Twelve. Decisions. A Story.

Three different  topics in that title. First, of course, the obvious. That countdown keeps on ticking. Looking forward to Friday.

Next up, decisions. As in, the decision to not work immediately once we move. And hey, what a great coincidence that Busch Gardens has their pass on sale for $60 to go unlimited for the rest of the year. I told hubby that if he wants me to relax and not work for a little bit, then we have to go to BG at least once (but I meant like 3 times). We’ll see how that goes. With the trips, not the relaxing. That’s gonna happen. I’m already envisioning bike rides to the beach, yoga on the beach, parks, trails, and whatever else I figure out.

Story time!

Back in the day, I was a bartender. Not just at Club Med, but also at this little hole in the wall dive bar. This little hole in the wall dive bar in a tiny town with somewhat closed-minded people. You get where I’m going here yet? No? Ok, I’ll continue. I had designated shifts. Patrons knew who was working when. So I can only assume that there was either nowhere else to drink (nope) or they knew I was working and were passive-aggressive assholes (yep). The funniest part about all of this is that they were good tippers. Anywho, a couple of scraggly old dudes missing some teeth liked to come in during my shift. It was only a few of them and me. Remember how I lived in a pretty deep stronghold of, um, rednecks and racists? (Of course not everyone, but damn, a lot.)

I don’t recall the exact song that happened to reside on the jukebox, but it was certainly a gem that dropped nigger in the song. Obviously, I had never heard the song as it was pretty deep country shit. The first time they played it, I didn’t hear it. I just continued to ignore them and their drunk old man snickers. Pretty sure the second time they were in and played it, I didn’t catch it either. Their little inner joke continued. When I did finally catch it, I immediately went and dropped some quarters into the jukebox myself. That song up there. And when it came on, I sang along. And when it got to the best part, I simply looked at them and said, “Fuck you”. “Fuck you.” “FUCK YOU!” Guess what they didn’t play any more. Even as shitty as that particular situation was, I still miss bartending there. Oh, the stories. But those are for another day.

See you on another day.

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