From Behind the Bar...

Three months ago, I scored! I got a side gig at a wine bar to satisfy the food-nerd-slash-gourmand in me. 

It's a pretty sweet deal: I learn about beer and wine, while tasting the offerings of California's top vineyards. In short 3 months, I have learned a bit about wine, more about beer, and tons about people who drink wine, namely:

• Drunks hang out in wine bars to feel sophisticated. Honey, your drunk trailer park ass is still trashy, especially in that Juicy Couture Tracksuit. 
• 50-year old divorcees make out like 16-year olds, regardless if their bar wench (me) is an arm's distance away and can hear them mack-out. 
• Inevitably, there is always going to be the "weird guy" at the bar

As Winter in So Cal goes, with a daily average of 75 degrees Fahrenheit, many a surfer dude, slaps his board atop his Prius and heads out to the beaches to 'hit the waves'. 

Ladies, Gents and everyone in between, allow me to introduce you to Surfer-Dude-Wanna-Be-Wine-Connoisseur. Let's call him Surfer Dude for now. 


Surfer Dude swaggers into the sacred grounds where I bar wench with a confidence that a man wearing crocs, khaki shorts, a pony tail and a stained white Tee should not possess. 

As Surfer Dude walked into MY bar, little bits of sand lightly sprinkled the bar floor. I pride myself as being a person who is open and welcoming to all humans, even humans of the khaki short persuasion. More power to you, if you can pull it off with elegancia! 

Alas for Surfer Dude he quickly transitioned from Surfer-Dude-Wanna-Be-Wine-Connoisseur into Weird Ass DRUNK Dude at a bar. He promptly drank himself into utter-stupidity. 


I had to play referee between my pretty female guests, and one party promptly left. As the last party of pretty female guest closed up their tabs, Surfer-Dude, now, WEIRDO, noticed that I, gasp! had tatas and well, lady bits. 


YIIIIIIIIIKEEEEES!!!!


In his highly inebriated mind, it made utter sense that he commence trying to woo me, by name dropping all the wineries and sommeliers (yeah right) that were his "CLOSE AND PERSONAL FRIENDS". 


His surfer swagger turned into utter sloppiness after 2 glasses of cab, one glass of Pinot and TWO Belgian Beers. He was sober enough to get it that I was not impressed by his name-dropping and occasional belching.


Surfer Dude committed the ultimate offense: he let his hair down. 


Literally, took his hair out of the pony tail and swished it around a la Fabio.

I, stone-sober and utterly irritated at all man-kind, could not let this one go. 


Me: “Wow. Your hair is long. Why did you let it out?”

Sloppy drunk Surfer dude: “I’m just letting it dry out.”

Me: “Oh. Wow, It’s still wet after 3 hours?”


He promptly left and stiffed me a tip. 


Fuck your sloppy, drunk ass and your Fabio locks. 

-Raquel 


P.S. I am still sweeping up sand from the floorboards of the hallowed grounds upon which I bar wench.

Going on a BENDER...ball

To loosely quote Hank Moody from Californication “I don’t even have time to get fucked up anymore!”

I have had a girl-boner for him since the X-files

Due to recent changes in my life, my martini and extra-curricular activities budget has been slashed. Actually, it has been eliminated. As in: *Delete* *Delete* *Delete*! I have found myself in a conundrum, unlike Hank Moody, I have time, but can’t afford to even think of getting fucked up anymore!

My yoga studio offers classes that nix yoga and blend resistance training with cardio. Classes that deliver pain that produces GAIN. 


This is what the doctor ordered for a girl on a 'deleted' entertainment budget. 


Fuck chanting, teeth shattering OM’s, while instructors teach non-violence and acceptance. Instructors with voices that gently chiding me to “relaaaaax into the pose”. Screw it. This girl needs a class where Drowning Pool's “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” is less of a soundtrack and becomes the mantra. 

A 90-minute workout where Metallica is pumped into the room, while the instructor shouts “You don’t know what you can do until you DO IT!”. Everyone glares as angry calories get punished and unknown muscles scream with Dante-Inferno-like cries of agony.

Introducing the Bender Ball.

What the????

Who cares? When you are on a budget and your gym offers a class listing equipment with a name slightly reminiscent of a weekend with Charlie Sheen, you take it!

My imagination tends to run amok. I entertained  visions of blowing-off some steam during a fun & intense work-out that might just might lead to me getting me picked up by a black Town Car with equally dark, tinted windows. This same imaginary town-car would whisk me away to the Hills, to a Hollywood party. C’mon, peeps! We ALL know why those actor-types are so freaking skinny.

I had a lil extra energy (I always do) and my usual 'fuck-the-world' attitude. I dressed for the class with my best cut up Skull T-shirt, added a lil extra black eyeliner, and took off to my resistance/cardio class.

Ladies/Gents & everyone in between, I have the honor to introduce you to this little guy...

Innocent lil fucker, huh?

Not as intimidating as a coffee table full of blow and a couple of high-paid Estonian hookers.

BULL SHIT!!!! This lil fucker is not so innocent after all. 

This fucker did things to my body that gave me the hang-over of a lifetime. Mister Slinky* had to roll me over in bed because moving to the left or the right was officially TOO MUCH for me. I know for a fact that Charlie Sheen feel better after his 36 hour bender than I did after spending 90 minutes with Bender-Ball.

So fuck you, Bender Ball, my hangover would have been much more pleasant partying in the Hills with Estonian hookers, than what you did to my ass twice this week.

-Raquel

P.S.: 
I can’t to go back and go on a BENDER...ball! A shout-out to Allison, my bad-ass instructor!


*Mister Slinky is my hunny.