The Barmaid Blog™: Life for a 20-something Manhattan Barmaid

Jenny's getting out of a taxi in front of my building as I walk up, and she smiles when she sees me. "Hey, baby," she says, "I hope you don't mind, we got done with that EBT earlier than expected." She's carrying her briefcase, her purse, and a bottle of wine. The plan was for me to cook dinner for us both tonight, but I wasn't expecting her for about another hour and a half.

"Of course not!" We give each other a hug before we go in. It occurs to me that I have no idea what an EBT is, but I don't ask.

"Mmmm, you smell like the beach," she says as we break the hug and go inside. "Where were you?"

"Bryant Park, soaking up the sun and the wi-fi. That's just sunscreen you smell."

"I love it."

Howard the doorman hands me the mail, then tells me he has a package for me, so we wait for a moment.

"I was going to take a shower and change before I cooked dinner."

She grabs my ass, and leans into my neck for another whiff. "Don't." I don't have time to respond before Howard returns and hands me a box from Amazon. I thank him, and we head for the elevators.

"What did you order?" Jenny asks.

"Nothing," I reply, and point to the address label where, instead of my full name, it reads Debra the Barmaid. "One of my blog readers must have sent me something from my wish list." I open it up, and sure enough, a reader named Christopher has sent me the DVD box of the "Band of Brothers" miniseries. (Thanks so much!!)

We're halfway into our first glasses of riesling, I've started to get dinner together, and Jenny has told me a couple of funny stories about the confusion over Passover at her law firm, before she comes back to it. "You don't think that's weird, people you don't know sending you gifts?"

I shrug as I chop an onion and pray for my contact lenses to prevent me from tearing up. "I don't know, I guess I think it's really sweet. I was surprised the first couple of times anybody sent me anything at all, but nobody's forcing them. In fact I've never even asked, I just put the link to my wish list on the blog for shits and giggles."

"So why do you think they do it?"

"I don't know, to be nice? In appreciation for the blog, or something. Like I said, I think it's sweet."

"I wonder. You don't think they're trying to get in your pants, or get you to reveal something about yourself? Maybe someone thinks they can find you by tracking a package?" She pours us each some more wine.

"Well, if that's why they're doing it, they're wasting their money. You can't track a package you send to someone else using their wish list, that would totally defeat the purpose of letting you hide your address." And since when are you so cynical and suspicious? I want to ask her but don't.

"And the, uh... pants thing?" She edges closer, puts her wine glass down on the counter, and places a hand on my hip as I sautee.

"Well, you know," I grin at her, "the packing slip does include the address of the sender. So even if he can't find me, I could go find Christopher at his home address," - I walk back into the living room, where the box still sits open on the Comfy Couch - "which is," - and I read the address out loud to her as she watches me with eyebrows raised. "Yeah, so, to thank him for spending a little money on sending me a television show, which I'm pretty sure he sent me in the first place to thank me for writing something I don't get paid for but which he got some enjoyment out of, I could fly to his hometown, show up at his doorstep, and fuck his brains out." I casually stroll back into the kitchen and resume sauteeing.

"Am I being a jealous bitch?" Jenny asks me.

"They just read about me, honey. You get me."

"I know, at least I think I know, but there are thousands of them, and only one of me. And I can only give you so many gifts."

"Do you want me to take the wish list down?"

"No, no, you're right, it's sweet. I would never ask you to turn away a nice gesture from a fan."

"Will you watch 'Band of Brothers' with me?" I add a bunch of shelled shrimp and spices to the sauteed onions, and the sizzling gets louder.

"Of course. Will you come live with me?"

"I - what?"

"Your lease is up for renewal in July, you told me so yourself. Jill and Cassie can find someone else to take your room, can't they? I have so much space, and Puppy loves having you around, and we could be together every single night, no spare shit in a drawer, no cabs or subways home first thing in the morning only to go back to sleep."

"I don't know, Jenny, God, I only met you a few months ago. We've never talked about it, I've never thought about it, I love it here with my friends - I mean I love you, you know that, right?" She nods. "But it's awfully soon!"

"Yeah, I know. I'm such a cliché, right? The lesbian and the moving van..." I laugh. "I just don't want to have to wait until next July."

I take a deep breath. "I didn't know you think about this stuff."

She puts a hand on my cheek. "Every single first thing in the morning."

I take her in my arms and kiss her until the shrimp starts burning.

Very Early Morning, Five Days Ago (Wednesday, September 12)

I can't see the look on his face. It's too dark. All I know is that he seems to have stopped breathing.

Finally he draws a deep breath. "I'm supposed to meet your father tomorrow night... no, tonight. We're supposed to have dinner with your father and stay over at his house, and then go to synagogue with him in the morning. And somehow I'm supposed to be pleased to meet him, welcome in a sweet and happy new year, and act like everything's a box of budgies."

"I know, I know... I thought about waiting until tomorrow night, but I just didn't want to keep it from you any longer."

"Debra, why did you wait this long to tell me in the first place? You just said you were worried I would find out from someone else, how could you let it go almost two bloody weeks?!"

I was hoping to get through this without crying, but it's already too late. "I don't know. I didn't want you to break up with me!" It sounds pathetic the moment it comes out of my mouth.

He sits up in bed. "Well, for damn sure I might've if I'd heard it from anybody else. As it is, I'm just pissed off."

"You have every right --"

"Dammit, Debra, don't tell me what I've a right to feel! You knew how I felt about this very thing!"

"Gary, I didn't mean for it to happen, she just took me by surprise."

"Yeah, the first few seconds, maybe. But you said it went on for a couple of minutes. You completely forgot about me for a couple of minutes!"

"I was just... caught up in it. Enjoying the moment." Oh, shit, that was the wrong thing to say.

"Enjoying the moment?! How would it make you feel if one of my prettier lady friends flogged a kiss from me and I took a couple of minutes to enjoy the moment?"

I search my heart. "If it ended there?"

"Yeah, if it ended there."

"I think I'd want to punch her lights out, and then I'd want to fuck your brains out."

"Be serious."

"I am serious. Why the hell should I care where you get your appetite as long as you come home for dinner?"

"I'm not even sure what that means."

I sigh. "Neither am I. I just read it somewhere, and I thought it sounded good."

"How do you feel about Bonnie?" I remain quiet. "Be completely honest, Debra, how do you feel about Bonnie?"

"She's a good friend, and she turns me on."

He lets that sink in. "How do you feel about me?"

"I'm in love with you."

"Then I think you need to work out for yourself what acting like you're in love with me looks like. And then we need to see if it looks anything like I thought it would, because if there's a big difference, we're going to have problems."

"I know," I say, barely audible.

"And I think you need to tell your readers what happened."

"What?"

"Come on, Debra, I saw what you said about me when we first dealt with this. Later on I thought you were downright patronizing about it. Do you think you're still entitled to feel that way?"

"I guess not."

"You choose how those people see you. Whether you think so or not, everything you write in that blog is biased because it went through your head before it ended up on the computer screen. I think I've been pretty understanding about the thought of three thousand people knowing what goes on in our relationship and our bed. Well, now there's another side to it, and I think you owe it to me and to them to be honest about it, and maybe you owe it to yourself as well."

"That's... not going to be easy."

"Yes, I know. And that's why I think you need to do it."

It's a rare quiet moment on a busy Thursday night, my eleventh shift at the Bar in fifteen days, making up for eleven days out of town. I want to go lie down somewhere, but I can't do that. Bracing myself for a moment on the shelf the cash register occupies, I let my head relax and look at the floor.

Jocelyn puts a hand on my shoulder. "Debra, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired."

"Hey, I hope you don't mind my asking... you haven't posted on your blog since you got back from your vacation."

"Yeah." I'm not sure what else to say.

"Aren't people getting impatient?"

"Hard to say. I haven't checked that e-mail account in a few days, I'm afraid of what I'll find." I lift my head and look at her. "I'm just tired, and I've been busy. I'll post soon. Not that there's been much to post about. Hey, could you and Mario split up again or something?"

"Ha, very funny. Well, maybe you could tell everybody you were sick or something."

I sigh. "Nah, I don't want to do that. Even when it's true people think I'm just making excuses for my absence or fishing for sympathy."

Jocelyn spots someone waving an empty glass at her. "You don't owe them anything, you know." She puts on a smile and heads off to take an order.

"Well, now, that's not true, either," I say to nobody in particular, and head in the other direction to check on some customers.

A while ago, Barmaid Blog reader "Stephie Bee" - herself the talented writer of the blog "Spread Eagle in NYC" - wrote to me:

I read your blog about every other week or so (you're a great writer and I love your stuff!), and I was wondering if maybe you can help me.

I'm not new to blogging, but I'm definitely new to reactions I'm getting. People I don't know are calling me a whore, calling me an egotistical bitch, calling me heartless. People I've never given my phone number to are calling me to ream me out and threaten me.

I'm really shaken (I've posted the link about my feelings below), but I don't think I'm in the wrong. The things I write are sarcastic, funny, maybe a bit vulgar, but they're the truth. The things I've said about other people (places I've been to, conversations I had, etc) all happened in public where other people could see or hear. It's not like I'm reporting dark secret events.

My question is this: how do you handle the critics? Do you delete posts when they make people mad? Is it wrong to discuss public events and use names without specific permission?

How do you protect yourself, your family and your friends?

If you have any advice for me, I'd really appreciate it.

I want to keep on blogging and being myself, but I need to know how to handle the rage.

Also, if you respond, with your permission, I'd like to be able to publish your advice. A lot of young bloggers out there would love to get some words of wisdom, so maybe you can help us.

Thanks so much.

Steph B.

Here's What I Need to Know

Just a couple of days earlier, reader Mark had written to me on an unfortunately similar topic:

Saw this and immediately worried about you. Hope this sort of thing doesn't kill your blog. If it starts to get bad, let your readers know - I bet there's some technical experts out there that would happily volunteer assistance.

Sexual Threats Stifle Some Female Bloggers

In addition to Stephie having some trouble with her GMail account, I held off on writing about this topic for a while because it put me in a quandary. I mean, let's face the irony here; in addition to the risks of blogging, there are risks of blogging about the risks of blogging. Just a couple of weeks ago, I blogged about how upset it made me when someone chose an entry about me getting mugged to pick on my writing style, and a bunch of the comments on the entry about how upset I was were as rude as or ruder than the comment that led me to complain in the first place.

So how can I talk about the risks of harassment, of crank phone calls, of losing people important to me, of genuine threats to my safety and well-being... without risking that someone will decide to make my life miserable just because I wrote here that I was worried someone might make my life miserable?

I guess I can't. And so I'm taking a deep breath, grabbing Stephie's hand and raising it above her head, and declaring that she's my new hero.

Blogging has become a contact sport. For every intelligent reader out there who thoughtfully takes the time to remind us that there are consequences to our writing, there's another who doesn't get the concept that there are human beings behind our words, that posting hurtful comments on a human being's website is not the same as shouting them into the wind.

A few people called me a whore, too, when I finally worked up the courage to blog about sleeping with Jessica before she moved out to California. With seemingly no comprehension of the irony, some even called me a whore when I blogged in response that I wouldn't tolerate name-calling. But I think I was prepared for that, or at least not completely surprised. I seriously doubt Stephie was prepared to receive threatening phone calls, or to have someone meddle in her relationship and help end it.

Both Stephie and I blog about our lives, and about the people we work with, live with, and live our lives with. But Stephie also posts photos of herself, and of some of the people she's blogging about, which you could say is crazy, risky, or, yes - even "asking for it." Wait, when did blaming the victim become okay again?

As she said, she tells the truth. Is it a sometimes ugly truth, inconvenient to those about whom she tells it? I suppose it would have to be; life is like that. If you can't handle the truth about the way you live your life, perhaps you should find a different way to live it. When I got caught stealing a can of tennis balls from a sporting goods store a few months after my Mom left, my Dad sat me down and said this to me: "How would you feel if what you did this afternoon ended up on the front page of the newspaper? How do you think I would feel about that?"

He may not have meant for it to stick with me for the rest of my life (though for all I know, he did). But it did. So while it may shock you that I drink, or do drugs, or dress a certain way to encourage higher tips at the Bar, or like girls, or have sex with people outside of wedlock (including people who are themselves engaged to be married), my father knows about all of those things, and I don't think it would be a serious problem for him if those things did end up on the front page of the newspaper. I keep my identity secret not because I'm embarrassed about anything I blog about, but for my safety and the safety of those around me... which is one of the reasons I'm in awe of Stephie.

But what about you? When you post a comment on a blog, calling the writer a whore, would it be okay if your parents knew you did it? When you call someone on the phone and make anonymous threats, is it okay for that to be in the newspaper with your name attached? Do you think the creep who sent Kathy Sierra photos of her with a noose around her neck is proud enough of it that he would be willing to have that written about him on the front page?

There's been some mention in the discussion of blogger harassment about the potential for "proactive positivity" to prevent such things by setting the right tone. Surely there's something to be said for being respectful toward people who have not proven themselves unworthy of respect, and I think both Stephie and I try to do that when we write about the people in our lives (though I suppose others could disagree honestly about at what point someone stops deserving that respect). I've been lucky; I've only been harassed via the comments section of my blog. And since fairly early on, I've been perfectly willing to wield the reactive tool at my disposal, the "delete comment" button, but only when absolutely necessary. And I haven't deleted any posts, even though it's been suggested to me a few times that I should.

What about Stephie? There's no "delete comment" button on her telephone or on her break-up. Yet there she is, keeping right on going. That's the freakin' bravest thing I've heard lately. So that's my answer to you, Stephie, though others have already said it in your comments section. Keep doing what you're doing. Stand tall. There are consequences to your actions, but you're not "asking for it." A few people will try to make you feel like less than you are, but the truth is that they're cowards. Let them write a signed letter to the editor of the New York Times saying what they have, instead, whispered to you over the phone, or sent to you by anonymous e-mail, or spread around behind your back. What they do isn't brave, or honest, or controversial, or even worth your time.

It's nothing. Treat it like nothing, and walk away even taller.

Early Friday evening I get a call from my friend Jessica, which is a treat because we haven't spoken since her wedding a month and a half ago. Apparently the honeymoon in Greece was wonderful, and she's been insanely busy the last few weeks with thank-you notes, going through the process of legally changing her name, meeting with the photographer over proofs, and other common post-wedding stuff.

"But I've got some news for you," she says. "I finally got myself a job out here - I'm tending bar at a hotel here in the city, on the dinner shift. I started last week."

"Hey, that's great! Somehow I knew you'd end up being a barmaid again. What's Evan think?"

"Oh, he's tickled pink. It means he doesn't have to feel guilty about not being home at a decent hour most nights. He really wants to make partner, and they're working him like they know it."

"What are the people like at the bar?"

"Oh, you know, it's San Francisco, so there are a couple of characters. But it is a hotel, so they're a little more serious about things like dressing the part and being gracious hosts."

"Hey, you know what? You should write your own blog!"

"Oh, honey, that's really not a good idea. We'd start up a whole East Coast/West Coast barmaid blogging rivalry, and I'd probably just end up busting a cap in your ass."

I laugh. "Well, let me know if you ever have a good story from your bar that you want me to share with my readers."

We chat for a little while longer about her married life with Evan and my burgeoning relationship with Gary, and then it's time for me to head off to the Bar.

Many thanks to 0ccam for posting a comment on the very first entry in this blog, wishing me a happy anniversary. The fact is, I'd completely forgotten about it!

One summer night, I got home from a shift at the Bar exhausted and excited, and I took a chance. A year and three days later, neither my life nor my blog looks quite like I expected it to, and I certainly didn't expect this many people to spend their time with me on a regular basis. But it has been a wonderful experience so far sharing my writing and my world with all of you.

THANK you. I hope you'll stick around for more!

(Oh, yeah - I've gone and set up a profile on Facebook in addition to the one on MySpace. Add me!)

Monday is another gorgeous day, and I'm walking to midtown to meet Gary for a late lunch at a nice restaurant with outdoor seating, so we can spend some time together and catch each other up on our weekends before I head for my shift at The Bar. Everybody is really starting to dress for the weather, which is wonderful, but awfully distracting - there are some incredibly attractive people in New York City, and the more skin they show, the more I have to remind myself to watch for traffic when I cross the street. So when I'm crossing Third Avenue, and crossing in the opposite direction is a curvy blonde woman who must be close to six feet tall, I'm mostly paying attention to her tan, and how the light blue spaghetti-strap tank top she's wearing flatters her form.

And then only a few feet away, I finally notice what's on her shirt. It's a Barmaid Blog t-shirt!! In those few split seconds, I stop and open my mouth to say something - then once I realize I have no idea what I would say without revealing who I am, I start walking again - then I stop short, and wonder if I should lie and tell her I'm just another Barmaid Blog reader to have an excuse to talk to her and find out who she is, but I'd have to run after her at this point, which would just be weird, so I start walking again. I'm so flustered I'm sure I've gotten in other people's way, but nobody says anything, so I just keep going, my heart racing and a smile on my face.

Over the last few blocks to my destination, I remember to my chagrin that it's been several months since I launched that t-shirt store, and yet I still haven't figured out how to order the two shirts I owe Rebecca Sweeton (Yoo) for her winning logo design sent to her without my name and address on the packing slip. I make a mental note to ask a friend to do it on my behalf - the same friend who's acting as a sort of casual, de facto agent/lawyer for me on a couple of other things that are brewing. If he reveals who I am, I get to sue him. Goodness knows Rebecca's waited patiently long enough.

At lunch, I tell Gary what happened, and he seems amused by the whole random encounter and tiny little bit of fame thing, but he also seems confused.

"You were staring at the chick's chest before you noticed she was wearing an ad for your blog?"

"Yeah, she was gorgeous. And almost as tall as you are, I think."

"I don't get it, are you into chicks as well as blokes?"

"Haven't you - well, yes. I am."

"Haven't I what?"

"Read my blog."

He puts down his fork. "Just the first bunch, so far. Do you blog about having sex with women, too?"

"Well, the one time it happened with my friend Jessica, yes, I did."

"Jessica - you're going to California in a couple of days for her wedding, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm really excited about it."

"Are you going to...?"

"Am I going to sleep with her the weekend of her wedding? Are you really asking me that?"

"I guess I am."

"No, of course I'm not. It was just something she wanted to get out of her system before she moved out there. Besides, I'm with you now."

"Are you sure?" He actually looks nervous. "I mean, you like girls as well as boys, are you sure I'm enough?"

"You think I'm going to go behind your -- look, Gary, do you like blonde women?"

"Of course."

"I'm brunette, are you sure I'm enough?"

"That's not the same at all!"

"How is it not the same? You think just because there are twice as many people I could be attracted to, I'm less likely to be faithful?"

"You're sharing a hotel room out there, right?"

"Yes, with Amy, another girl we used to work with."

"Well, you wouldn't expect me to be okay with you sharing a hotel room with a man I've never met, would you?"

"Yes, I would - if you trusted me, yes, I would expect you to be okay with it. What do you want me to do, spend twice as much on my hotel room because you're afraid I'm going to cheat on you - with a woman who as far as I know is completely straight? And after this wedding, what then? I can't ever go by myself to visit a friend of either sex because my being bisexual means I can't control myself?" A man at the next table turns to look at me, and I realize I've started talking a little too loudly.

"I just - I just wish I had more time to absorb this. I mean, you're leaving in two days."

"Yes, I am - and you either trust me or you don't, and it has nothing to do with what parts you have." I watch his eyes for an answer, but he just looks away and says nothing. I drop my napkin on the table, push my chair back, and leave, waiting for neither dessert nor check. I walk briskly - angrily - in the direction of the Bar, trying not to bump into people in my haste. It's a good several blocks before I start to take slower, deeper breaths, and then I reach the Bar. I look at my watch, and roll my eyes. It's barely three o'clock, so I've got an hour to kill before I open the place - I'd expected a longer, more relaxed lunch than the one I ended up getting.

Well, nothing a stiff drink might not help with, I decide, and I unlock the door. Locking it behind me, I head for the back room to drop off my bag. When I open the door, the first thing I see is tits bouncing up and down. When she stops in surprise, I see it's Maya, and she's astride some guy who's lying on a towel on the floor, just as naked as she is. "Oh, for God's sake," I say, and shut the door again. I leave the Bar, locking up behind me, and head down the block to another bar. Make that a few stiff drinks.

Wednesday evening, 8pm

"You checked him out?"

"Of course I did, silly. He's totally legit."

"Did you talk to anybody else who's posed for him?"

"Yeah, I e-mailed one girl, and we talked on the phone a little."

Simone, the newest barmaid at the Bar, is wrapping up a short early shift as I take over, and she's heading out for a modeling session with John, a guy who was in here a couple of weeks ago.

"You sure you want to do this?" asks Vince, as he's wiping down the taps.

Simone gapes. "Wait, are you sure you're a guy? I thought guys love porn."

"Yeah, we just don't usually know the girls in the pictures."

"Is it really going to change what you think about me? It's just my body. It's not like I'm even having sex on camera, I'm just taking off my clothes. I can earn half my rent in two or three hours, and I can do it legally."

"Legal doesn't mean smart."

She shrugs. "Okay, well, do you really picture me running for president someday?"

"I think she's brave," pipes in Jocelyn. "I've always wanted to do something like that."

"You have?" I ask.

"You have?" repeats Mario, a regular and her boyfriend of several months.

Jocelyn turns to Mario and smiles. "Yeah! I get really turned on by the idea of posing for a camera, and thousands of guys lusting after me. Plus, with these babies," she hefts her considerable breasts in her hands, "I'll bet I'd be in serious demand."

Simone asks, "So why haven't you ever done it?"

Jocelyn shrugs. "It's not like I haven't been asked. Hell, this weekend in Prospect Park, it seemed like every jerk in Brooklyn with a camera phone asked me to flash him. I guess I'm just afraid of what would happen if my father found out. He's pretty old-fashioned."

"Wouldn't your father have to buy the porn magazine you posed for to find out you posed for it?" Simone offers.

"I don't know, I never thought it out that far. I just know I would never go ahead with it, and I'm a little jealous that you have the guts. So I say, you go get naked, girl!"

Simone finishes cashing out, and takes off. I dive into my shift, wondering if I'm the only twenty-something woman in New York who's not a wannabe porn star, and trying not to picture Simone naked.

"Do you suppose she talked to Lanie or Victor about it first?" Vince asks me a little while later.

"I don't know - but do you really think the magazine is going to mention the Bar? I thought they make up fake stuff to say about the models."

"I don't think that'll matter if someone comes in here and recognizes her from the photos."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about that." I've certainly thought about it for myself, in the context of my blog, which is one reason I won't post photos of myself here, but even that may not be enough to prevent me from being "found" eventually.

"Yeah, but at least she isn't planning to run for president." He wanders off to collect glasses.

I stand there wondering how much it would affect an aspiring novelist's career to have posed for nude erotic photos - and for that matter, how much money I would have to be offered before I'd consider not turning it down.

Wednesday Morning, 3am

It's awfully quiet. I'm honestly not sure if Gary has taken a breath in the last couple of minutes, and for a moment I wonder if he's even still awake. I start tracing circles on his stomach with my finger and wait for him to say something.

"How many people read this thing?"

"Somewhere around three thousand."

"Get off the grass!"

"What?"

"Get off - you mean a few thousand people know you and I are dating?"

"Well, most of them have no idea who you are. In fact most of them have no idea who I am."

"Well, good on ya - I mean, Bria told me you write a blog about tending bar, but I didn't know it was about your love life, too. Won't she and Henry both know when you and I first..."

"First...?"

"Ah, is 'bonk' a bad word over here?"

I snicker quietly. "What are the alternatives?"

"Uh, there's 'root'... 'pomp'... or, ah, maybe 'give the ferret a run'?"

I snort and then giggle, briefly wondering if Jill is in the next room, or if she's over at Vince's place. I settle down, take a deep breath, and get serious for a minute.

"Well, there are two answers to that question. The first is that I don't have to share everything. My readers love to hear details, but if you and I are going to keep dating, I don't want to reveal anything that'll make you uncomfortable. I'm happy to go by your wishes. I can share everything, or I can paint with broad strokes, or I can just withhold completely. It's still my life, not theirs, and they'll have to live with it."

"All right, I think I'm okay with broad strokes. I wouldn't want to piss off your adoring fans too much." He rolls toward me, and we kiss. "What's the other?"

"The other what?"

"You said there are two answers."

"Oh! Right. Well, you said 'when,' not 'if.'"

"What?"

"Wouldn't Bria and Henry know when we first, not if we first, you know... bonk. And I just wondered what made you so sure."

"Oh! I, uh - well, it was rhetorical, I didn't..." I shut him up with a kiss, and then I roll over on top of him. And then we spend the rest of the night painting each other with broad strokes.

I arise late this morning from a vaguely pleasant dream about Jason Giambi... maybe brought on by seeing his home run during yesterday's game against Cleveland. Of course most people won't remember his homer, instead remembering A-Rod's record tenth homer in fourteen games, a three-run walk-off that completed a huge comeback win. They'd started the ninth inning down 2-6, and won 8-6, thanks partly to that shot. But I digress.

I arise late this morning from a vaguely pleasant dream about Jason Giambi, and roll over, only to bump into Gary, who has spent the night after movies and take-out Thai ("a take-away curry," he calls it). We've been getting together once every few evenings since we met a couple of weeks ago, and it's been fun. He also seems to want to move kind of slowly, which is sweet, but I doubt he was very comfortable sleeping in his clothing. He's just too tall to wear anything I own, though, so until he's ready to bed down in his skivvies (or less), he's stuck.

We make out for a few minutes, but soon enough it's time for him to head off to work. We make vague plans to get together Sunday, then he's gone again. I crawl back into bed for a little while, amazed at how sunny it seems to be outside compared to the last week or so, and I spend a minute noticing that the pillow where Gary slept smells a little like... honey, I think. I finally drag myself to the kitchen to make coffee, and then sit down with my laptop to check e-mail and see what's going on in the world.

There's this website called Technorati, which basically acts as a clearinghouse for blogs. It's a handy little site, at least for bloggers to get a sense of how popular they are, or how many other blogs link to them. I don't sweat it too much, because I don't make my living from blogging; but it's educational, and occasionally I wish more people would link to my blog from theirs, so that I could watch my numbers go from 33,000th most popular blog out of 75 million to, say, 20,000th. But I'm superstitious about stuff like that, so I don't try too hard - in the grand scheme of things, it's mostly just a tool and a source of amusement. I just check it every few days to see if there are any new links to me from interesting places.

There is one, it turns out. It's a post called "The pox is on both houses, not just one up north," from a blog called The Soxaholix. But it's not just a blog post, it's a cartoon - about the supposed debate over which team has the more boorish fans, the Yankees or the Red Sox. And after a few minutes of glancing around the page looking for a traditional text link, I finally discover that the cartoon's dialogue links to my post from last August about some fans who harrassed Jessica and me as an example of Yankees fans being "classy."

So, first thing's first: Welcome to any Soxaholix fans who might have landed on this blog because of that link. Make yourselves at home. Yankees Rule.

But I want to make something clear. While that day last summer was by far the worst experience I've ever had at Yankee Stadium, it didn't diminish my love for the Yankees, or for fellow genuine Yankees fans, even one iota. And I don't think it was representative of what generally goes on at Yankee Stadium, either. People get into the game, they have fun, they get drunk, they get a little obnoxious - but as Bob Ryan suggested, Boston fans should remove the planks in their own eyes before trying to remove the motes of dust from the eyes of Yankees fans. Deep down at heart, we're all just baseball fans - we love our teams, we live and die with their wins and losses, and sometimes we just get a little too excited.

That having been said, tonight is the beginning of the Yankees' three-game series at Boston, and then Boston will visit New York in turn for three more games the following weekend. I'll be there for the Sunday afternoon game, too - so for visiting Red Sox fans, if you manage to track me down, feel free to introduce yourselves.

Just be careful how you eat your hotdogs.

After I pick out the temporary ball closure ring I want, the woman in the East Village shop sterilizes the skin, and my friend Molly, who's been through this before, holds my hand while I close my eyes.

"This is going to sting a little, so hold still."

Click.

"Motherfucker!" I say through gritted teeth, and the woman slides the ring through, then shows me how to close it. The pain fades pretty quickly, but it's definitely worse than when I got my ears done. And just like that, I have a pierced navel.

Molly and I take advantage of the pretty good weather and wander up to Gramercy, where we hit the Grand Saloon to grab an early dinner, and catch up on each other's lives for the first time in many months. We know each other from my job in publishing a few years ago, and she still comes into the Bar sometimes for "editorial lunches," but she's moved on to a different publishing company, where she seems to be doing pretty well. I tell her all about the blog, and she's pretty tickled by the whole thing.

"Do people who work at other bars know about it?" Molly asks at one point.

"Sure, there are barmaids and other service folks all over the world reading it."

"That's wild!" She shakes her head, then points at the guy behind the Grand Saloon's bar. "Do you think he reads it?"

"Ha!" I think about it. "You know, I don't remember ever seeing a comment from someone who said he or she was working at a bar in New York City. But I'd figure just with the sheer odds, there'd have to be some, right?"

"You ought to find a way to make sure everyone who tends bar or serves drinks in New York City knows about it. I'll bet they'd be really loyal readers."

"Maybe, but remember, I'm trying to avoid people figuring out who I am or what bar I work in. I can't exactly send a postcard to every bar, or drop hand-written notes all over town."

Molly winds a finger through the frizzy, ridiculously unruly hair she's had since I've known her, and she frowns. "Business cards?"

"Eh."

The waitress finally brings our beers, and throws a couple of coasters onto the table before setting down the glasses. I take a long pull on mine, and nearly inhale some of it when Molly slams her hand down on the table. She grabs my coaster and holds it up to my face.

Mike's Holiday Survival Tip #46
Why spend hours looking for a gift when the
transit authority has plenty of free maps.

She turns it over, and there's a Mike's Hard Lemonade logo.

"Cute," I say, a little confused.

Molly puts her head in her other hand and shakes it. Then she reaches into her purse, pulls out a marker, and writes something on her napkin, then slaps it on top of the coaster and holds it back up to my face.

Read The Damn
Barmaid Blog

Hah! I think to myself, and then I say, "Hah!"

I don't talk about it very much on this blog, but people have posted comments here on occasion that make it quite clear they think they know how I should be living my life. I don't mind advice or suggestions, especially from people who've been through something similar and are willing to share their wisdom so that I can benefit from their experience. I would be arrogant indeed to think that I know all the answers at my age, or that I am even capable of finding all the answers on my own. (Well, arrogant, or a teenager.) But I get upset at people who comment here telling me how to live my life - telling me that what I'm doing is wrong, or a sin, or immoral, or whatever. I don't mind if you have an opinion to offer, even when your opinion is that I did something wrong, but most people are pretty good at expressing opinions as opinions. An obnoxious few are not.

As I said, I don't talk about that very much in the blog itself. I've only had to delete one comment in the entire five months I've been blogging, and I think the rest of the more obnoxious comments sort of speak for themselves. But I do talk about it sometimes with friends. It's good to get those frustrations off my chest, by talking about how judgmental some people are. And although we haven't been friends for very long, it seems that most of these conversations are with Jocelyn. In the few months she's worked at the Bar, she's actually had strangers come up to her and tell her that with breasts so large, she shouldn't be wearing such tight clothing, because it just encourages men to be pigs and may even put her in danger. Or people have told her that she should break off her relationship with Mario because nothing good can ever come of dating someone who's a customer at your place of business. Not advised her to be cautious, mind you - told her to break it off.

So she's with me on the "people telling you how to live your life" thing. And we've had a few good laughs and a few good rants on the subject over the last couple of months as we've gotten to be friends working behind the bar. But she's pointed out quite aptly that my situation is different from hers, because while on any given day there might be a half dozen people around to express their opinions about her life, there might be 2,500 around to express their opinions about mine.

She asked me once what it was like being under that kind of microscope. "In all fairness," I replied, "I'm the one who provided the microscope in the first place. I chose to blog about my personal life, so I guess I have to accept most of the consequences. But in some ways it's like watching a movie of my life and then reading bad reviews."

Last night I'm working a relatively uneventful 8-to-close shift with her, and she says, "Hey, I brought something in for you to read, I thought you might appreciate it." She goes off to the back room for a minute, then comes back with this week's issue of "New York" magazine. There's a really wonderful feature article in it asking the question why Hillary Clinton would run for President when she's got it so good right now in the Senate. And Jocelyn has circled one paragraph in the middle of a section about what other people think she should do, and what demands are being made on her already, two years before the 2008 presidential elections.

Clinton smiles thinly. "No, I don't consider it patronizing," she says. "I'm always interested in what people think I should do. It's like watching this movie that I'm in that I had nothing to do with. I've got my life, and then I've got everybody else's opinion of my life." She shakes her head slowly. "But ultimately, I'll decide what I think is the best thing for me to do."

No matter your politics, or your opinion of Hillary Clinton, I think you have to admire her maturity of attitude and her determination not to let other people decide what she should do. Thanks, Jocelyn - and thanks, Hillary. Rock on, sister!

I keep getting asked via e-mail and IM whether I'm going to tell Warren about my blog, so even though I answered that in the comments section of "Shoot Straight, You Bastards," I'll make it its own post:

I told Warren about the blog on our second date, when I met him for lunch near his office. Then I asked how he would feel about it if I kept blogging about him if we kept dating. It went more or less like this:

"Do you use my real name?"

"No."

"My kids' real names, my ex-wife's name, where they live, anything like that?"

"No."

"Have you said anything about me that isn't true?"

"No."

"Are you going to say anything about me that isn't true?"

"No."

"Do any friends of yours read this blog, or anybody else who works at the Bar?"

"Some..."

"Would you tell them everything that you're going to write in the blog if the blog didn't exist?"

"Probably."

Then he thought for a minute, and smiled.

"If you mention my incredible washboard abs every now and then, you can write whatever else you want."

I'm up earlier than usual this morning because I just can't stay asleep. I'm kind of excited about something. And nervous. Or maybe "terrified" is a better way to put it.

When I first started this blog in June, it was partly because my friend Dara suggested that I should write a book. Her original suggestion was that I should write a book about my experiences at the Bar, which is what prompted me to start this blog.

Yesterday, Dara e-mails me about something interesting, and it's been percolating around my brain constantly since then. She says she sometimes reads a cute blog called Big Dump Truck, whose author has just set up a brand-new blog site at Big Bad Words for something she and a few friends are participating in called "NaNoWriMo."

(That's shorthand for the National Novel Writing Month.)

The idea, Dara tells me, is to spend the month of November writing 50,000 words. Not trying to write 50,000 words, where you sit there agonizing over each sentence and trying to get it right, but writing 50,000 words. You can't start until November 1, and so you have to average about 1,667 words per day to hit the mark by November 30. In theory at the end of the month you've finished a short novel. What you do with it then is a different story, but finishing is what it's all about, no matter the initial quality. I think that's a fantastic concept, because how often do you meet people who say they're going to write a novel "someday," but they just don't have time right now? Just imagine waking up on December 1 and finding that "someday" has arrived.

"Well," Dara says in her e-mail, "if anybody should be doing this, it's you! I thought the few short stories of yours from college that you've showed me were great, and from the comments on your blog it's obvious that other people think you're a very talented writer. You know you want to write a book, so why not just decide to do it, and do it?"

Honestly, I'm torn.

If I spend that much time writing a novel during November, I'm going to have less time for other things - maybe even this blog, which is very important to me, even if it seems like I shirked it for a couple of weeks. Goodness knows my job at the Bar takes up a lot of my time and wears me out! Also, November includes Thanksgiving, and I don't know if the end of a novel-writing month is when you want to have a big, tryptophan-filled family holiday interrupting your momentum. Plus, I just started - seeing? dating? verbing? - Warren.

But Dara is right, I want to write a book. I want to write a novel, and I even believe I might be able to do it. I'd have to decide what to write about, but I'm confident that I could do that sometime in the next three days.

So, I'm sitting here on October 28, asking myself if I should write a novel next month.

I wouldn't be abandoning this blog, and in fact I probably wouldn't even post less often. But for exactly thirty days, in addition to stuff at the Bar and in my private life, I would also blog about my progress on writing my novel. You'd get to look in while I'm embarking on this absolutely insane endeavour. I'd even post excerpts of the writing occasionally, if I thought any of it good enough to be seen outside my laptop. I don't think the character of the blog would change much for those few weeks, but you might not be able to expect things to be quite the same around here until December rolls around.

I don't mind saying, again, that I'm frightened. It's just that big. I really have no idea what I'm going to do, but I guess I need to decide fairly soon.

First of all, the deadline for the Logo Design Competition is tomorrow night just before midnight, my time. If you wanted to enter but you haven't yet, now's the time.

Second, this LJ Cut tag thing. It's time to settle it, I think. Not long ago, someone asked me politely if I would consider using cut tags to make their Friends page shorter. At least twice, someone has asked me - no, told me, far less politely that I needed to use cut tags. Now, somebody has asked me to stop using cut tags, because it's extra work for readers and they're going to read the whole thing anyway.

So I'm going to ask a question, one I already asked once in the comments section, but to which I got no answer the first time:

I have a stupid question, though - as much as I want to be courteous, I'm a little lost on the concept. Isn't your Friends page a specific number of entries regardless of their length? It's not like making my entry shorter with a cut will increase the number of entries that fit on your Friends page. A longer entry just means you might have to scroll a couple more screens - which it seems to me might actually be more convenient than having to click through a cut link to be able to read the entire entry, which will require some scrolling anyway, then having to hit "Back" to return to your Friends page.

I really thought cuts were more for large images that might take a long time to load for people who aren't using high-speed internet, or so that NSFW material doesn't show up on your screen without permission.

I'm not saying I won't do it, I'm just curious why it's important to you. I hope you don't mind my asking.

I don't want this to become a contentious debate, I just want to know why someone finds it important that my blog entries be shorter than a certain length on their Friends page. Sorry to occupy everyone's time with it - feel free to just scroll past me if you don't care.

Thank you to ceetar for the idea!

It has been suggested not only that people might be interested in wearing Barmaid Blog t-shirts, but that someone here might be willing and able to design a logo for said t-shirts... which would be great, since I can't design my way out of a paper bag.

So I hereby announce the Great Barmaid Blog Logo Design Competition!

(cue trumpet fanfare.)

The Rules:

• The design must contain the words "Barmaid Blog" or "The Barmaid Blog"...
  
• The design may contain the URL "barmaidblog.livejournal.com"...
  
• The design must not contain any of the userpics I already use on LiveJournal, or contain any copyrighted or trademarked images...
  
• After consulting someone who claims to know such things, I'm told the design should be done in .png format (but can be done in .jpg format at the lowest compression settings), at 200dpi, with a maximum height of 10 inches and a maximum width of 10 inches (i.e., the image shouldn't be bigger than 2,000 pixels x 2,000 pixels)...
  
• Each individual may enter a maximum of two designs...
  
• You may enter only by e-mailing your design to me at barmaid.blog at gmail.com, not by posting it here...
  
• All entries must arrive in my In box by 11:59pm Eastern time, Sunday, October 1, 2006.

As far as artistic direction, taste, humor, other content you may want to include - anything goes. :-)

Once the shirts are actually being made, whoever designed the winning logo will receive two of the finished shirts for free!! I will also post the best runners-up.

Okay, have at it, y'all.

Comments this last week have been... interesting. And I want to make a few things clear.

1. I've mentioned it already in a few comments responding to other people's comments, but it keeps coming up, so I'll say it once here and hope that settles it: Evan knew in advance that Jessica wanted a night with me before they moved, and it happened with his knowledge and permission. So however I may feel personally about my night with Jessica (and I'll admit that this changes from day to day), what she did was not cheating and what I did was not being "the other woman." This is not your life, it's mine. If there is something that I choose to do (or that a friend of mine chooses to do) that does not meet with your own personal moral code, there is a simple solution: Don't do it yourself.

2. If you still feel you're entitled to judge me, that's your prerogative, I suppose. And if you want to make a cogent argument as to why I'm a bad person, or why I'm going to hell, feel free to lay out your case. Maybe we can even have a thoughtful, engaging debate on the subject. But I don't have to tolerate, and I won't tolerate, insults and name-calling. I had hoped never to feel the need to screen or delete comments in this blog, but I deleted one today for the first time. And for anybody who thinks the First Amendment gives you the right to say whatever they want and forbids me from "censoring" you, I suggest you go back and read the Constitution again, and ask yourself: Do I look like Congress to you?

3. I don't care if you think my blog is a "fake." I really don't. I know the truth, and that's all that matters. Nevertheless, some of the discussion about "real vs. fake" has been entertaining, so if you must, have at it. But please recognize that posting a comment that does nothing besides repeat your belief that my blog is fake adds absolutely nothing to the discussion.

More real blogging later. Thanks for putting up with my bitching.

Thank you all for your concern - I didn't mean for you all to get worried about me, but it's sweet that you care. :-) I did finally go to the doctor yesterday afternoon to get checked out. He drew some blood for tests just to be sure, but he didn't find anything obviously wrong with me. He agrees with me that it seemed like a migraine that just happened to hit at the wrong time, and since I don't get them very often, he said it wouldn't be very useful (or smart) to go on one of the drugs that's designed to prevent them.

Naturally, he also asked me about my diet and about the possibility that I'm pregnant. Oddly, it's not as funny the second time someone asks you that in two days.

I didn't sleep very well last night, either. Hopefully I'll get to take a nap this afternoon, because tonight I'm on with Jessica for her last shift at the Bar ever, and I don't want to be this tired.

Meanwhile, Barmaid Blog reader Rachael e-mailed me:

I've recently found your blog and love reading it. As it turns out, I just got fired and am in need of some cash ASAP! I somehow landed a job as a bartender/cocktail waitress at a bar near my house despite a complete lack of bar/restaurant experience. Here's my burning question for ya: What should I wear on my feet?? I have uber-sensible shoes, flip-flops, and uber-sexy/uber-uncomfortable stilettos. Sexy vs comfortable--is there a solution to this problem? What do YOU wear on your tootsies?

My response was thus:

I'm really sorry you lost your job, but good for you landing your first bar job. My advice to you is very simple: LOVE YOUR FEET. Unless you miraculously find a pair of sexy stilettos that makes you feel like you're walking on a bed of cotton all night long, you will absolutely hate yourself for wearing heels to a job where you stand for six or eight or ten hours in a row, often without a real break. Wear the most comfortable shoes you own, as long as they're presentable enough for you to leave the house in. If you're worried about whether you'll still be sexy, don't worry - guys will hit on the woman serving them drinks even if she's wearing bunny slippers and a flannel bathrobe. :-) Best of luck to you!

She followed up several days later:

Thanks so much for the advice. You were dead-on! I have the most comfy Nike flip-flops in the world and I wear them constantly as it is. I'm happy to report that they were my happy companions for a 10-hour shift both Friday and Saturday night!

My work here is done. ;-)

If you're going away for the holiday weekend, travel safely and have a great time - I'll be right here in Manhattan, serving drinks to those who've stayed behind.

(No, no response yet from Mastercard Man to my e-mail... I promise, you'll be the first 2,300 to know.)

My friend and fellow barmaid of three years, Jessica, is moving to San Francisco with her fiance Evan soon; they're leaving on September 10. Todd (our manager) doesn't think Labor Day weekend will be very busy, so Jessica's last day at the Bar is this Friday, which will give her plenty of time to pack.

So Monday we're breaking in a new barmaid, a tall brunette named Maya. Amy and I are both on with her at first, though it's a relatively slow evening. She's definitely had some quality experience behind a bar (unlike, say, Jocelyn when she first came on board), so mostly we're just showing her the ropes of the Bar's quirks and unique procedures. Tommy shows her the inner workings of the back room, the basement, and all the other fun parts of the Bar that are mostly the domain of the barbacks, and explains his role to her and how they'll be interacting. Then we set her loose on some customers, and settle into the routine.

Jack arrives at the Bar with Laura and Rob, two other lawyers who have come in with him a few times before, and he barely makes eye contact with me. Last time he was in, he half-mumbled an apology about what happened at the Yankee game that he'd given me tickets to, and I insisted that it wasn't his fault and an apology wasn't necessary. I also told him that it was by far the most generous single tip anybody had ever given me (which is true; especially in pure dollar terms, it beat my old $50 best tip handily), and I appreciated the gesture no matter what. But he's been very quiet, and showing up at the Bar less often. Jocelyn even told me that at one point, he said he wasn't going to read my blog anymore, it was just too much. I don't know what that means or what to do about it, other than continue to reassure him that I don't blame him, which I imagine might just reinforce the idea in his head that I do blame him.

So instead, I don't bring it up, I try not to take his avoidance personally, I stay as friendly as I can, and I serve him when it makes sense.

Maya heads over to take their order, and does a fine job serving their drinks and making change. Rob asks, "You're new here, aren't you?" Maya introduces herself, and they do the same and welcome her aboard.

Laura adds, "Watch out for this one," patting Jack on the shoulder, "he likes to give expensive gifts to women who give him alcohol." Jack laughs gamely along with the others, but I can tell from his expression that he's not thrilled with the remark.

Maya eats it up, though. "Is that so? Well, Jack, just for the record, silver is better with my coloring than gold." She smiles and heads down the bar to serve another customer, and Jack's colleagues laugh.

Shortly before 8pm, Vince arrives to take over for Tommy. Soon, Amy will also cash out and leave Maya and me to take care of things behind the bar, which shouldn't be too rough, as she seems to be something of a natural. Tommy introduces Maya to Vince, who says, "Welcome aboard, I'm a pretty recent arrival myself," and then spends a few seconds sort of half-squinting at her. Then I glance at Maya, and just as I start to think that she's kind of doing the same thing, the moment is over and they each return to their business.

About an hour later, Vince is killing some time polishing the brass around the taps, and Maya is down at the other end of the bar, so I ask him, "What was that about before?"

"What was what about?"

"With Maya, when Tommy introduced you. Do you know her already?"

"Yeah. I think she killed my father."

"Vince --"

"By the way, did you happen to notice if she had six fingers on her right hand?"

"Vince!"

"Relax, Debra, she just reminds me of somebody, that's all. I just can't think who."

"Maybe she just has one of those familiar faces?"

"What, like on an FBI poster in the post office?" He stops polishing, and thinks about it for a moment. "No, I'll figure it out."

I shrug, and then I take advantage of Maya's location by checking Jack's group to see if they need refills. Rob and Laura take me up on it, but Jack gets up and grabs his briefcase.

"Leaving so early, Jack?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty tired, and I've got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

"Well, get some sleep, and we'll see you soon."

He waves and leaves without another word. As I walk down the bar, I hear Laura say to Rob, "It hasn't been that long a week yet. What a coward."

Rob replies, "Fuck him. Let's finish these and go get some dinner. Then I'll make a pass at you, and you can pretend to be flattered."

I sure hope they're just Jack's colleagues, I think to myself, and not his friends.

I make my way down to Maya, who's expertly pulling a pint of Guinness. "Settling in okay, finding everything you need?"

"Yeah, absolutely, Debbie, thanks."

"No p