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

"No, that's not what I'm saying, the date didn't go badly," Jack tries to clarify, after he takes another sip of Balvenie. "Heather and I had a fantastic time. We talked for hours, we had a wonderful meal and split a bottle of wine, we had dessert, and I walked her to her subway. And, there was a goodnight --" He stops for a second and looks up at us, his expectant audience of four: Mario on his side of the bar, and Jocelyn, Diego, and me on the other. "Sorry, I'm still trying to be a gentleman about this. There was a goodnight kiss. There was a very amazing goodnight kiss. I kissed her goodnight. I kissed her goodnight, and she definitely kissed me back."

"So what's the problem?" asks Mario.

"So this is how it went the last time, too. We had a wonderful time, she thinks I'm awesome, everything went right, including the part where I find the courage I don't usually have and we kiss and there's supposed to be fireworks. And she's still not interested."

"Wait," says Jocelyn, "I don't understand. She kissed you goodnight on two separate dates, and she says she's not interested?"

Jack shrugs. "Yeah, and they weren't brief kisses, either. She even apologized for it later, like she was leading me on or something."

"Well, she is!" Jocelyn huffs.

"I don't know," I pipe in. "What if she's not sure, and she's using the kisses as a gauge? It wouldn't be the first time I've heard of a woman doing that."

"Me, too," says Mario, "but how big does her sample size need to be before it's statistically significant?"

Jack puts up his hands. "Plus, can we just consider for a moment what it says about me that a woman could be on the fence, then making out with me clinches it for her the other way??"

"Oh, Jack," I say, taking his hand for a moment, "that's not what I meant."

"So you've known this girl for how long, a month or two?" Mario asks.

Jack clears his throat. "Twelve years."

I kind of knew that already, but the four of us all look at each other. Mario adds, "Hey, I know they say you shouldn't rush things, Jack, but seriously --"

"Ha ha," Jack says as he puts his head in one hand and shakes it. "She was married for most of that time. In fact I think she was already dating him when I met her."

"They're divorced now?" I ask. He nods. "You weren't... y'know, waiting all this time for that to happen, were you?"

"What?! God, no. I mean, I had a little crush on her back in college, but as soon as the semester was over I put her out of my head, and I didn't even think about her for eleven years. As soon as we reconnected a few months ago, though, that was it, I was toast. I've never felt like this before." Diego pats him on the shoulder.

I raise an eyebrow. "Never?"

Jack laughs. "Yes, Debra, never. You were a little crush, too - a misunderstanding. I moved on." I'm mostly relieved, though my ego can't help feel a little twinge of disappointment at being so easily dismissed. But it was a couple of years ago already and he's a friend, and what's more, I'm pretty sure he's right. "This is different, though. It's hard to explain, but I can't give up on her and I don't think I should. She's told me very clearly how she feels, and yet I'm utterly convinced that something's going to change her mind." He takes a deep breath. "Problem is, up until recently, I guess I thought a really fantastic kiss might be the something that would change her mind. Now I need something else."

"That's hardcore, man," Mario shakes his head.

"Are you sure she's not just stringing you along to stroke her ego? I mean, maybe divorce was hard on her and she needs the affirmation."

"At this point, Jocelyn, I'm not sure of anything. But I don't think she's cruel enough to do that. At least not consciously. Besides - get this - when we talk about how I feel, she tries to convince me I shouldn't feel that way. She actually sits there and lists her faults."

"And that doesn't work?" asks Diego.

Jack tilts his head back toward the ceiling. "I find it incredibly sexy and endearing."

"Jack, buddy," says Mario, "you need to get away from her, and fast. You're obsessing, and she's just making it worse by indulging you. As long as you keep going after her, you'll never get over it, and you'll never be able to see the right woman when she does come along."

Jocelyn nods. "I agree, you're just setting yourself up to get hurt again and again. Plus, no offense, but at a certain point if you keep coming back for more it's just going to be creepy."

Jack looks at me, and I shrug. "I hate to say it, but I think they're right. If she doesn't feel the same way about you, I don't think this is what you think it is." Then Jack and the rest of us look at Diego for consensus.

"Let me ask you a question, my friend," he says. "She seeing other people that she is interested in?"

"Well, yeah. We talk openly about the other people we're dating - whatever else is going on, we've become close friends."

"And how does that make you feel about the other guy?"

"I don't know... disappointed that it's not me, and annoyed when I hear he's not treating her right."

"You want to get rid of him, keep her to yourself?"

"What? No! Listen, I just want to make her happy. If someone else can do that, I'll still be very disappointed that it's not me, but that's all I want, is for her to be happy."

Diego nods for what seems like close to a minute, then he takes out his wallet and slaps it open on the bar. "You see this lady?" Jack looks at the photo, and nods. "That's my wife," Diego continues. "She's gone, she died giving birth to our daughter, I think you know that. We were married for three years, and I knew her for two years before that." He closes the wallet and slides it back into place in his jeans, and we all wait to hear what's next, but he just stands there, until Jack speaks up.

"She was beautiful, Diego."

"I know it."

"So --"

"You think you can make this Heather girl happy?"

"Yeah, I think so. No, I know it. If she gave me the chance, yes, I know I could make her happy."

Diego leans forward and places his hand on the side of Jack's face, a gesture that surprises all of us. "Then if you want to try, you go start trying, and you don't stop trying until she tells you to stop herself. And you don't let anybody ever tell you it's a waste of time." He turns and walks quickly to the back room. I start after him, but Jocelyn grabs my arm - and she's right, I need to let him go.

Jack sighs, and reaches toward me with his now-empty glass. "If I'm going to go tilt at windmills, Debra, I'm going to need some more Scotch."

It's America's 232nd birthday, and Jenny and I are out in the Hamptons for the long weekend, staying with her cousin Roger and his wife Kate at their house. It's a large, modern house, nothing like the rental I shared with Bria and her friends a couple of years ago, so although a half dozen of Roger and Kate's friends are also there for the weekend, it doesn't feel crowded. And luckily, they all seem like decent people.

We're all celebrating the holiday in what has become the traditional method of acknowledging our nation's hard-won freedoms - overindulging. By the time it's dark enough for the local fireworks display to start, the ten of us have killed a score of burgers, an assortment of cold salads, about a peach pie and a half, and an entire case of wine. We still manage to stumble from their deck onto the beach to watch the show. It's pretty muggy, but my sundress blows around a little in the breeze coming off the water - and I try to remember through the wine whether it's the Atlantic Ocean or the Long Island Sound or some random Bay I should know the name of but don't, and I fail completely.

I start to ask, "Jenny --" but she's already in the middle of pulling me closer, and I continue to feel the breeze as she kisses me. We wrap our arms around each other, and for a minute I forget about the crowd on the beach - not just the eight other people from our house, but the hundreds of people from the other houses on the beach and all the other houses that aren't right on the beach. I only forget for a minute, because a minute is all it takes for a couple of guys nearby to start hooting and catcalling. We don't stop, though... and to my amusement, Jenny slides a hand up the back of my leg under my skirt to my ass, which gets even more of a reaction. I start laughing, and we break the embrace. Jenny actually gives a playful little wave to the boys nearby who were watching us, but then we stroll away, back a little closer to her cousins' deck.

"You're cruel," I say to her, forgetting what I was going to ask her.

"To them or to you?" she asks.

"Yes," I grin.

She shrugs. "That's nothing, baby." And then the show begins with a colorful bang, seemingly almost right above our heads. We hold hands and watch, with the requisite oohs and ahhs. The display is lovely, though nothing really compares with Macy's annual show over the East River. I certainly don't regret being here, though - we've been here less than a day, and Roger and Kate are already treating me like family. Even after the other guests started to arrive, they were inquisitive about my impending move to Jenny's apartment, what I do, where I'm from, what my family is like... and their hospitality has been second-to-none. We definitely got the best bedroom (other than theirs, of course), and although that may only be because we got there first, I'm looking forward to waking up in the queen-size bed curled up with Jenny.

The show is over after about fifteen minutes, and we wander back inside to the living room, where we've been promised a movie. We find Roger tinkering with the sound system he's got hooked up to a huge, widescreen television. One couple mock-yawns, waves, and heads off to bed, but the rest of us gather to watch. Jenny and I curl up together on a loveseat, and I pull a light blanket off the back of it to wrap around us. Jenny puts her arms around me, and I nestle in. Roger finally gets the connections right, and fires up "Speed" - a movie I've somehow managed never to see up until now.

It's entertaining enough for a goofy thriller with the most emotionally stunted actor in history playing the lead, but I'm also glad we're still drinking, because that helps make it more entertaining. Then, right around the time Keanu Reeves is getting a medal for shooting Jeff Daniels, I feel one of Jenny's hands slide down my tummy under the blanket, down onto my thigh, and - after a brief pause - up under my dress, where she starts lightly stroking me through my panties. I remember her "that's nothing, baby" comment of earlier, and I smile for a second, but I gently squirm away, turn my head slightly, and whisper, "Not here." I take a sip of my wine and a deep breath, and settle back into her arms.

Not long afterward, when the first bus explodes, I'm surprised to feel Jenny's hand move down to my thigh and up underneath my dress again. She's been pleasantly stroking the surface of my panties again for a couple of minutes, and I'm getting ready to reach for her hand and move it away myself, when I feel her move the panties to one side, stick her hand underneath, and start stroking me directly. I'm so dumbfounded that I literally can't think of anything to do except hold my breath, and then I give that up when I realize I won't be able to do it for long. I still want her to stop because there are six other people in the room, including members of her family whom I'm hoping will continue to welcome me as part of that family. But as the shock starts to wear off, the excitement steps in, and I also don't want her to stop. I slug back my remaining half glass of wine in the hopes it'll make me less nervous. I feel myself start to get wet, and I start to wonder if anyone will notice a difference in my breathing.

I somehow manage to follow what little plot there is. Jenny uses a slow, steady pace and occasionally pauses for a few minutes, so while it's incredibly pleasurable, I know it's not going to make me come. That helps keep me on the "don't stop" side of the fence, but it has its own problems. She keeps this up for what feels like an hour, which is such delicious agony I can't stand it. Soon all I'm doing is praying for the movie to end so that I have a better excuse for dragging her upstairs to that big, beautiful bed than "Excuse me, everybody, Jenny and I desperately need to go fuck."

But just as the LAPD figures out that the highway they're driving on hasn't yet been completed, I feel Jenny change her mind. She increases her pace, and then a couple of her fingers find their way into darkness, and then she adds her thumb to the mix and finds what she's known all along was there, just waiting for her to pay some attention to it. My whole body seems on fire, and I start to panic. I'm... demonstrative when I come. I'm loud. I have a tendency to thrash. I don't want to know what these six people are going to think of me after I have an orgasm right in front of them, but I absolutely do not want her to stop. Somehow between the wine and the wetness and the crazy and the panic and the surround-sound and the trust and the love and the desperation to explode and the torn between wanting nobody to know and wanting everybody to see, I decide not to decide, I place my fate in my girlfriend's hands, I let go...

Sandra Bullock floors the accelerator as the bus approaches the gap in the elevated highway trying to work up enough speed to jump it and Jenny works her thumb on me with tiny little motions and I can't stay still I start shaking and she plunges into me and everybody on the bus braces for impact and God help me I bolt upright on the loveseat with her still inside of me and the bus sails over the gap and she does this grabbing thing she knows I love in the middle of coming and I keep on coming and I cry out and the bus lands on the other side and keeps on going.

...and even though I'm still staring at the screen, I know everyone in the room is looking at me. Roger lets out a little laugh, and says, "Hey, Debra, it's okay - they made it." A few other people chuckle, and everyone's attention goes back to the television. I turn and look at Jenny, shocked and absolutely certain that my face is fire engine red, no idea what to say, but she just looks so pleased with herself that I forgive her instantly.

I lean in closer and whisper in her ear, "I'm not sure how, but I'm going to get you back for that." Then I turn back to the movie, curl back up under the blanket - still shaking - and feel Jenny wrap her arms around me again.

A few minutes later, she leans down and whispers in my ear, "I'm counting on it," then kisses me on the cheek.

When I come in a little early for my 8-to-close the Wednesday right before the long holiday weekend, Jack is sitting at one of the tables along the wall instead of at the bar, and he's not alone. When he sees me, he waves me over. "Debra, I want you to meet Heather. She and I went to college together." She's very pretty, I notice as I shake her hand, and she has one of those genuine smiles that's impossible to fake. Nice going, Jack, I think to myself.

"Nice to meet you, Heather. Are you in town on vacation?"

"No, I live here - I didn't for a while, but I moved back a few years ago."

"Oh, well, great! I hope we see more of you." She grins. "I have to go clock in, do you guys need anything?"

Jack shakes his head and holds up a nearly-full glass of red wine. "This is our last round, then we're going out for some dinner, but thanks." I wave and make my way through the crowd to the back room.

When I open the door, Maya and Todd are inside, in the middle of a hug. As far as I can tell that's all it is, but when they turn and see me, I still quickly drop my bag, excuse myself, and beat a path back to the bar. Maya's not on tonight, I remember, and then I put it out of my head.

I fist-bump Vince and high-five Simone, then I start taking orders. It's a pretty decent crowd for a summer Wednesday; probably a lot of people are hightailing it out of town tomorrow to make a four-day weekend out of the July 4th holiday, so Wednesday is this week's Friday for them. A couple of times I glance over to see how Jack and Heather are doing, and they seem to be having a great time. After a short while they finish their drinks, and he leads her to the front door. It's nice to see Jack happy, God knows he deserves it.

At one point Vince is washing glasses next to me when he asks, "Debra, you were an English major in college, right?"

"Yeah, after I gave up on psychology."

"Did New Hampshire offer a class on Marxism as literature?"

"Uh, not that I recall. Like, Marxism as literature instead of as economic or political theory?"

"Yeah," he nods. "It's one of the classes I'm thinking about taking this fall when I rev up to full-time. I'm just worried the material will be so boring that I'll start slipping little puns into my papers, like, 'Dialectic materialism? But I hardly know him!' and that'll be the end of Vince Goes Back to College."

I shake my head. "You are one of the strangest guys I know, Vince."

"Thanks a lot, Superstar, but all that tells me is that you should take a long, hard look at the other guys you know." He goes out to collect more glasses.

During a relatively slow moment, Simone and I are chatting with a couple of customers about about the upcoming All-Star baseball game, and how painful it is to have twice as many Red Sox as Yankees on the American League roster, when Maya saunters up with a bag on her shoulder and a strange little smile on her face. "I just wanted to say goodbye. I'm leaving the Bar."

Simone says, "What? Where are you going?"

"Back to Ohio, believe it or not. Samantha's father offered me a job out there. New York never really felt like home to me, and even less since Sam died, so -- I guess I'm going home."

I offer my hand, and she shakes it. "Good luck, Maya - we'll miss you around here."

She grins, and lets go. "Bullshit, Debra - you won't even think about me after I walk out that door. You've never tried to make me feel welcome here, and the other girls took their cues from you. I put up with all your superiority crap for almost two years." I'm speechless. She shakes Simone's hand, brushes past Vince on his way back behind the bar without a word, and walks away. She stops just before she reaches the front door, then comes back with tears in her eyes and leans over the bar for just a few seconds as we all watch.

"By the way, your book sucks," she says, her voice cracking. Then she turns and walks out of the Bar.

"That was totally uncalled for," says Simone.

I nod. "I think that was the point."

Vince shakes his head. "Hell, I didn't even know she knew how to read."

That gets us smiling again, and I pull down three lowballs and the bottle of Macallan 18, quickly pouring a finger for each of us. "To Samantha's father," I toast, and we drink.

Thursday, June 26

It's awfully warm and muggy out, and the air conditioning in the Bar is having serious trouble tonight. Pat is tinkering with the controls at the same time she's on the phone about it. Apparently nobody can send a guy until tomorrow. "If only the AC would have the decency to break on a day we don't desperately need it," she says, right after she tells us we're just going to have to suck it up and deal. She sets up an oscillating fan at each end of the bar, but they don't make much of a difference.

It's still crowded, though, and we're still working hard, so we're all sweating. My Rusted Root t-shirt is damp and clinging to me, and Vince is constantly mopping his forehead with an extra bar rag. Maya has given up all pretense to propriety; after the first hour, she went to the back room, where she took off her sweat-soaked shirt, leaving a bikini top that she still had on from a brief sunbathing trip earlier in the day. It really only just barely hides any of her breasts - and as a result, she's rolling in tips. It's a little distracting watching her work this way, but that may be partly because I've seen the rest of her breasts.

"I don't know why I didn't try this a long time ago," Maya shouts as she passes behind me.

"Don't you feel exposed or anything?" I shout back.

She laughs and nods as she grabs a few bottles of Coors from the cooler. "Yeah, I do! But you get used to it!" She heads back the other way, and I watch a good three-quarters of the heads at the bar turn to follow. I'm a little surprised Pat hasn't said anything, but no more than a little surprised. It's something I came to understand very soon after I started working here nearly five years ago; sexy is good for business, and the fruits of good business are impossible to ignore no matter how much of a feminist you are before you walk in the door. Even Diane Chambers learned that one the hard way in the "Miss Boston Barmaid" competition on "Cheers," I remember with a smile.

Things slow down a little after midnight, and Vince introduces Maya and me to his friend Steve. "This is the guy who got me to stop smoking," he says.

"How'd you do that?" asks Maya.

"Mostly through hypnosis," he says.

"Really?" I try not to smirk.

"Sure," says Steve, "but it still wouldn't have worked if Vince hadn't really wanted to rid himself of his addiction."

Vince nods. "Problem is, now I'm addicted to hypnosis." We all laugh.

Maya tops off Steve's bourbon. "Can you make him do anything you want? Like, bark like a dog?"

"Well, that's not really what clinical hypnosis is about - you're talking about a party trick, this is post-hypnotic suggestion to help modify behavior after the hypnosis is over."

"So can you make him bark like a dog later?" Maya asks. I roll my eyes, and go to take orders from a loud bachelorette party group that's just come in. I glance back over, though, and I see Steve and Maya talking closely, maybe even conspiratorially.

About forty-five minutes later, Vince taps me on the shoulder. "You have to come see this." He leads me over to where Maya is pulling a pint of Sam Adams, and after she makes change for the customer, he says, "Maya, I think you're starting to burn."

She turns to him and looks at him funny. "What?"

"I said, Maya, I think you're starting to burn."

"Oh, thanks!" And while I watch, she grabs the bottle of Malibu off the shelf behind us, hands it to me, says, "Debra, would you put some on my back?" and turns around. I look at Vince, then at his friend Steve, who just smiles a little. "Seriously, Debra, I don't want to burn, get my back and shoulders, okay?" She moves her hair off her neck and around to the front, so that the only thing on her back is the string holding up her bikini top.

I'm too dumbstruck to laugh, so I shrug, pour a little of the coconut rum into one hand, and start rubbing it into my colleague's shoulders while the guys snicker.

It's late afternoon Sunday, and I'm on my way to the Bar for a 6-to-2 shift when the sky seems to get nine shades darker in about two minutes. There was no rain in the forecast, I think to myself, and then I think, I didn't actually look at the forecast. I was eating bagels, drinking mimosas, and watching the first few innings of the Yankees-Reds game with my roommates Cassie and Jill, and it had been a few weeks since our last Sunday brunch together, so we were having a blast catching up and laughing. It got late enough that I just grabbed my bag and headed out.

I just grabbed my bag. Shit. I did laundry yesterday. I unzip the bag, and I've got everything I'm supposed to - two granola bars, a bottle of water, tampons, condoms, spare phone charger, makeup... everything, that is, except the extra shirt I always bring with me to every single shift. And right at the same moment I realize I'm already two-thirds of the way to the Bar and I'll be late if I turn back to go home, the rain starts.

The rain doesn't have the courtesy to start slowly - no, it's one of those bizarre summer sunshowers that behaves as if a Forest Service firefighting plane has passed overhead and dumped a whole lake, water-skiers and all, right on Manhattan. I start running, and within a couple of blocks I start to wish I've been getting more exercise. Plus my sandals are absorbing water even faster than my clothing, and soon it's like running in snowshoes. I round a corner, sidestep to dodge an enormous golf umbrella in my path, and lose my footing.

I'm face-down on the sidewalk, there's water and hair in my eyes, and - and I can't breathe. Somebody helps me sit up, and I see he's wearing one of those royal blue Ready, Willing and Able shirts - the ex-convicts and post-rehab guys who make a living doing most of the basic, street-level trash collection in the city. He's soaking wet, like me, but I'm the only one who can't breathe. I grab his arm and squeeze.

"Easy, girl, you got the wind knocked out of you. Don't panic, it'll come back in a second. Think about something happy." I can't breathe. I know my lungs are still there. Something happy... I'm moving in with my girlfriend. I'm going to save a lot of money, get a lot more sleep, and have a lot more sex. Jason Giambi still looks ridiculous with a moustache. I gasp, breathe in about seventeen gallons of air, and start coughing all over the sidewalk. My benefactor smiles, and his wet skin shines where his cheeks turn up. "There you go," he says, and helps me up. He seems eight feet tall, and when I hug him, I nearly disappear.

"Thank you," I say, and start back on my way, at a walk this time. I'm already soaked, so there's no point in trying to outrun it anymore.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says.

I arrive at the Bar soaking wet, and the air conditioning hits me like I've climbed into a meat freezer. It's wonderful, but I know it won't be for long, so I head straight for the ladies' room, where I do my best to dry myself off. My hair, face, and arms are easy enough, but there's not much to be done about my clothing. I wring out my tank top as much as I can, but after I put it back on, I look in the mirror, and it hasn't helped much. Between the wet bra and tank, and the air conditioning, I'm just probably going to look - well, perky - for the rest of the evening. Even worse, the tank is kind of dirty, though I have a little hope that the Bar's lighting will help me get away with that. I sigh, and head out toward the front to join Cindy and Vince for some work.

The first half hour is exactly as I expected - constant staring, winks, and at least three separate customers making some version of the "it's really nipply in here" comment. True to form, Vince stays out of it, but Cindy can't help but laugh. It's not that she's enjoying my pain so much as it is she's probably glad to have the heat (or rather, the cold) off her as a side-effect of the focus being on me, and I can't blame her for that. I'm the one who forgot an umbrella and face-planted. But I can tell it's going to be a long night of eye-rolling.

The Yankees are just starting up again from their rain delay when I hear Bill shout, "Hey!" I turn just in time to see my ex-boyfriend Warren walk in with his friend Former B-List Actor. I haven't seen Warren since we broke up a year and a half ago, but if I have to see him without warning, I definitely want to look like a drowned rat.

Warren looks good. I'd forgotten how tall he is. He and I lean over the bar toward each other (well, it's mostly him doing the leaning) for a quick kiss on the cheek, and then FBA (who's much shorter) opts for a fist-bump with me instead. I draw a Weihenstephaner for Warren and mix a Jack Daniels Manhattan for FBA, and they toast me before they drink.

"Debra," Warren starts, "you look great. But listen, I, um..." He's still looking in my eyes, though with obvious effort.

"Yeah, I know. I got caught in the quick downpour, and kind of fell down a little."

Warren smiles, takes another sip, then sets his glass down and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"No, Warren, you shouldn't do that," I say, not meaning it even a little. FBA sits there just shaking his head and laughing as his friend removes a light blue button-down to reveal a v-neck undershirt, and hands the first one to me over the bar. I slip it on and button it up about two-thirds of the way, which is just enough to make me presentable if any small children should wander in. "Thanks, that was sweet."

"I'm just surprised nobody else beat me to it." You would be, I think.

We all spend a while catching up whenever it's slow enough. FBA has been spending less time in New York and more time on the radio. Warren has mostly just been busy, but he's also been staying away because he wasn't sure how I'd feel about him coming in to drink. We didn't break up because we didn't care about each other, we just wanted different things. I assure him that he's welcome anytime, and then of course I tell him about Jenny.

"Do you think it would be weird if we all got to be friends?" Warren asks me, as Mariano Rivera is shoveling dirt on the Reds' coffin.

I take a deep breath through my nose, and I smell Warren on me. He'll always be a very sexy man, but what I feel right now as I inhale him is comfort and affection, and I smile as I start to warm up in my ex-boyfriend's shirt. "I don't think that would be weird at all."

To: jessxxxxxxx@hotmail.com
From: jessxxxxxxx@hotmail.com
Date: Jun 9, 2008 5:21:08 PM
Subject: Trick or Treat

Hey, everybody... IT'S A GIRL! And she's due on Thanksgiving Day. Evan and I are so excited!!

Debra, don't post the ultrasound image on your blog. :-P

Love,

Jessica

Barmaid Blog reader "J" wrote to me last week, saying:

I'm...writing because I wondered how you deflect unwanted attention and harassment, not just when you're behind the counter but also when you're on the street. I'm moving to a large city in the summer for the first time with my boyfriend and my sister and I've been offered a couple jobs as a bartender and a barista. I'm more inclined to take the latter position, even though bartending would allow me to save up more for college, not just because I have more experience but because I know the customer base is more, shall we say, sober by nature. I'm an Asian-American woman, in my early twenties, and have a petite frame - even in the college town where I work and live now, I can't really go a single day without a man asking where I live, or if I want a ride, or other unsettling questions that look tame in writing but feel invasive and unwelcome. And if it's this pervasive in ultra-PC Professorville, I imagine I'll have to brace myself for worse when we move. I've spent enough time in the city that I already know it's worse.

The intelligent, assertive, feminist response to street harassment is to confront the harasser, ask him about his motivation and try to make him understand how discomfiting his comments are. A commendable sentiment, but utterly impractical when I'm rushing to class, or - as is usually the case - I'm simply too scared that any kind of retaliation, rational or no, will escalate the situation. And the fact that I'm Asian only serves to exacerbate things (judging from the nature of a lot of comments, it seems like colonial perceptions of submissive, exotic oriental women are still alive and well today). The one time I lost my temper and volleyed back at a guy he followed me for seven blocks, muttering racial slurs and threats under his breath, until I turned a corner and raced to the bar where I was meeting my friend as fast as I could. Sometimes, especially after a really vulgar comment, I wonder what would happen if I just faced the man and started sobbing at him.

I'm worried because my sister is a few years younger than me, and right now I'm her only real guardian. She's beautiful and bright, and looks even younger than she is, and I'm worried that by making this decision to move to a more hostile city I'm exposing her to the same treatment. I want to shield her, but short of barricading her in our apartment I don't know what to do.

This sort of attention doesn't seem rare in your workplace, but in your posts it's rare that you seem to lose your humor or grace. Do you have any advice for me?

First of all, I'm flattered that you think I usually don't lose my humor or grace, and maybe that's true a majority of the time. I certainly don't think there was much humor in my reaction to being groped by a customer, and there definitely wasn't any grace to how I behaved when my ex Peter last showed up at the Bar.

But let's assume I'm willing to grant the premise that I handle that kind of attention well a majority of the time. I have a theory about that - well, two theories, I suppose, acting in concert.

The first theory, unfortunately, is that after nearly five years of slinging drinks I may just be desensitized to it. For whatever reason (and I really do think there's a lot of grant money in this if anybody ever wanted to study it), people will behave in a bar in ways they would never consider behaving at home, at work, or in most other public places. It definitely has something to do with the alcohol, but that can't be the only reason, because some people switch into asshole mode in the ten seconds it takes them to get from the front door to their stool. So it happens all around me every night, and therefore I'm used to it. That doesn't mean that what they do is right, it just means that what may have bothered me my first month on the job might not bother me now.

And remember, although I started this blog with the intention of telling old stories as well as new, there's been no shortage of new stuff to talk about, so it's been 99% new, all since the end of my third year as a barmaid. So you haven't heard about the keg delivery guy who nearly lost a few fingers when I stepped on his hand for trying to look up my skirt in 2004, or about the half-dozen or so times I actually succumbed to the temptation to throw a drink in someone's face before I thought better of it in general.

The second theory is that if I don't handle the attention well, I might lose my job, and even if I don't I'll definitely make less money. For better or for worse, if I can manage to ignore the lesser offenders, I'll still get their tips, and the Bar will keep their custom. And let's face it, I think the vast majority of them are lesser offenders, and the money is good enough that I don't have any problem tolerating it. It's the ones who cross the line I have problems with, but I also have enough autonomy in my job that I'm allowed to address the problem head-on, and at every moment of every shift, I have at least one other barmaid, a barback, and often a manager and a door bouncer to back me up.

Of course, I can't tell you where the line is, I just usually know it when it's been crossed. When I'm not sure, I have to admit, I usually err on the side of "lesser offender" - if only because I remind myself frequently that the Bar, like most New York City drinking establishments, hires us barmaids because we're friendly and attractive, and the way I dress on the job certainly isn't calculated to turn men off. That doesn't make the behavior okay, any more than a rape is justified by revealing clothing, but I really do think I draw the line differently because of it. When I decide the line has been crossed, believe me, I do something about it.

What's difficult for me about answering your question is that I don't think this helps you or your sister very much. You don't work in a bar, and you don't have back-up. Nobody should be subjected to unwanted attention just because she's walking down the street. I'll admit, I think my experience at the Bar has desensitized me to that, too, but I still recognize it when it happens. I mostly just manage to ignore it, or if I'm wearing my iPod, never hear it in the first place.

Maybe "Sex and the City" had it right years ago - maybe you really should just turn around and respond. I don't know if asking the construction guy to examine the paternalistic roots of his behavior or explaining the emotional and sociopolitical impact of his behavior to him is necessarily the way to go even when you do have time, but maybe just having the courage to turn around and do or say something is enough. What you do at that point is entirely up to you. Maybe you return his innuendo twice as forcefully, shock him into shutting up, then say, "I thought so," and turn and walk away. Maybe turning and sobbing, as you suggested, might work - I don't think most men actually mean to hurt your feelings, so maybe seeing how badly it hurts you might give someone genuine pause.

Hell, I don't know, maybe you take a deep breath, give a wink, shake your ass, and keep right on walking. As boorish and unpleasant as the method is, I think most men intend this crass behavior as a compliment, and just don't have the wherewithal to express it better. So sometimes maybe you just need to take it that way, and you'll both be able to go on with your lives knowing someone paid you a little more attention that day. Some might say it's not the classically feminist way of handling things, but I don't believe that every man who whistles at me on the street is ready for a scathing lecture about Simone de Beauvoir, either.

As for your sister, I have often found that the people I worry about the most are the ones best prepared to handle the world around them. I know you love her and want to protect her, but sometimes it's more important to trust her, first. I think you should talk to her frankly about what your experiences have been, and ask her about hers, then warn her that you believe it's going to get worse in your new city. Tell her you'll always be there for her if she wants to ask questions or if she needs help.

And then prove it.

Thursday evening I'm working with Cindy, and we're doing a decently brisk business, but nothing unusual. At one point Cindy comes down to where I'm cutting limes.

"Didn't you say that single malt Scotch is better than blended?"

"If I did, I wasn't explaining it well - why do you ask?"

She gestures discreetly toward the other end of the bar. "Those guys in the suits have been drinking Johnnie Walker Blue for the last couple of hours, and acting like it's a big deal."

"It is, kind of. Have you seen what we charge for it?"

"Yeah, tonight for the first time, though. That's why I'm asking."

"Okay, let me try again. Single malt isn't necessarily better, it's just more individualized. Every year's batch comes out differently, and a single malt is only made from that one year's batch, so it has a distinctive taste, kind of like a vintage wine from one year will be a little different from the same wine the next year." Cindy nods, and furrows her brow as if she's taking mental notes. "A blend is the distiller's attempt to make a Scotch that tastes exactly the same every year, by mixing a bunch of different batches together."

"Okay, then - is Johnnie Walker Blue so expensive because they somehow manage to mix a bunch of different batches together that tastes fantastic and exactly the same every year?"

I shrug. "Honestly, I have no idea. I don't like it, but then I don't like blends in general. Maybe if you're nice enough, they'll buy you one."

"Nah, I don't drink."

That stops me in my tracks. "Seriously?"

Cindy smiles. "Seriously. Nobody ever asked me at the interview, so I figured it was okay." She turns and goes back to the other end, where the suits seem about ready for another round. Not that I would've been looking for it, but now that I think about it, I can't remember noticing her with an alcoholic drink in her hand. How about that, I think to myself.

In the interim, Jack has come in, the first time I've seen him in a few weeks. I walk over with a smile and hand him his usual Stella Artois, and the first thing he says to me is, "Hey, Debra, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Jack, I'm doing fine, why?"

"Well, your Facebook status last weekend said you were bawling like a little baby or something. I was a little worried."

I smile. "You didn't come all the way down here just to ask me that, did you? You could've e-mailed me."

"Oh, no," he laughs. "I was actually hoping to get some advice from Mario, and maybe you, too."

"Mario's not around tonight, at least not yet. What's the problem?"

"I asked you first," he grins.

I shrug. "No, it was no big deal... I was watching 'Band of Brothers' with Jenny all last week, and that night we got to the episode where Easy Company stumbles on a concentration camp they didn't even know was there, and there were all these hundreds of emaciated Jews, and thousands more dead. It just upset me more than I expected, I was a wreck the rest of the night."

"Oh, sorry. How did Jenny take it?"

I don't take my Judaism all that seriously; I mean, I work almost every Friday night, and I refuse to believe in any God who wants to take my bacon cheeseburgers away from me. But I guess I take it seriously enough that all things considered, if I ever manage to convince myself that having kids is a good idea, I'd like to have Jewish ones. And that has sometimes colored my dating habits with men, but I didn't stop to wonder whether it mattered with women before I made that leap.

I remember wanting to see "Schindler's List" when it first came out, but my parents wouldn't take me because they felt I was too young to handle it. When I finally rented it in college, I watched it at my sorority house. I was inconsolable at the end, but the few sisters who'd watched with me seemed kind of put off by my reaction, as if I was deliberately overdoing it. When I spoke with my father about it later, he asked if the other girls were Jewish. "No," I said, "but human suffering is human suffering, isn't it?"

I heard him sigh over the phone. "Debra, I think you know I'm the last guy who would ever encourage you to think of yourself as different or better in any way than anybody who's not Jewish. But the Holocaust is one thing that some people just don't get, and in my experience, it's been people who aren't Jewish."

I was genuinely shocked that he would say such a thing, and I dismissed it, thinking that maybe his feelings on the matter were shaped by growing up in a different time. And then I watched "Band of Brothers" with Jenny.

She asked me if I had lost any family members in the Holocaust. Not that I know of, I said between sobs, and it was true. As far as I know, both sets of my grandparents were here in the United States long before World War II. Maybe some distant cousins were still in Europe, but nobody's ever told me about them. To her credit, Jenny's only further reaction was to look at me a little funny; then I suppose she gave up wondering, and focused on just holding me instead.

So as I notice a large, co-ed crowd of softball players coming into the Bar, I shrug at Jack. "She spent the rest of the night comforting me." We made love well into the night, too, though I don't say it out loud to Jack - probably the best sex we've ever had, not that I could begin to explain why. Me and my white-bread, Episcopalian sweetheart getting each other off a half dozen times so that maybe we don't have to talk about how she doesn't get why I'm so upset and how I don't get why she isn't.

"That's certainly something."

"Hey, stick around, okay?" I say to Jack as I move off to help Cindy with the thirsty athletes. "What is it you need advice about, anyway?"

"A woman," he says, "but take your time."

Things don't quiet down for a pretty solid two hours after that, and by the time I have a chance to catch my breath, Jack's gone home.

Friday evening, for the first time since January, I see Bonnie. I don't see her at the Bar in her old Coors gear, or run into her on the subway; I see her on the side of a bus stop shelter in midtown. She's gazing at me seductively from a fashion advertisement, and it absolutely stops me in my tracks. I'm grateful that Jenny isn't with me, because although she knows about Bonnie, I don't know if she'd understand my need to stop and stare. Before I can convince my feet to move again, I start to remember what it was like for someone to have that much control over me just by looking at me or saying my name. Obsession isn't love, but being owned so completely can be just as overwhelming.

Eventually I peel myself from my spot on the sidewalk and finish my trip to the Bar, making a mental note to avoid that corner for a while.

As I walk in, I see Tony and Carl sitting at the far end of the bar, and they both get up to give me a hug. I'm running a little late, so I promise them we'll catch up shortly, and I run to the back room to drop off my bag. After I've checked in with Jocelyn and Maya, I check in on the boys with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand.

"How's your girlfriend, girlfriend?" Carl grins.

"She's good, thanks. Working hard, as always. And she asked me to move in with her."

"Holy cow," says Tony. "That's huge! Are you gonna do it?"

I smile. "I don't know, to be honest. It's fast, and her asking was sudden. I've got a couple of months to decide before I have to renew my lease with my roommates, so I'm not thinking about it much right now. But it sure would be convenient - I haven't taken the subway this much since I was a grunt at a publishing house."

"You don't move in with someone because it's convenient, Debra," Tony lectures.

Carl snorts at his boyfriend. "Who do you think you're kidding? This is New York, my friend. You moved in with me because I had a balcony and a wide-screen TV!"

"Don't you believe him, Debra," Tony wags his finger, "I moved in with him because he cooked the best risotto I've ever tasted." I laugh, and leave them in order to serve some other customers.

"Where's Mario tonight?" I ask Jocelyn a little while later. He isn't always there when she's working, but it's unusual for him to miss a Friday night.

"Oh, he's away for the weekend with Angelo. They went to Atlantic City, I think."

"You didn't want to go with them?"

"Nah, I'm not much for gambling. Besides, it's good for them to have a boys' weekend every now and then."

"So what are you doing Sunday?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, what am I doing Sunday?"

"Come over to my place, the girls and I are doing our traditional bagel brunch and watching the Yankees-Mariners game, and Jenny will be there. I'd love for you to get to know her."

She bounces a little (which makes her enormous breasts bounce a lot), and says, "Hey, that'd be great!"

At a little after ten o'clock, Susan and Grace, the current Coors promo girls assigned to work the Bar, enter and start making their way through our customers. As far as I know, Grace doesn't know anything about the woman she replaced or why she left; she just happened to be next. Susan on the other hand stops by the bar to say hi, and gives my hand a squeeze.

"Have you seen her ad?" I ask, and she nods. "I don't think I was prepared for it," I add.

Susan shakes her head. "Nobody has ever been prepared for anything about Bonnie," she says, and turns to dive back into the morass. For the first time, I wonder if Bonnie seduced her, too, or if she's talking about something else entirely, and then I decide it doesn't really matter. The very next thought in my head is to try to remember who actually paid for the enormous leather sectional couch in my apartment, and whether my roommates Cassie and Jill will want to keep it when I leave.

When I leave. I've already started to make up my mind, haven't I? I think to myself. And for a moment - just a moment - I bounce a little, too.

(Many thanks to Bridget E. Wilde of Bewildered Art for permission to use her Barmaid Fox drawing as a userpic.)

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.

It's a couple of Thursdays ago, and while most of the people in the Bar are watching the Yankees walk all over the Kansas City Royals, I've got one television tuned to college hockey. It's not even really for me, though I'm watching when I have the chance; it's for Will. It's the first time he's been back here since Samantha died, and we're all naturally worried about him. But for the moment, he's sitting at the bar talking to Mario, and Maya - Samantha's friend, and the reason she started coming here and met Will in the first place - is mostly just standing there and listening to him. Simone and I are taking up the slack willingly.

Notre Dame is playing Michigan in the national men's hockey semifinals, and they've jumped out to a 3-0 lead. Will has said in the past that he doesn't really care that much about Michigan's hockey team, even though he played on their football team, but it's the reason he's supposedly here, and he keeps shaking his head as things look bleaker and bleaker. During the second intermission, after Michigan has finally made a game of it by scoring two in a row, Will asks me a question I'd sort of been hoping wouldn't come up. But I suppose if it was to come up at all, it's best coming from him, because the main reason I wasn't going to talk about it was not to rub it in his face. "How's things with you and Jenny?"

"They're good, thanks. We've been spending a lot of nights together." Maya slips off to serve some customers so that I can stick around and talk for a while.

"Is it love?" he asks, the second reason I was going to avoid the subject.

"I have no idea, Will." And that's the honest truth. "But whatever it is, it feels very good."

"Okay, I'm - listen, I'm only going to say this once, but I'm sorry, there's just no way I can let it go without saying it at all, it's just who I am... can I, uh... please come over and watch it feeling good sometime?" Will finishes by smiling the most innocent smile. If it were anybody else but him, I might actually be a little angry, but with Will I have to laugh - and I have to be relieved that he's in a good mood.

"I'll make you a deal - as soon as New Hampshire wins the Frozen Four, you can videotape Jenny and me having sex."

Mario laughs, but Will just sticks his hand out for a shake. "You've got a deal, Debra. And you've made a brand-new New Hampshire fan." I wonder, for a moment, what I've gotten myself into... and then I wonder for a few more moments whether Jenny and I will still be together when next year's Frozen Four arrives, much less whenever my alma mater finally wins one. We've never really talked long-term.

Will sips from his Anchor Steam. "So how did you and Jenny meet, anyway?"

"Oh, it was a blind date. It's all her fault," I say, pointing to Simone, who's a few yards away trying to convince a customer that she doesn't really want to order a tall glass of Goldschläger on the rocks. "We road-tripped up to New Hampshire for a few days in mid-December. I met her family, we hung out at their brewpub in Portsmouth, then she came with me to see UNH play hockey against Maine... we got totally socked in by a snowstorm that weekend, and ended up raiding her Dad's wine cellar. She was bitching about the pressure she was feeling to get a boob job, I was bitching about the online dating thing, and suddenly she said, 'Hey, you and this lawyer I know would totally hit it off.' So she gave Jenny my e-mail and here we are."

"Wait," says Mario, "how did Simone know Jenny in the first place?"

"Oh, I think Simone used to be a Starbucks barista across from the courthouse in Brooklyn Heights, and Jenny used to come in a lot, or something."

"Nice," nods Will. "You really never know how you're going to..." He can't seem to finish the sentence, and looks away as he drinks more of his beer. Mario puts his arm around Will's shoulders. I really don't know what to do except reach for his hand on the bar, and give it a squeeze before I go back to serving drinks. When Michigan finally loses to Notre Dame in overtime, 5-4, Will has long since left for home.

First of all, many thanks to Barmaid Blog reader Stacie for sending me "5 People Who Died During Sex" from my Amazon.com wish list. It's a fun read, and much appreciated!

Barmaid Blog reader Michelle e-mailed me an article from the New Yorker's blog, "The Point of Tipping." Other than not having any idea why they picked that title for the article, I think it's well-taken. Amy, the Bowery Ballroom barmaid profiled in the post, isn't the first person to come away from a service industry experience with tipping stereotypes. In my experience at The Bar, gay men are usually the best tippers, and young, straight, immediately-post-college men are usually the worst. Women who are or have been barmaids or waitresses in the past (and they're usually not shy about telling me) also usually tip well. There's a pretty huge spectrum in the middle, but some patterns emerge, and shift over time.

But one principle holds true no matter who you are: "If you can't afford to tip, don't buy a drink," Amy says. Damn straight.

Michelle also mentioned, in the spirit of the article, a few artists she's been listening to lately - Priscilla Ahn, Sea Wolf, Beirut, Santogold, and A. A. Bondy. Of those I'm only familiar with Beirut, but I'll check out the others. My favorite recent discovery is Libbie Schrader, whom I saw a few months ago at the Bitter End... check out her incredible song "War on Science," but make sure you find the version from her self-titled album, not the one from "Letters to Boys." She's also pretty hot, but don't tell her I said so. Thanks for the recommendations, Michelle!

Barmaid Blog reader Dennis, who talked a little trash about UNH vs. Miami (OH) hockey last year, sent me another note in between New Hampshire's awful, inexplicable loss to Notre Dame (who even knew they had a hockey team?!) in the first round on Friday and Miami's first-round game against Air Force on Saturday:

I have been writing this email in my head for about a week now and since I have finally sat down to write it I am afraid that I am a bit too late. I was hoping that I could goad you into a bet should my Miami Redhawks play your UNH Wildcats.. but as I am sure you know by now that won't be happening. We are in the second year of a new building and have spent the entire year within the top five in the country, really only playing poorly in two home losses to the Great Satan of College Sports, Michigan.

I hope Michigan loses and hopefully that will pave the way for us... Also if you look at the bracket assuming we win in the first round I am hoping to play Minnesota in the second round cause I think it's unfair to play BC in Wooster, MA. Neutral site my ass.

We went over the "neutral site" thing last year, so I won't address it again... I haven't heard from Dennis since the games played out, but I have to imagine he had quite the heart attack when theoretical patsy Air Force took Miami to overtime before finally losing. I also imagine he wasn't too thrilled when Miami coughed up their 2-0 lead over Boston College, allowing three goals in less than two minutes... and eventually losing to BC 4-3 in overtime, the third year in a row that Miami's elimination from the NCAA tournament came at BC's hands.

You know you have my sympathies, Dennis, and not just because both of our teams are now playing golf - but because overall #1 seed Michigan is now in the Frozen Four and seeking their 937th national championship. *sigh* Maybe next year one of our alma maters (almas mater? almae matres?) will finally have their turn in the spotlight.

Lastly, Barmaid Blog reader Derek e-mailed to alert me to his own new site, "Tip the Hottie." It's a clever idea - barmaids post their photos, web surfers "tip" them based on how hot they think the barmaids are, and the winning barmaid each month gets $200. It's free for a barmaid to post a profile, and it's free to "tip," but the prizes are real money, so I gather that it's advertising-driven. There aren't all that many women on it yet, though - only one in all of New York state (and none in the city)! For the amount of effort it takes to post a photo, the possibility of $200 at the end of the month seems like a pretty good payoff, so I encourage my fellow barmaids to join up, and all my readers to show them some love with virtual tips.

It's a laundry day, people... time to add the fabric softener.

"I thought Bike Week was only in Florida," Maya shouts to Cindy and me as she passes with four pints of beer precariously balanced in her hands. I'm quickly trying to show Cindy how to layer drinks, and Maya's briefly picking up the slack until we're done. It's not an unusually busy Friday night, but Friday night is busy enough, so we're working as quickly as we can.

I shout back, "I think it's earlier in March, too," and after she sets down the pints, Maya shrugs and moves on.

"Is this Bike Week?" Cindy asks, and gestures to the back end of the Bar, where about a dozen men and three women have taken up residence in all their leather-jacketed, tattooed, rowdy glory. Their motorcycles made a horrific noise when they pulled up in front of the Bar about an hour ago, and since I've never seen these people before, I wonder if they chose their bar for the night based entirely on where they lucked into a couple of empty parking spots. Either way, they're running a credit card tab, so we know they're good for their drinks.

"I have no idea what this is," I tell her. "Bike Week is in Daytona Beach, and it's supposed to be one of the biggest gatherings of bikers in the world. Maybe they're on their way back from it or something."

"They're a little scary, don't you think?" She looks genuinely nervous, and I glance at them again.

"Think of them like you would any other large group of customers. I doubt they'll give you any trouble, but if they do, we've got your back - and you know Bill and Diego do, too." The layering lesson ended, we go back to slinging drinks, much to Maya's relief.

An hour or so later, I'm serving a third round of Cabernet Sauvignons to a very cute gay couple, when one of them points to the other and says, "Tony has something he wants to ask you."

"Carl, I do not!" Tony protests. "At least let me get another glass of wine in me."

"Fine, then I'll ask her."

Tony closes his eyes, covers his ears with his hands, and says, "I can't hear you!"

"Whatever it is, fellas, ask me soon, there's a lot of people I have to get drunk."

Tony sighs, and Carl puts a hand on top of mine. "Okay, Reader's Digest condensed version: Tony's never been with a woman, he's still curious about it, all his girlfriends have crushes on him and he doesn't want to screw them up, you're beautiful, blah, blah, blah. So?"

I smile. "Okay, my first reaction is, when you want a woman to sleep with you, you need a better compliment than 'You're beautiful, blah, blah, blah.'"

"You are, though," says Tony. "Your smile and your cute little ass are the best things about this place." I feel myself blushing, and for a moment I actually consider saying yes. He really is adorable.

"That's incredibly sweet, Tony, but I'm seeing someone right now."

Tony sighs again, and Carl pats his thigh. "That's one very lucky man."

"Woman," I correct him, winking.

"Look at you!" he marvels, and I head off to take more drink orders.

It's not much later that Diego taps me on the shoulder and directs my attention to Cindy, who's at the other end of the bar trying to take a drink order from one of the larger, leather-faced biker dudes, who has three other biker dudes behind him as spectators. She looks a little bit like a deer in the headlights, so I starting heading in their direction and tell Diego to give Bill a heads-up.

"...loosen up a little," is what I hear as I approach, "I just want to know what kind of woman you are, whether you've ever had a man like me." It's not really that far out of bounds from what we tend to put up with all night around here, so I let it slide and keep listening.

"So that's another round of beers, then?" she offers, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. Nice, I think, but I stick around just in case.

"I mean, have you ever had so much beer you woke up the next morning with a brand-new tattoo and a guy you didn't recognize, and you didn't remember screwing him the night before so you screwed him again just to make sure?" All three members of his current entourage laugh.

"I don't have any tattoos."

"I'm not sure I believe you, I might have to check you for tattoos myself. Slowly."

I step in. "Sir, can I help you with anything?"

Leatherface ignores me completely. "Have you ever sold your house, bought a new wardrobe made entirely of leather, chains, and denim, and gone on the road with a man because you just knew you couldn't live without his vibrating engine between your legs every day and his dick between your legs every night?"

"That's... I, you don't..." Cindy's not happy.

I try one more time. "Hey, that's really not cool, okay? Why don't you back off for a minute, and we'll get you something to drink." His friends laugh again. And then it suddenly occurs to me that I might have been just a little bit hasty with my earlier advice. All told, there are an awful lot of them, and not very many of Diego and Bill. I think about my options, and slowly start reaching into my pocket for my phone, wondering if I could dial 911 without looking. That's when he leans forward, rests a hand on the bar, and gets right in Cindy's face, but doesn't lower his voice at all to ask his next question.

"Honey, have you ever been fucked on a Harley?" He leans back again and smiles, one of his compadres patting him on the back.

I almost have my hand in the air to signal Bill when Cindy leans forward and asks with great force and conviction, "What model and year?"

And that's when the hooting starts. Leatherface laughs right along with it for a minute, then says, "You're all right, sweetheart. Get us another round, willya? And this is for you." He throws down a twenty, and turns around to chat with his buddies while Cindy draws their pints.

"You all right?" I ask.

"Holy shit, Debra, where the hell did that come from?" she says, laughing and shaking a little.

I shrug and move on.

More random conversation snippets I've recently overheard while tending bar:


Dude #1: Who's in your Final Four?
Dude #2: Rachel McAdams, Tyra Banks, Ali Larter, and Elizabeth Hurley.
Dude #1: That's not what I was talking about.
Dude #2: I know, but just imagine the spread on the title game.


Chick #1: I just can't believe Spitzer paid that girl four thousand dollars for one night. I'm totally in the wrong line of work.
Chick #2: I don't know... you probably wouldn't get to choose who you have sex with. Spitzer's an ugly motherfucker.
Chick #1: I don't choose what ad accounts I work on, either! And I hate some of those assholes.
Chick #2: Yeah, but the guy kept his socks on. That's so weird.
Chick #1: Honey, for four grand a night, he can dress up as Kermit and call me Piggy.


Suit #1: Man, I've never been so glad I got out of Bear Stearns stock.
Suit #2: Seriously - J.P. Morgan got a hell of a bargain there.
Suit #1: I think the Yankees paid more for A-Rod!
Suit #2: Yeah, and Bear Stearns and A-Rod have won the same number of World Series.


Dude: Can I buy you a drink?
Chick: No hablo inglés.
Dude: ¿Bien, puedo comprarte una bebida?
Chick: Ich spreche nicht Spanischen.


Suit: Hey, honey, what time do you get off?
Cindy the Barmaid: About a half hour after I stop thinking about you.

Thanks very much to Barmaid Blog reader Carrie for the lovely birthday gift from my Amazon wish list, the new PostSecret collection "A Lifetime of Secrets." It did indeed put a smile on my face - many smiles, in fact.

I'm twenty-seven.

It's Saturday, March 15, and I'm out to dinner with Jenny, who I guess at this point is my girlfriend, though I've used the term so many hundreds of times in the past to describe a friend who happened to be a girl that I would really like to find another more appropriate semantic designation. We're out in the West Village at Jane, a restaurant I've walked past a hundred times but never tried, and it's wonderful. I gather she must eat there pretty regularly, as they keep bringing us nice little treats compliments of the house, and I don't think she's told them it's my birthday.

She's trying to explain to me a chain of title problem she's working on for a film production company her firm represents, without being able to name the company, the film, or any of the people involved in it, and I'm confused, because I'm still not sure I understand what chain of title is in the first place. I hope it won't sound arrogant if I say that it's refreshing for a change to be across the table from someone who is so clearly smarter than I am, but it makes me wonder a little bit what she's doing with me.

I know she appreciates my writing, she's said as much when she's read my stuff. She's a poet, so we share some creative interest. We make each other laugh. Like I've suggested, being with her is easy. And the chemistry is undeniable, but without the overwhelming compulsion there was with Bonnie. But she's a lawyer, and I'm a barmaid. I live with two roommates in the twenty-something, subway-challenged Irishpubniverse of the Upper East Side, and she owns an apartment of her own in Brooklyn Heights. And she's only a couple of years older than I am.

I like to think that I have a pretty solid amount of self-esteem and self-respect, especially compared to many of the other women I know in New York. I don't often wonder why someone is dating me. "You're the prize," my father told me when I was upset over Bobby Taormina asking someone else to the junior prom instead of me, "not them. Remember that." It's easy enough to believe when every single time I work a shift at the Bar, I get flirted with, hit on, complimented, asked for my phone number, propositioned, and even occasionally proposed to. God knows that's one of the perks of the job, the constant affirmation that I'm desirable.

But I wonder, have I been conditioned all these years to think I should only be the prize for men? I've been attracted to women for years, but I have comparatively infinitesimal experience understanding what would make me attractive to them. I don't know what Jenny is looking for, and while I would never ask a boyfriend that, I wonder if it's the kind of thing a woman can ask her girlfriend. I'm not familiar with the rules, and there's no "Lesbian Dating for Dummies" in the Sociology section of the Strand.

So as I sip my complimentary dessert wine, I resolve to continue trying to go with the flow and not worry so much, but it's not easy. I look at myself through this woman's eyes and all I see is a girl who doesn't know where she's going yet, and no idea how to get there. Jenny, well, she's already on her way, if she's not there already.

Why, I wonder, didn't I ever wonder whether I measured up to the men I've dated - even when they did their best to make me wonder?

We wrap things up at Jane and take a cab back to her place on the other side of the East River, where she's promised me a birthday surprise awaits. First, though, we take her rather energetic puppy for a walk around the neighborhood. We hold hands, and it feels comfortable, domestic, and natural. When we return, she hands me a wrapped box, and when I open it, I shiver. It's black, made out of sheer silk, and gorgeous.

No man has ever given me lingerie. I rarely even indulge in it myself. It never occurred to me that a woman would give lingerie to another woman as a gift. And Jenny has never asked me any questions about what kind I like, much less seen me in what