The Box Out

I have recently been a victim of the BOX OUT. The box out can be defined as complete group isolation via human body. The best example is if you make the rookie mistake of taking the last bar stool at the bar and the douche bag sitting to your left turns their back on you to talk to everyone but you- Boom. You have just been boxed out.

There are several other types of boxing out including the “table box out”, which is the particular maneuver I experience. The table box out is when you are sitting next to someone at a table and a person walks up to your table and wedges themselves in between you and your neighbor. The term box out is a sports term that hails from my high school basketball days. Playing as a power forward, you have a deep understanding that the best offense is defense… and the best defense is using your body so your opponent can not be near the hole. Only, this time, the opponent was me, the defender was Forehead and the hole had an A in front of it being my friend Catnip. I call this girl forehead because well… she has a pretty big forehead. She is one of those girls that looks like she is consistently smelling something bad- wrinkled nose, pursed lips, raised eyebrows, and one gianormous forehead. In her defense, maybe her forehead isn’t that big… maybe her hairline is too far back, or maybe her eyes are really small and far apart because of fetal alcohol syndrome. Either way, its not her fault… but its not mine either and little did she know I have an awesome blog I can call her out on. Now catnip got his nickname because being a recent male divorcee, young, and good looking is basically like catnip in our neighborhood. I swear to god, he attracts more pussy than a milk bowl…

But let’s start at the beginning- I was on a very serious vodka cleanse due some pee wee football drama that is so confusing, in fact, that I had to draw a diagram to explain the fucked up situation to my friends. SEE PICTURE.





My friends and I quickly got into the story- this bitch that, that bitch this, etc. Basically, we all agreed that these people are bat shit crazy and that my family shouldn’t be involved with them…. And that I should drink copious amounts on liquor for the pure entertainment of them. After a few shots and 4 redbull vodkas, I had the mother of all revenge schemes cooked up and had decide that I need to start collecting my girlfriends to come to the next parent’s mixer with me so we could strategically and systematically take down the Lansing Momfia. Because, let’s be honest- you lie about me and tell people I’m a whore, you threaten me to stay away from your husband, you make my life hard, and I’m going to make an honest woman out of you… like I haven’t slept with someone’s boyfriend out of hatred before… bitch please… only I can’t this time because I’m married. The sunny side of this slutty story is that I have friends who aren’t… happily married that is… and would love to opportunity to make fat old women feel bad about themselves while at the same time earning my devoted and unbending loyalty. I cheer “You think you’re threatened by me? Wait until you meet my friends!”

My friend Shamy gets a little tiffy with me about not being self confident blah blah blah and instead of graciously thanking her, I simply justify my statement by saying, “I think you are prettier than me but at the end of the day, I’m smarter than you, so it all works out.” It was the confession apparently heard round the bar because my other friend Blamchel quickly responded. In a very sad and pathetic attempt to smooth over the situation, I explain to both of them that I don’t think that they are dumb. I, in fact, think they are very smart HOWEVER COMMA I believe that I am smart-ER, hence the ER. I then go on to ask them if they need me to repeat it slow-ER. Listen up, you can be the prettiest, you can be the smartest, OR you can be the funniest. You can’t have it all or the world of friendship would be out of whack and you’d have bitches trying to cut your throat and shit. Let me have smart for fucks sake.

So let’s fast forward to the box out. I am sitting at a table with Shamy, Shamy’s friend Brian, and Catnip minding my own business. Forehead swoops in like a half bald eagle and wedges herself between me and catnip. All of this is fine by me as a younger gentleman has just taken off his shirt and is belly dancing on the bar. I immediately start yelling NO SHIRT NO SERVICE – a statement that I clearly did not mean as this kids face improved about 114% when his shirt was off. In a flash of drunken stupidity someone throws a napkin full of mustard at Super Shirtless and now he wants to start a fight. Catnip stands up from his seat to calm everyone down and like weighted scale, as he got up, forehead went down- right next to me.

I introduce myself and she ignores me. I speak louder and put my hand out to give her a shake and she give me the “uh, huh”. Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd, now I have mentally named her forehead and decided that enough is enough. I don’t want your husband, boyfriend, girlfriend. I’m not doing anything inappropriate. Not hugging, not touching, not anything. I’m a safe three feet away from anyone that I speak to – not for you – I’m just uncomfortable with strangers. This was my boiling point. Forehead was going to pay for her sins and all the sins of the Lansing Momfia that came before her.

Catnip and I would speak, she would find us and wedge her way in. This repeated a good 4-5 times before forehead was basically sitting in my lap at one point and I exploded. I stood up, asked her if she wanted to sit in my lap, moved my chair back, and stared at her until she got up and left. To be quiet honest, I don’t remember much of the exchange, just that she was a rude bitch.

My beef with forehead is long before over and unfortunately for her, we live in a world where assholes finish first and friends, if I was ever absolutely 100% sure of something, I could hang my hat on the fact that I am an asshole. Watch out forehead- I’m coming for you.

Hotel Peewanda

Admittedly, there have been a handful of times, as an adult, that I have peed my pants in public. Here is one of those stories.

I work in sales for a hotel management company which means a good portion of my salary is based on how many shots I can get a Chinese CEO to take before signing a ½ a million dollar contract before passing out at the hotel bar. I like to consider myself a very high paid professional drinker. I have a certain sense of pride and arrogance that I can pull an all nighter with my client, find them a front desk agent to sleep with at 4AM, go home for one hour and show up to work on time, fully dressed and ready for my two hour nap in my office.

Now, I have had several years of training for this particular job duty, so it typically isn’t a huge challenge on my end to be smashed and still function, so you can imagine my surprise when my bladder (not me) could no longer, literally, hold the liquor that I had ingested.

After about 7 vodka soda double talls, I have certain topics of conversation that are my “Go-tos” – kind of like a oral safety net. I know not to get in too deep with things I don’t know about like hockey, use words with strange sounds like “analysis” but slur my words so bad it sounds like I said “anal sex”, or bring up any inappropriate socially taboo topics like partially assisted abortion. Yes. Yes. And Yes. Oh…. That was me answering all of you asking – “Did you really do all of those things?” Moving on. My topics are as follows: city of origin, family, golf, vacation. I know it sounds really stupid but I’m telling you, it works. All I do is move down a list of questions on each topic that is about the other person. They end of doing all the talking because – to be honest – who doesn’t like talking about themselves? And I end up doing all the drinking because – to be honest – I have a serious drinking problem. I end up smashed and they end up leaving our interaction thinking “Gosh, I really like her. I don’t know why, but I do.” It’s because I’ve just guzzled my way through a 45 minute monologue about how their precious little 3 year old angel is the next Brittany Spears or how great their last vacation was. You get the idea. Oh, and don’t try this at home either… amateurs. I’ve had a lot of practice.

The one down fall of the go-to topics is that I only use them when I have been drinking too much… and when I drink too much, I have to pee A LOT and OFTEN. And you can’t interrupt them – how could you – they are talking about themselves. Who gives a shit that your bladder is about to explode or you have urine pouring out of your eye lids?

So, I’m standing there, in the middle of Big Bar at the Hyatt Regency Chicago and the wave of urine urgency rushes between my legs. I shift weight and listen to another catastrophically boring story about someone’s golf handicap. My toes start to tap a little faster, I cross my legs a little harder, and I can’t get an edge in word wise with this absolute douche bag from this third party company so I can’t excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I start thinking of other body parts in my head so maybe I will be distracted enough to not have to wee wee. I shift weight again and start cursing my freakishly small bladder. Oh wait… he is pausing… maybe if I can … oh. Nope. He just taking a breather before changing the subject to yet another joyful rendition of why his is the best person that ever lived. After awhile, I start to think that maybe the pee has gone away so I loosen my kung foo thigh grip from my crotch but to no avail #1 is still #1 and I had to find out the hard way because now the flow has started.

I know that I am completely fucked right now. I have to move to walk to the bathroom but if I move, I’m going to pee. I can’t execute the squeeze and scoot because there are too many people around. It’s like I’m a prisoner of drinking war and I’m being held captive by my own sick disease. In the middle of his sentence about fiscal plans I make a run for it. I can’t hold it anymore. It’s do-or-die time. I have to find the nearest bathroom – in the biggest hotel in Chicago. FML. Seriously. FML.

With each step I take, I feel the warm steady stream shower down my leg, carrying my dignity and probably my career, along with it. I can almost guarantee that there is a trail of urine on the bar floor into the lobby that will lead directly to me – as evidence of my crime. Still urinating on me and the floor, I find a bellman and ask him where the bathroom is- I try to lie and say that I spilled a drink on my crotch but he knows. I know he knows and he knows that I know that he knows but we all just play along like nothing is happening. He directs me to the nearest restroom and I hustle into the stall. Smelly, drunk, and left to my own devices I come up with one of the most ingenious and disgusting plans to exit the building.

I obviously can’t walk through the well lit lobby with my light grey express pee-pee pants that are not dark grey just in the vagina and inner leg area. I don’t carry a spare pair of pants (note to self- start carrying a spare pair of pants) and I can’t stand in the bathroom in my underwear to wash my pants in the sink. So the only logical thing for me to do is to take my pants off and dunk them into the public toilet in the Hyatt Regency Chicago lobby. That’s right. You just read that.

My though process was that if ALL areas of my pants are dark gray, then nobody will know that I peed my pants. What? You’re telling me that it wasn’t a genius idea? I mean, it’s definitely gross but genius gross like the shake weight.

Once my pants are completely soaked and one color, I ring them out the best I can and go back to the party. A hotel staff member stops me in the lobby and is all “Um… can we help you- what’s wrong with your pants?” Still dripping at the hems, I am shockingly surprised that my plan had been foiled so quickly so I immediately blame some made up stranger and say that they dumped a drink on me and I had to wash my pants in the bathroom. When questioned further, I point my tainted toilet water finger at the long winded third party guy. Serves him right. Let that be a lesson to all of you- don’t be long winded when you speak to me at a bar. I just might have to pee. I just might pee right in front of you. And then I just might make up an exasperated story to a hotel security on how you spilled a drink down my pants and make a run for the cab while you are escorted out of a party for assaulting someone.

My favorite drinking songs or a more appropriate title: songs I like to be drunk when listening to:

American Pie, John McClean – or really any song that has added in group setting lyrics, Mony Mony, Margaritaville, Sweet Caroline, etc. The ever present need for me to live out my rock star fantasies is fulfilled with these songs. I am hip – I am part of the group – I am the cool girl that knows the inside added extra line. It’s the same feeling I got when I was the first to talk about the hidden track in my high school group, during the hidden track era, back when we all bought CDs….

“Drinking beer with my fucked up friends”

Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen – this is only because I have all three voice parts of this song memorized and if I am drunk enough I will ask the DJ if I can borrow three microphones and the proceed to have my asshole, my vagina, and both boobs sing the rocking out acopella part from Wayne’s world. I clearly can’t do this sober. I heard a rumor there are some photos/videos of me doing this but if I get my hands on the items (RACHEL) I will destroy all evidence. The last thing I need is my kids seeing that in like 20 years and being like “Well… you’re right boob sounds great but your ass is a little off key.”

VAG- “I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me”
BOOBS – “He just a poor boy from a poor family”

Piano Man, Mr. Billy Joel – I have actual wrote a few song parodies to this tune about my friends and drinking with my friends and the pride of being a south sider. It’s one of my favorites, drunk or sober, but it made the list since I barely remember the real lyrics anymore. The other added benefit of this song is that I get to pretend like I know how to play the piano. Well… “pretend” might be a stretch. A more appropriate statement might be that I lie to strangers about being a piano genius and that my parents forced me to practice for hours on end until I told them I would never play again. Then I demonstrate how to play this song on the edge of the bar. Sometimes I even manage to well up a little tear but then I realize the strange knows that I’m full of shit because I’m basically playing the chopsticks with two fingers and I don’t look like I’m an Asian musical prodigy.

“The piano sounds like a carnival and my microphone smells like a beer.”

Beat It, Michael Jackson – or any Michael Jackson song for that matter. You see, if I was a super hero I wouldn’t have any lame sally power like super strength or xray vision. My one true talent…. My best kept secret… My one pocket ace… would be my ability to dance my way out of any horrible situation… just like the late, great Michael Jackson. Good news for EVERYONE!!!! I AM A SUPER HERO WHEN I HAVE BEEN DRINKING!!!! I know, I know- totally great, right? When I was little (in size and age) I would watch MJ videos over and over again until I could memorize his moves. I totally had them down too. The knee touch, the pelvic push, the moonwalk. I was pretttttty pretttttttty awesome back in the day. One, small, teeny weenie problem. I was a kid when I was memorizing them so #1 the dance is obviously not correct. #2 everyone knows the dance is not correct and I look like a moron. #3 I only ONLY only do these dances when I am drinking… so I never get any better at it, I don’t rewatch the videos to get a refresh… nothing. Not to mention that I am not a professional dancer. I’m not even an amateur dancer, and I don’t mean that in a gross, glittery stripper way. I mean, I’m don’t have an over abundance of rhythm. But my gosh – I would kill to have those moves.

“I told ‘em don’t you ever come around here.”

Brass Monkey, Beastie Boys – such a great song and a great drinking game mixed into one. I like drinking! I like songs! I like games! And BAMB- you have brass monkey. Oh….. that funky monkey. For those of you who don’t know how to play. You have two teams. Each team can consist of an unlimited amount of players. Team one is brass. Team two is monkey. Every time the song says “Brass”, team one drinks. Every time the song says “Monkey” team two drinks. Sounds stupid, right? Right about now you’re thinking “I could do that and be fine.” Well, basically, you are wrong. I have seen grown ass men fall on their faces after playing this game. I witnessed uncontrollable liquid regurgitation from an innocent soul on team monkey. I am a serious binge drinker and I have had some not so pleasant or proud moments during or immediately following the evil twisted game of Brass Monkey. With all that said, it still makes my list of favorites… and a tip from me to you- when you go home and try to play tonight, because you know you will, pick team brass and let some other poor sucker be team monkey.

“Put your left leg down, your right hand up, tip your head back and finish the cup.”

We didn’t start the fire, Mr. Billy Joel – I’m not good for much when I am at a bar. I mean, you can count on me for a few rounds and maybe a couple of wise ass remarks but over all, I’m not the “GO TO” friend. I’m not the “Give you ride because you and your mate are fighting” kind of friend. I wouldn’t necessarily call me the “hold your hair while you’re vomiting” person. I do, however, know all the words to We Didn’t Start The Fire – which if you need a conversation starter or want to draw attention to our table, you can throw this oldie but goody on the ye old jukebox and I will let her rip. Of course, on two conditions- 1) If I feel like it and 2) If I have a bottle of beer. The first reason is because I’m a selfish prick and won’t do things unless I want to. The second reason is because I secretly don’t know all the words and for the few parts that I either don’t know or can’t remember, I will drink my beer and move my head like I’m singing.

I first learned this song when I was in the 7th grade. I was attending Heritage Middle School and my music teacher was Mr. Saia. Mr. Saia had an enormous ding-a-ling that you could see the outline through his pants. Being that young, of course we all talked about how gross it was and how he must stuff socks in jeans but now… being a grown ass woman, I do wonder sometimes what Mr. Saia had going on in his pants. He did have a son Peter… maybe he’s on facebook.

“Dylan, *drinking the beer*, Bay of Pigs Invasion”

A Mounting Case of Evidence

For awhile now my friends have been convinced that I don't like my husband to go anywhere with me. Little do they know the sad fact that I invite him everywhere and he just simply doesn't want to go. For awhile I thought he was just shy. And then for a few years I thought he was just lazy or didn't like my very nice but kind of slutty friends. For a short time I convinced myself that he had some sort of strange social disorder. Well, as it turns out, my husband Mike doesn't like going to social events with me because he says I drink too much, have no control, do stupid things, and I'm not fun. This to me a bold charge that I would like to sumbit to the jury of my peers. Let's examine the evidence shall we.

I submit to the court Exhibit A.



Here I am (second on the right). I'm happy, I'm with my friends, I'm having a good time. I'm not doing anything inappropriate or whorish like waiving my vagina in my hand asking people to smell it. Why wouldn't a husband like to hang out with me... well I should say MY husband. I don't want to get any other husbands that I hang out with in trouble.

I'm dressed nice, I'm smiling, I don't have stains on my shirt. For the most part, I think that I am the picture perfect image of what your wife wedding date should look like.

Exhibit B


Okay. Yes. I'm falling. But I would like court to take into consideration that I was wearing 5 inch heels (not pictured here so no I can't prove it). Okay. Yes. I had been drinking but church was over and the bar was open. Bad decision? Absolutely not. Its normal to go with your friends to an "inbetweener" during a wedding. What else was I suppose to do- what the bride and groom take photographs that they will cherish for the rest of their lives?!? Lame. I still maintain my initial plea of NOT GUILTY. Let's move on.

Exhibit C


Uhhhhhhh. Okay. Let me explain. First of all, I had recently been working out and under estimated my forearm strength. Second of all, those were the most flimsy 2 inch thick water glasses I have ever seen. Third and most importanly, I was sitting in the back table near the bar and wanted to make sure my CHING CHING CHING was heard. I am sitting there, clincking my glass, and out of no where... SMASH. My glass explodes like shaken diet coke and my tablemates are sprayed with the shrattenal of my broken dreams of being an unnoticed run of the mill wedding guest. So, yeah, I understand that this could possibly be embarrassing to my husband but let's be honest- I wear tshirts with pictures of bushes on them so this can't be the worst thing I have ever done.

Exhibit D


So what if I wasn't invited into this picture. I am happy, I am feeling good, I'm loving life. Now... I will say that the person standing next to me isn't my biggest fan and I'm sure she would have just wanted a photo of her, her husband, and nikki, but fuck it! I'm a photo ninja and I'm not going to apologize to anyone for being stuck on awesome 24 hours a day.

Exhibit D2 - like 10 minutes later


I am convinced they are talking about me even though they most likely aren't. Little does everybody know the whole world revolves around me when I am intoxicated. Is it because I jumped in their picture? Is it because I'm making a fool out of myself, is it because she is giant fucking cunt bitch that is whispering on purpose to piss me off???? Who knows. But I am- pissed, that is. I'm about three seconds away from a pure street beat down. Why you ask? Who knows. Maybe because I am 4 drinks past go home at this point but for this one I claim self defense. I don't know a whole lot of people, husbands included, that can sit a dinner table with people that hate you and make you feel like shit. Yeah, I'm not a pleasure to be around at this point, but I'm being poked. Don't poke the bear.

Exhibit E


I have stolen a girls purse and am digging through it to find an inhailor. No, I don't have ashma. No, I don't have a medical emergency. Let's move on.

Exhibit E2



I am blaming someone else for digging in the purse.

Exhibit F


Here I am, no longer angry, and dancing. From memory, I believe I doing a line dance but I'm also performing a really shitty impression of how my sister dances. No, my sister isn't at this wedding and no, no one there really knows her or has seen her dance so year, I'm on the dance floor- arms a'flailing, making a big giant ass out of myself. Awesome.

Exhibit G


Friends are trying to feed me bread. I'm pointing at the bread. Oh lord.

Final Exhibit H

I convince my equally drunk friend Nikki to steal this poor innocent snowman santa clause thing from the hall. I completely forget about it until three weeks later when my door bell rings. My husand calls my name and I come to the door to be greeted by this little guy.

"Camille."
"Yes."
"Someone left us a snowman"
"Uh Huh (giggle)"
"Do you know who?"
"Uh Huh (out right laughter)"
"You and your friends have some serious problems."

Guilty. Case closed. Lock me up and throw away the key. I am a sloppy, messy, embarrassing, and hormonally challenged hobo with a really great job. I'm not gonna lie- If I was married to me, I'd go everywhere with me just to see what would happen. Oh well, everyone is differant. Some of like staying at home, being a good parent, being responsible, and socially mature and some of us... well, let's just say some of us don't.

Gravity- 1,215 - Camille- 0 (Indianapolis January 2010)

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.

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).

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.