, Gym Teacher is already back from the bathroom and demands to know why she can’t watch the bar. I fight the urge to tell her that she can’t even watch teenagers for a few hours a day- how is she going to be able to handle to responsibility of a cash only dive. The middle age gentleman says that he is a lawyer (sounds made up) and this qualifies him to be in charge of the bar. He states that if he can get people off for murder, he can pour beer. I disagree but my name was Clemit and I wasn’t in it. Mailman verbally disagrees with Lawyer and now thinks that HE should be running the show. Hippie is in the corner still watching Jeopardy and saying the answers about a ½ a second after the answer is already announced an TV. I excuse myself to use the restroom.
While hovering over the toilet seat – not out of cleanliness, but because there really wasn’t any actual seat- I start to become concerned. Not about the children that are misguided by the drunk teacher. Not about all of the mail that isn’t going to get delivered. Not about the fact that “alleged” murderers are “allegedly” running free. While I do my final shake, I can’t help but think- “Now how the fuck am I going to finish this cross word puzzle?” What can I say? It was Thursday and those are the toughest.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Polka Incidient
I committed to hiring and then teaching a dance troupe of (12) 7-13 year old girls so I could surprise my sister with a special performance at her wedding as a part of my speech. Because I wanted to be extra prepared (that's the kind of girl I am)I showed up 90 minutes early. A normal person would have gotten something to eat... maybe stretched... practiced teaching the dance in their head... Not me. I changed my shoes and walked into a bar located exactly one block away (that's the kind of girl I really am).
The bar was empty with the exception of the bartender Anna (insert thick polish accent and mail order bride candidate) and Erichhgjdnfda AKA Eric (insert thicker polish accent dressed in skinny jeans and a have buttoned shirt circa 2006).
From their natural curiousity of my very awesome Flash Dance outfit, they struck up an unassuming conversation about why I was at the bar. And thus started the shit show of March 2011.
One miller light down- we exchange names, places of work, and pleasantries. I explain what I am doing and am immediatley adored for being the best sister in the world. Two miller lights down- we cover sports, sides of the city, and why his english is so poor. Three miller lights down and 4 shots of what I now call "Polish Poison", we are exchanging arrest stories and he is trying to sell me on the fact that he 1) could drink me under the table. FALSE. 2) He is known in the neighborhood for being a dart shark. DOUBLE FALSE. 3) He is the owner/manager of said bar. POSSIBLY TRUE.
After learning several swear words in polish, I decide to smoke. Erik joins me. We are laughing, high fiving, etc. He explains to me what the patio looks like when there are people in it. I know this sounds stupid but keep in mind that is a drunk conversation between an idiot and a barely speaking polish version of Rico Suave. As the nicotine takes its effect, I start to come to the realization that not only am I in a dark patio ... with no exit... connected to an alley that looks "murdery"... but I'm with a complete stranger and only one other person at this bar is polish Anna (who, let's be honest, would probably assist in my kidnapping to pay off her fathers debt from the old country). More importantly- not a single soul knows where I am. No one. I didn't tell my friends. I didn't tell my husband. I didn't tell my family... and now I am ripped in a back alley patio with the Polish Penatrator.
I get nervous. Obviously nervous. However- nicotine has me by the balls and I wasn't about to crush out my last cigarette. So instead I make the very well informed decision of hot boxing that son of a bitch and now I REALLY have a problem because I am WASTED.
We go back inside and order two more rounds of shots and new drinks. Erik explains to me that he wants to open his own dance company. I think - "Oh Great. Here we go." He take out $5 from his wallet and goes to the video juke box. He plays Usher, which was an interesting choice. I mean, I would have selected the music but I assumed I wouldn't be in English- who knew?
He then asks me to dance. I decline. He insists. I decline again. He grabs my wrist, rips me off the bar stool and attempts to waltz. I am terrified. I don't mind drinking with strangers but dancing with strangers is a whole other perogie, if you know what I mean.
You know how sometimes you when you're drinking you think that you're not as drunk as you really are but then you stand up and realize that gravity still exists? Well, that's what happened. I was twirled in two circles and hit the ground like a bag of polish sausage. And when Im down- Im down. There is no recovery. There is no grace. And more importantly there is no apology. I laid there, laughing, wanting to cry and I suddenly realized that it was time for me to go and teach children how to dance. Awesome.
I said good bye to Anna and Erik and went on my way. The dance class was terrible, as you can imagine. I smelled like liquor, I slurred my words, and I kept telling the kids how cute they were.
I went back to the class the next week and stopped in to my new favorite polish spot to see my new favorite polish drinking friends. There was a new bartender so I asked for Anna and she said "Who?" and I asked for the owner Erik and she said "Who?"
So... Not quite sure what happened. Did I go to the wrong bar or did Erik finally sell Anna to the obese 45 year old Rich Asia man who just wanted a pretty polish wife... I guess we will never know. The moral of this story is not to drink Polish liquor you are unfamilar with. There is a reason why we didn't trust them during WWII.
The bar was empty with the exception of the bartender Anna (insert thick polish accent and mail order bride candidate) and Erichhgjdnfda AKA Eric (insert thicker polish accent dressed in skinny jeans and a have buttoned shirt circa 2006).
From their natural curiousity of my very awesome Flash Dance outfit, they struck up an unassuming conversation about why I was at the bar. And thus started the shit show of March 2011.
One miller light down- we exchange names, places of work, and pleasantries. I explain what I am doing and am immediatley adored for being the best sister in the world. Two miller lights down- we cover sports, sides of the city, and why his english is so poor. Three miller lights down and 4 shots of what I now call "Polish Poison", we are exchanging arrest stories and he is trying to sell me on the fact that he 1) could drink me under the table. FALSE. 2) He is known in the neighborhood for being a dart shark. DOUBLE FALSE. 3) He is the owner/manager of said bar. POSSIBLY TRUE.
After learning several swear words in polish, I decide to smoke. Erik joins me. We are laughing, high fiving, etc. He explains to me what the patio looks like when there are people in it. I know this sounds stupid but keep in mind that is a drunk conversation between an idiot and a barely speaking polish version of Rico Suave. As the nicotine takes its effect, I start to come to the realization that not only am I in a dark patio ... with no exit... connected to an alley that looks "murdery"... but I'm with a complete stranger and only one other person at this bar is polish Anna (who, let's be honest, would probably assist in my kidnapping to pay off her fathers debt from the old country). More importantly- not a single soul knows where I am. No one. I didn't tell my friends. I didn't tell my husband. I didn't tell my family... and now I am ripped in a back alley patio with the Polish Penatrator.
I get nervous. Obviously nervous. However- nicotine has me by the balls and I wasn't about to crush out my last cigarette. So instead I make the very well informed decision of hot boxing that son of a bitch and now I REALLY have a problem because I am WASTED.
We go back inside and order two more rounds of shots and new drinks. Erik explains to me that he wants to open his own dance company. I think - "Oh Great. Here we go." He take out $5 from his wallet and goes to the video juke box. He plays Usher, which was an interesting choice. I mean, I would have selected the music but I assumed I wouldn't be in English- who knew?
He then asks me to dance. I decline. He insists. I decline again. He grabs my wrist, rips me off the bar stool and attempts to waltz. I am terrified. I don't mind drinking with strangers but dancing with strangers is a whole other perogie, if you know what I mean.
You know how sometimes you when you're drinking you think that you're not as drunk as you really are but then you stand up and realize that gravity still exists? Well, that's what happened. I was twirled in two circles and hit the ground like a bag of polish sausage. And when Im down- Im down. There is no recovery. There is no grace. And more importantly there is no apology. I laid there, laughing, wanting to cry and I suddenly realized that it was time for me to go and teach children how to dance. Awesome.
I said good bye to Anna and Erik and went on my way. The dance class was terrible, as you can imagine. I smelled like liquor, I slurred my words, and I kept telling the kids how cute they were.
I went back to the class the next week and stopped in to my new favorite polish spot to see my new favorite polish drinking friends. There was a new bartender so I asked for Anna and she said "Who?" and I asked for the owner Erik and she said "Who?"
So... Not quite sure what happened. Did I go to the wrong bar or did Erik finally sell Anna to the obese 45 year old Rich Asia man who just wanted a pretty polish wife... I guess we will never know. The moral of this story is not to drink Polish liquor you are unfamilar with. There is a reason why we didn't trust them during WWII.
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