It's a Jungle Out There

It's no secret by now that I am a thirty year old single woman.  Big deal.  Although I am not overly affected by my singular status at this point in time, there are some days where it would be nice to not wear the label of 'Single White Female.'  It's like wearing a raw NY strip around my neck while taking a nature walk through the Amazon.  It can be a bit... uuhhhh, uncomfortable.

A friend of mine convinced me  to go out last night to a local bar to celebrate my newfound freedom from my job behind the bar.  "It's your last shift, let me buy you a drink."

It's funny... Even though I am a bartender, I'm not much into the whole bar scene.  But the gesture was certainly sweet of her and I agreed that it was a night worth celebrating, so we went out. 

Looking around the crowed room, ladies were out numbered 2-1,  I suddenly began to wonder if I had made a mistake.  They were like a pride of big game cats, out on the prowl. 

While I was definitely in the mood to celebrate, I was not in the mood to ward off the local game.  Too bad.  

The first old cat swaggered up and took a seat next to me.  He was a walking, head-to-toe mid-life crisis;  sporting a white polo sweatshirt with a flipped up collar and a scruffy three day beard.  He launched into our conversation like he had undoubtedly been doing with stealthy precision for the past thirty-five years.  Oh great, thanks for telling me how beautiful I am while you try to conceal your wedding ring. 

It's so gross!  Please go home to your wife and leave us single gals alone.   

My friend is only twenty-two but can shut it down hard.  I guess she's kind of a pro at this sort of thing.  She somehow interjected a comment that I am still trying to process as to how it registered as an immediate deflection.  It was like magic.  He instantly shook my hand and turned to his friend. Game Over. 

Okay, back to OUR conversation.  It was difficult to focus on my friend as I could sense that we were being stalked by yet another overly eager male, directly to her left.  He popped into our conversation with one of the most awkward lead in openers ever... "What are you ladies drinking?"  Not only is that a.) Boring b.) annoying c.) none of his business and d.) completely unwarranted; it was also made all the more awkward when my friend assumed that meant (what it almost always does mean) and she informed him that we weren't really drinking anything anymore... we were just about done.  

I could see the look of rejection wash all over him and he slurred, "Well I wasn't suggesting I was going to buy you a drink, I was just curious what you ladies were drinking."  Okay creep.  You weren't offering, you were just curious?? Puhhhlease.... Ugh...WEIRDO.  

"Well that was awkward," I said to him, shaking my head.  

Look, I am not some stuck up chick who won't give a guy a break.  I appreciate an honest attempt at getting to know someone in the midst of a crowed room of hopefuls.  But, one thing was pretty clear to me last night after being approached by a married man and a few awkward open liners; it's a jungle out there.  

I may be out of my element there... at the local watering hole... but can't I just take my sip and move along without having to fend for myself? 

Is this what it's like everywhere???? 

*Consider this an open discussion.*  

If you have any suggestions or good advice of your own survival instincts/experiences in the jungle... I will gladly listen.

Here is a little something I would like to say to all the married, sketchy crazies out there in the jungle-

Hey, Big Cat... You see, I'm more of a lone wolf.  I may also be out on the prowl in my own way, but I'm of the kind who mate for life.  We are a rare breed.  Kinda like penguins and swans. Please hunt someone more like you. Thanks.  

Sincerely, Not Interested.  

Today:

WHITE LION
3/4 oz. Fresh Lime Juice
1/2 oz. simple Syrup
1/4 oz. Raspberry Syrup
1/2 oz. Curacao
2 oz. Medium Rum
Shake all ingredients with ice and strain into white wine glass filled with crushed ice. Garnish with berries and a lime wedge. .

For this and other drink recipes click here!

Clocking Out

One of the most unsettling aspects of today, in addition to the stormy weather and unbearable late summer humidity, is conjuring up a somewhat convincing answer to the most frequently asked question posed to me all week; 'What's next?' It's Friday, but not just any Friday... Today is my last day behind the bar of my summer job.

I suppose I have mixed feelings about today.  But overall, I am relieved.  It has been a grueling assignment: serving up a few thousand cocktails to some extremely demanding tourists,  a dozen old school regulars and a handful of unhappy happy hour patrons.

Generally speaking, I like almost everyone I encounter in life: strangers both young and old, rich or poor, of every culture and background.  Perhaps it is because I am a writer and I get some sort of bizarre pleasure out of examining the eccentricities of human behavior.  I've always been eager to ask questions of where people are from and what has brought them here.  It is one of the most interesting aspects of my job behind the bar: the people.

That was, until recently... 

About a  month ago, I came to a rather disturbing realization: I didn't like people as much as I used to.  I was like an old shoe, steadily worn down to where very little soul remains... And in that analogy, if I was actually a shoe, I would have enjoyed drop kicking a few hostile patrons right upside their heads.

If I hear one more person complain that the blender is out of order, or that food is not served outside, or demand lime wedges as if it were a heart transplant, I might actually lose it.  There are some things I can help you with, and many more that I simply cannot.  Sorry.  And to that end, is it right to take your frustrations out on me?  I ought to write on the specials chalkboard tonight: "Don't Shoot the Messenger, Thanks."

As I wiped down the bar last night, I shook my head in disgust over the state of my beloved country; Miley Cyrus' ridiculous circus act on the VMA's last week was enough to make any American citizen nauseated.  And the way I am spoken to on a regular basis as a bartender is appalling to say the least.

What has happened to us?

A blender out of order is nowhere near a crisis; the unthinkable acts of warfare and violence in our country and abroad more aptly fit that description.  I think about all the people suffering in Syria, having lost a loved one and who are struggling to survive.  It makes me really sad and all the more impatient when I face the guy who acts as if the broken blender is appalling and outrageous.  I can't help but think; Dude, you are outrageous and a complete waste of space.

What is happening to me????? My own distain is beginning to reflect theirs... and I just don't need to stoop that low.

This is coming from the girl who genuinely used to like people!!!  So you see, that is where the overwhelming sense of relief stems from today; knowing that I will have a break from the bar and in that, a break from forcing a half-smile when faced with some of the most obnoxious people I have ever encountered.

I truly stand by my belief of providing excellent customer service.  I think it is imperative to treat people as if they are your guest and employ hospitality and gratitude toward that aim.  When it is no longer possible to exude these qualities,  then you can be sure it is time to get out of hospitality: if only for a short while.  

And that is where I'm at; knowing full well that I need a break from service.  I'm turning in my keys and clocking out after one last Friday night behind the bar.

To answer that frequently asked question honestly, I would have to produce an equally unsettling response: I don't know what's next just yet.  I guess that is going to have to suffice for now...

With that, I am headed off to work (if the rain subsides) and will clock in, ready to serve with a smile.

I will miss a few of the people I have worked with over the summer.  It was almost like being in the peace corps together: calming the nerves of the after five o' clock crowd.  But I won't miss the repeat offenders who sit on the other side of the bar and think that a good tip somehow justifies ongoing blatant sexual harassment.  Nope, I won't miss that one bit.

Alas, two things to remember tonight: don't forget to smile and don't forget to clock out.


Today:

Long Beach Tea

1/4 oz Vodka 
1/4 oz Gin
1/4 oz Rum
1/4 oz Tequila 
1/4 oz Triple Sec
Splash of Sour 
Splash Cranberry

Garnish with a lime wedge

The Quitter Jitters

There is a little bully who sits on your left shoulder.  He antagonizes your every move and delights in your demise; he's your nemesis.  I have lived with my own little bully for thirty years and I can promise you one thing: he isn't going anywhere anytime soon.  No sir, he is quite comfortable right where he is. But to be fair, I have had my share of obstacles; and the little nagging bully sat upon my shoulder and delighted in my defeat...

First it was gymnastics. I was just a little kid looking for a way to kill time.  I wanted to have something of my own to get involved with while my brothers were busy excelling in their various sports and activities.  I had mastered a cart wheel and the balance beam but thats about it.  But I was fairly determined to stick with my newfound extracurricular activity until the day something truly traumatizing happened: I was trampled on the trampoline.

A stampede of children big and small were all bouncing up and down and having a blast.  But then, to my horror, the instructor had us all run from one side of the bouncing tarp to the other in unison.  This wasn't such a bad idea, until the moment I tripped, fell flat on my face as a herd of energetic wannabe gymnasts ran right across me.   Not one of them stopped to help me up.  I was squashed: gymnasium roadkill.

Well, as embarrassed as I was, it was even more embarrassing to face everyone and declare myself a quitter.  Gymnastics was not my thing.  I sat in the car and tried to figure out what to do next...

Maybe I ought to try Karate... Yeah, that would be kind of cool! That way if I get trampled, I can at least defend myself...

I suited up and tied the crisp white belt around my waist.  I felt like a ninja and looked like a pint sized badass.  It was awesome... for a couple weeks anyway...  It was another day of practice when we were paired off to spar.  Okay, let's do this!  I turned to face my opponent: a strawberry blonde boy who was probably a good three inches shorter.  We bowed to acknowledge the match, and then we faced off.  As I extended my right arm to mimic the action of a sturdy blow to the forehead, I overshot it a little and knocked the kid square between the eyes.  There was a collective gasp in the room as the boy burst into tears.

When he removed his hands from the spot where I punched him, a small indentation was revealed.  I immediately recognized the mark.  Ah crap, I forgot to remove my ring! The karate master noticed it right away.  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit... 

I was in my very own version of Big Trouble in Little China.  The master went to retrieve his bamboo stick: you know, the one he whacks you with when you've really screwed up and pissed him off.  It was at precisely this moment when he approached me with that stick, that I promptly decided that my days as the next karate kid were over! I QUIT!!!

I never looked back...

Figure Skating sounds like fun... I'll try that! The outfits were way cuter than the boring white robes of my former karate days.  I had a hot pink spandex unitard.  It had black geometric shapes and was totally 90's coolness.

I was really good at the skating forwards part, and even a few small spins.  But then it was time to practice jumps.  And let me just say, jumping on ice is not easy.  Falling on ice is frosty coated misery.  How many times do you have to eat it before landing on your feet??

It didn't take long to figure out that I was not meant to be the next Michelle Kwan.  I skated my way right out of there.

At this point, it seemed that the only thing I was any good at was quitting.  The little bully sat on my shoulder, my earlobe as his punching bag, tormenting my failed attempts: quitter, quitter!

At this point, I must tell you that I eventually did land upon a sport where I found my stride, excelled and didn't quit. (But that is another story for another day).

Back to the tales of my tormented youth... Yes indeed, I felt like a giant loser, an epic failure, and above all else: a serial quitter.

It's been many years since then and I have come to realize one of the most valuable lessons of my life; Quitting something because it hurts doesn't make you a failure.  I would argue that in some ways, calling it quits can be one of the most defining aspects of your character.  It is important to recognize your limitations and set boundaries accordingly.

I did not intend to punch that boy in the forehead in Karate.  It was an honest mistake: an accident.  But the master wanted to teach me a lesson so that I might not repeat that mistake again.  He had every intention of striking me with the bamboo stick that day: but I knew a little something about self defense that he didn't see coming.  I understood that sometimes, you just have to walk away.

I didn't want to fight.  I didn't want to fall.  I didn't want to figure skate.  I didn't want to fail...

After many years of self discipline and care, I do know where I excel and where I do not.  And I am grateful for the times that I had the courage to take a stand and walk away: even if it meant I was a quitter.

Quitting the wrong things, opens up the doors for the right things.

It took a long time to develop this perspective.  For many years I feared myself to be a quitter; a failure. But I see now the strength and courage it takes to know when it's time to call it quits.  It takes faith: to believe that the right thing will come along and in that, you'll shine!

In two days, I will be released from the bar where I have served my time this summer.  And quitting this job was not a decision that was necessarily easy to make.  I have what I call quitter jitters.

It's the kind of cold feet where you wonder where to go next.  Another bar? Another city or state?
I may not know right now.  And although it is unnerving to not know for sure where I am headed, I am armed with the satisfaction of walking away from something that ultimately hadn't made me feel very good inside.

Knowing when to quit something that isn't serving you doesn't make you a failure, it just makes you human.


Today:

The Russian Standard Gold

2 1/2 oz Vodka
1 oz Ginger Liqueur
 Sake and strain into a martini glass

Rim glass with edible gold dust! 

flicker.com :4133481388_4c3c5889d0_o.j

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Lost in the Fog

I'm stranded on a remote island near the North Channel... No really, I am.  I woke up this morning to a thick white blanket of fog, engulfing the entire expanse of the surrounding waters and distant shores.  Okay, stranded might be a small stretch of the imagination, considering I hadn't really planned on leaving the island anytime soon anyway.  But the reality of the preventive conditions remain; even if I wanted to leave, I simply couldn't until the fog has lifted.    

It is quite eery to sit here along the harbor's edge and not be able to see beyond the shoreline.  Somewhere, echoing upon the surface of the lake, is the murmuring rumble of a presumably small engine.  I have no real gage of where it is coming from, or for that matter, where it is going: as everything if muffled by the enclosing fog.  

As I thumb through the index of my mind, a great inventory of memories emerge from my very own precarious condition: the 'thick-as-soup' mental fog that engulfs a few dozen great shipwrecks of the past.  I sing to myself a haunted old tune of a fog horn whistle blowing Into the Mystic. 

I don't even know where that little tune has been hiding all these years... 

Just as soon as I disappear momentarily Into the Mystic, I am encountered by a very inquisitive snake.  Yes, that was a literal statement, and not a metaphor...  Although I can plainly see the irony... 

This island has a way of bringing about thoughts and curiosities you may not have realized existed.  But I don't mind.  There's nowhere to go even if I did... 

The fog is lifting before my eyes, and I have come to realize a few benefits of immersing myself in the island experience.  Reflection, patience, stillness and surrender: this is what losing yourself to an island escape can procure.     

I realize that I can flip through the index of my mind and feel perfectly at ease.  The fog has lifted there too, and it's a comforting feeling to be able to see clearly once again.  I can rest assured that safe passage is now in sight, whenever I choose.  

That snake is hanging out on the other side of the deck, just sunning himself and enjoying warmth of what promises to be another beautiful day.  

When I do leave this island, I will be faced with a few difficult decisions.  My summer in northern Michigan is coming to an end.  And my time served behind the bar is nearly up... for now. 

To be lost in the fog isn't such a bad thing.  I have lost my sense of time, of worry and even correctly catalogued a few misplaced memories.  

In fact, I've created a new folder where I insert all the memories that used to make me sad.  I'm no longer sad singing that song.  I can't recall when the sorrow lifted; it's a little foggy. 

But I do know one thing for sure: the best chance for survival is to momentarily surrender to the elements and patiently wait for the fog to lift... because when it does, as it most certainly will, it will be time to set sail into the great unknown.  

Sometimes the greatest gift of being lost in the fog is the inability to to see beyond wherever you stand; forcing you to close your eyes, look within and just be right where you are at this very moment in time.  

Today:

Gilligan's Island

1 oz Vodka

1/2 oz Peach Schnapps 

Equal parts Orange and Cranberry Juice

The fog this morning...

Sneaky Snake...

Finally able to see.

 

 

     

Cents and Sensibility

The other day I came across something I hadn't ever seen before: a 1943 Wheat Penny.  As I plucked it out from the pile of loose change jingling around in the bottom of my purse, my fingertips glided across the worn face of old "honest Abe." The coin itself has seen better days, but remains in fair condition.  Just by looking at it, you probably wouldn't guess that it is seventy years old, except for a few worn edges and the exposed base metal.

I did a little research because I am, without a doubt, a bit of a romantic when it comes to antiquities.  What I discovered surprised me a little.  1943 Wheat Pennies were minted with a different base metal than the traditional copper pennies created the previous and following years; they are unique.  Even more curious, is that some of these pennies minted in 1943 were accidentally minted in copper rather than the base metal originally intended; these are extremely unique.  

In the same excavation of my oversized purse, I found a few more wheat pennies that sparked my curiosity: 1944, 1941, 1952 and even a well worn penny from 1911.  Unbelievable.  

Now, I am well aware of my giant nerd status and I am pretty sure, upon reading this post today, you will be too.  Perhaps it isn't a big deal to find wheat pennies.  I wouldn't really know because I am quite an amateur coin collector.  In fact, I am hardly a coin collector at all.  But, I would say I know a lucky penny when I see one.  To me, the 1943 wheat penny is the golden ticket.  

You see, that was not the only unique face of American sense minted in 1943. It was also the year a true American ambassador was born: my father, my hero. 

These two particularly uncommon sojourners are worth more than words could ever possibly express.  How does one measure something or someone's worth?  How can you possibly begin the tedious process of examining the quality, the origin, the circulation, the condition and place a set value accordingly?? 

Like I said, I am quite a novice when it comes to the business of antiquities.  I do however have a keen awareness of value and rarity.  And in 1943, I can assure you, the two most rare faces of American values, were minted.  And today, I am fortunate enough to be in close proximately to both.  

Perhaps you'll just have to take my word for it.  But I believe that in time, both of these 1943 treasures will be spoken about for decades more to come. And I will have been the lucky benefactor. 

Seventy years may be a long time for a wheat penny to circulate from person to place, but is not even close to enough time to measure its inherent value.  And to my dad, I say the same is true... 

1943 was a good year.   

Happy Birthday Dad.  The value of one cent and a whole wealth of common sense is what you've instilled in me: cents and sensibility.  I can't even begin to know what all to give back to you.  But here's an idea... How about a 1943 penny for your thoughts?? 

I think that would be a good place to start...

Today:

Amaretto Sour

1 oz Amaretto 

Splash of Sour mix

Serve on the rocks!

  

An Ode to Mondays

Thank God it's Monday.  No really, I love Mondays.  Several years ago I took my first job in a restaurant.  It was a huge transition from the Monday through Friday hamster wheel I was accustomed to.  The schedule varied wildly from week to week as well as my income.  Working every weekend and holiday was a major adjustment as well.  But when the going gets tough, the tough get going: I was tough.

Fairly early on, I had come to a realization.  I needed a day off to get caught up around the house, and more importantly spend time with my friends.  Since most of my friends were in the service industry as well, most weekends were impossible for us to have off.  So, after a small deliberation, we settled on Mondays.  They were typically slower days at the restaurant, so it was easier for us to request off each week.  Dinners, happy hours, movie marathons, yoga, coffee, and as much Sex in the City as we could possibly absorb; these were the hallmarks of our Mondays.  

While everyone around us despised and dreaded this day, we celebrated, indulged and delighted in it. It was the perfect day to do absolutely nothing but sit around with a nice glass of wine and catch up with the best friends a girl could ask for.  

A couple years have gone by and the Monday fun has continued right along with the passing of time.  I'm still in the service industry and my Mondays are as sacred to me now as they have always been.  Even though I have recently moved a thousand miles away from my friends in Nashville, I still feel that connection to them whenever Monday rolls around. 

I sit here today with my coffee (of course) and remember the great Mondays of the past.  I am quite sentimental, so even though I do not have my friends nearby, I have continued the tradition of preserving my Mondays as my much anticipated day off.  

This past weekend was much longer than normal for me.  I typically do not work on Sundays as well as Mondays, but I decided to help someone out who needed it off.  So I picked up his Sunday night shift.  It was slow, hot and windy.  The entire night I had one mantra that got me through: Monday, Monday...La La La La Laaa, Monday, Monday.  

I peered across my bar top to the tiki hut where my fellow bartender was struggling to pour, count cash, catch flying napkins and entertain guests amidst the fierce and relentless wind.  If you recall my post from earlier in the week, Mama Said Mama Said,  I spoke of an epic bad day behind the bar: battling extreme wind that forced the keg handles to release beer all over... everywhere.  Well, it happened again last night, and I could hardly contain myself. 

This morning, I am relieved.  I feel the wave of Monday wash over me and along with it, the momentary sense of calm relaxation and happiness. 

I love Mondays.  However, I'm sure in time, I won't always be able to enjoy this day of the week as I have over the past few years.  Circumstances will change.  Schedules and work opportunities will present a revised outlook on the day.  Even still, I am sure of one thing, no one can ever take away my Mondays.  Mondays are nostalgic and represent one of the most cherished aspects of my life: time spent with true friends.  

To my friends in Nashville.  My heart is with you today, and every Monday.  Have a Margarona Monday (rocks and salt of course) ya'll. 

Today:

Margarona AKA Coronarita

1 oz tequila 

1/2 oz triple sec

Sour mix

Tip a mini corona bottle upside-down 

and immerse into the margarita.  Enjoy! 

The Most Exclusive Real Estate on the Planet

There have been plenty of days where I struggled to get through; having felt like things were not going the way I had imagined or intended for my life.  It's hard.  I look around and I do not see the picture that I dreamt up years ago.  But that's fairly normal... isn't it?

For the sake of my sanity, I have settled upon an enthusiastic answer: YES it's completely normal!!  I look around and realize that I am not alone in this struggle.  Many people, most I would venture to guess, are not exactly living the life they'd imagined for themselves.  Why is this? Well, perhaps it is because we live in relation to others and their choices and aspirations have a way of influencing our own.  

We get so far along our path and realize that we've tweaked that picture to accommodate another person and all of their wants and needs.  Factor in the relationship you may have with your family, your friends, significant others, employers etc. and all that space you had initially allocated for yourself is now seriously sublet by a few dozen demanding roommates.  

The welcome mat to my mind reads a simple phrase: Life is Better When Shared.  Even if the path looks different and that space gets crowded, it's a wonderful thing; making accommodations in your heart and mind for the ones you love.  

At the same time, you'd better choose these roomies wisely.  Taking up real estate in your head is a rather expensive transaction.  What could it cost you in the end?  Still thinking about that last sentence? That's okay, I am too. 

How do you know when it's time to evict someone?  That's a lengthy and emotionally taxing decision that only you, the landlord, can make.  

All I know is this: you can only bend so much for another person (no matter their relation to you) before you break.  The picture you see for yourself may not align with the one the other has painted...  And unless you have mastered the art of photoshop completely, then I imagine that there is some serious restoration/remodeling to be done.  Uh oh... I am mixing metaphors... Whatever, it's Sunday and on Sundays, anything goes.  

Why am I on this subject to begin with you ask?  Well let's just say that as I am sitting here drinking my coffee and reflecting, I can't help but feel so grateful for the extra space I have finally carved out in my brain.  It was a mental renovation of sorts and has made all the difference in my life.  Over the past ten years or so, I had repeatedly sacrificed what I envisioned for my life by committing all my energy to another person.  I bent over to the breaking point and nearly lost sight of myself; the framework of my being.   

As I watch the tug of war play out in the lives of the ones I love, I can't help but think back to the times in my life when I was faced with some incredibly difficult decisions.  Releasing the grip on the rope that tugs you can be a scary thing to imagine.  You get so accustomed to the rope, you sometimes forget that it's your own two feet holding you up.  You can let go! 

At this moment in time, I am happy to report that nearly all the occupants taking residence in my mind are all doing their fare share to maximize the space and help make improvements there.  No one person has overstayed their welcome and I am enjoying the extra space I have to create, decorate, restore, write and thrive.  

I hope that any future prospects looking to take up residence in my heart and mind will respect to a few simple house rules and respect the space I have worked so hard to create.  My heart is my home.  At this time, I am neither accepting nor rejecting applicants; rather, enjoying the view from my recently remodeled point of view.  Peace of mind: the most exclusive real estate on the planet.  

Today:

Adriane's French Chateau

1 oz Bombay Sapphire Gin

1/2 oz St. Germain Liqueur

Splash of Rose's Lime Juice

Splash of Sprite

On the Rocks! 

Rocky Horror

If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone quote Rocky upon discovering my name, I probably wouldn't be a millionaire, but I would certainly have a whole truck load full of cents.  "Yo, Adriane, " is a phrase that I have encountered on a regular basis, in a hundred different affectations and a few dozen badly slurred impersonations, every year since I was eight years old.  In fact, it is a rare month that passes without having had been the butt of the old Rocky joke at least once.

And working behind a bar increases those statistics by an enormous measure.  The joke, if you can even call it that, is so worn out by now that I can hardly manage to muster up my own tired/clever response.  "Oh yeah, good one."  "Hey, now you'll never ever forget me."  "I haven't heard that one all day."  "No really, I've just never heard that before."  

When in reality, all I'm actually thinking is: You're a moron, please go away and damn you Sylvester Stallone. 

As a film geek myself, I suppose it is only fitting to have my name associated with a three time Oscar winning film. In that respect, I guess it's not so bad.  

I was born in the summer of 1983, in the midst of the Rocky mega-saga.  The film had already achieved huge box office sales and an entire cabinet of awards and nominations.  It was truly a smash hit (pun intended). 

Given the timeline of my own much anticipated debut, alongside that of the Rocky saga, many people assumed that my name was inspired by the fighting champion's main squeeze, Adrian.  In fact, the assumptions are alive and well today, some thirty years later. 

I had a nickname from K-12 that spared me from the Rocky ridicule most of the time.  My brothers, having been only a few years older than me, couldn't say the name "Adriane" when I was born, so instead, they settled on "Dede."  And then it began, round one of the epic boxing match of my life: the Dede vs. Adriane showdown. Ding! Ding! Round one! Fight!

So, wait, what's her name? Which one do I call her? Which do you prefer? 

Though I'm not entirely sure how it happened, around my junior year of college, people began addressing me by my formal name, Adriane.  And in social settings, when introductions were exchanged, I decided to give my childhood nickname a rest, and dust off my actual given name. 

It was after all, my dad who'd chosen the name to commemorate and honor his hometown of Adrian, Michigan.  As shocking or disappointing as it may be, I will clarify that I was not named after the Rocky saga.  Not even a little bit. 

By the time I was born, my dad had already circled the globe, having visited over forty countries.  And of all the places that left a lasting impression, it was his small hometown in southern Michigan.  I am named after a place, not a late 70's boxing flick.  

It's been a good seven years since I decided to own up to my given name.  While I have deep rooted affection for both names, Dede and Adriane, I have to say that I've grown into the latter.  It's not that I've grown out of my childhood nickname per se, rather that I've grown accustomed to both.  I find it endearing that half of my best friends and brothers still call me Dede, while the other half of my best friends, business contacts, professors and my father of course, refuse to call me by any other name than that which is imprinted upon my driver's license and diplomas.  

I have come to appreciate both names for very different reasons.  And I have also learned that whichever name you decide to address me by says a little something more about you than it does me.  It speaks to how you see me and what type of history we've shared or hope to share.   

No matter how it is spelt, across the board, Adriane means "dark and rich."  I'm not exactly sure how relevant the meaning is to my overall character, but it sure does sound intriguing.  

I doubt the Rocky horror name game will ever cease to exist.  I am fairly certain the bad Stallone impersonations will forever be entangled with my life.  Perhaps I need to work up a new, more punchy response.  Or perhaps, appropriately so, my response is as tired as the punch line. 

Alas, I do like my name.  It's strong, dark, and rich, and is associated with an idyllic place.  It is part of my family's history, and my father's legacy.   

Hello, I'm Adriane.  That's my name, don't wear it out. 

Today:

Rocky's Dilemma

1 1/2 oz Vodka

1/2 oz Grand Marnier 

Stir and strain into a martini glass. 

Photo origin Wikipedia.org 

3-2-1- Time Bomb

As most of you probably know by now, Fridays for me are more like Mondays for you.  It's a mad rush to accomplish everything I need to do come Friday morning, before heading off to work an extra long shift behind the bar.  On Fridays and Saturdays I open an hour earlier, forcing me to wake up, moderately function, write a blog post and suck down nearly an entire pot of coffee in record time.

It's a hustle.  The alarm goes off and almost instantaneously, the countdown begins.  Gotta get up! OH NO, IT'S FRIDAY. Yuck! As the clock ticks relentlessly, I roll out of bed, stagger to the coffee pot, fire up a few brain cells and sit down to write. 

Write about what?? Oh gosh, who knows?? The truth is, ideas pop into my head just as soon as I wake up.  They are spontaneous little bursts of wonder and analysis that I surrender to each and every day; all the while, keeping one watchful eye on that damn ticking clock.  

3-2-1 FRIDAY

I must admit that lately, I have been unable to silence the little voice inside my head that is counting down the weeks, days, hours and minutes to liftoff.  Only two more Weekends to serve at this job before... Oh I don't know, whatever else is next! 

Decisions, Decisions... I've had it in my heart and mind to go to New York come fall, and as the slightest hint of the changing season casts a rosy hue to the very tips of the maples, I am reminded of one thing: the ever oppressive passing of time.  I look at the date on the calendar, and then to the hour this Friday morning and I sigh: Yes, I do believe it's almost time...

And for as much awareness that I possess of the passing time, I do however, attempt to live for the present moment and enjoy the here and now.  

Is there any way to get my hands on a little more time in a given day?  When looking back to generations past,  didn't they just seem to have more time?  Great authors, painters, philosophers and homemakers alike, created masterful works within a seemingly small measure of time.  Yet, the daily allowance for time remains the same.  So what gives? 

I woke up today and thought: two hours to write, respond to some pressing emails and phone calls if I have time, thirty minutes to get ready for work, thirty minutes to drive to work, and wait... Don't forget to eat lunch today! And then, as if the shot was fired high into the air, I was off and the race began.

I'm trying desperately to accomplish everything I need to do each day, but sadly, am finding less time to eat, sleep, drink and be merry.  On more than one occasion, I have been known to not have enough time to eat a proper meal before work.  And that my friends, is not a good thing.  

Is our ability to maximize our time each day directly correlated to measuring (with skilled precision) each and every waking moment between rest and waking? Or is it possible to strike a balance and lose track of time, without also suffering the loss of productivity?

Shall I continue to sprint out the gate each morning as fast as humanly possible? Or, is it wiser instead to pace it out and take the long view? I wonder...  

All I know is that the hyper awareness of the unforgiving passing of time and the process of distributing it according to each task, is utterly exhausting.  

Why not just stop or slow down you might ask?  Well, I guess it's like this: for as much as I aspire to achieve in my life, I fear that there just isn't enough time.  It's the ultimate time bomb...

Time to create, time to enjoy, time to share, time to earn a dollar, time to move forward.  It's about that time...  And so with that, the countdown continues. 

Today:

Irish Car Bomb

1/2 shot Bailey's Irish Cream

1/2 shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey

Drop the shot into a pint of Guinness 

And lose track of time completely...

Photo credit: physicscentral.com

Times Square.

Wishing it wasn't time to go to work... 

Mama Said, Mama Said

You ever have one of those days?  You know, the kind of day where everything that could go possibly go wrong, does?  Of course, I say 'everything' as a somewhat relative term, but you get my drift.  But it just doesn't happen very often that I find it necessary to write a play by play of my eight hour shift behind the bar.  However, in the case of last night, trust me: it is.

Wednesday: 3:00 PM 

I arrived at work and began the tedious process of opening the up the bar: filling the ice bins, wiping down the counters, stocking the liquor bottles, and counting the cash drawer.  You know, business as usual. 

Having been assigned to the tiki bar, I was mentally and physically preparing for a steady stream of guests and hopefully, a profitable night.  But something was in the air yesterday... literally, that shook the very foundation of my otherwise positive outlook.  It was windy: extremely windy.  Ladies and Gentlemen, this is not an exaggeration.

Allow me to paint a picture for you.  A tiki hut/bar is typically comprised of four standing posts and is open to the elements on all sides.  Three of the four sides are lined with barstools, while the back side provides an exit strategy for yours truly.  There is a roof, room for a couple kegs, and a small liquor well.  And in the middle of this little island of booze, stands the bartender, ready to serve and protect.

Okay, so you can see it right?  Before the bar is opened, there are four heavy canvas drapes that protect the otherwise exposed counter to ceiling areas of the hut.  When they are down, and it is windy, they tend to catch the breeze so perfectly, you'd swear they were at full mast, about to set sail.  

I typically do not raise the drapes until I am officially open: so as to discourage guests from walking up every five minutes before I am fully equipped to serve and take payments.  

Here begins the chaos... 

As I was counting the drawer, I was suddenly sprayed with ice cold beer.  What in the...??????? Oh no!!!! I turned around to discover a rather shocking scenario. The ropes from the drapes had somehow blown ever so perfectly toward the taps, wrapping themselves around the handle and releasing the draft to rush out.  And to make it worse, the wind blew the beer all over the counters, floor, and yes... me.  I struggled to untangle the ropes as quickly as possible.  But needless to say, it was a sticky situation and a rather peculiar start to the day. 

Approximately 4:10 PM

At almost exactly the same moment I had finished cleaning up the great draft spill of 2013, I heard a coworker shriek, "AAAAH SHIT!"  And shitty it was, all over the soles of her shoes.  Where did that come from??? Apparently, someone had decided to let their dog wander freely around the place unbeknown to us all.  And to add insult to injury, the owner did not clean up after his furry friend. 

Obviously, this was way out of the scope of our job description.  But when the shit hits the fan, or the soles of your shoes, you must do everything within your power to carry on.  And that we did... 

Here goes round two of our major cleanup effort: bringing out the hose, buckets, brooms etc.  Can we just get back to serving some drinks already???

P.S. IT WAS STILL EXTREMELY WINDY

It was 5:00 Somewhere... Which means one thing: business.

Incoming!!! With the bar top filling up fast, I was busy enough to lose track of time (which is a good thing).  And freakishly, over the following three hours, my computer froze, a guest walked out on his tab, and a small woodland creature emerged from the nearby tree, scurrying around the feet of a frenzied crowd, causing absolute and utter chaos as ladies sloshed their drinks high in the air in complete disarray.  

It's a mouse! No, it's a small squirrel!! No it's not! It's a vole!!!!!!!!!  Let's get it!!!!!! 

Everyone was frantic.  As I stood within the confines of my four post cell, I looked around at the chaotic scene that was completely out of my control, and I began to shake my head and laugh.  A few guys who'd been enjoying their night out, caught a glance of me laughing to myself as I continued to work steadily through the chaos,  and they erupted in laughter as well.  

They were amongst the first guests to arrive that afternoon, so they had already witnessed the dog debacle and a few other hiccups of the night.  

And honestly, at that point, it was (kind of) funny. Oh and yes, it was still windy. 

What was happening??!!??

At approximately 8:00 PM,  it was too much. 

Everyone sitting at my bar turned in unison to witness a woman screaming at her cocktail server to "Get the hell away."  The server, defending herself, refused service at that point, and had to simply walk away.  

And then, after being asked out by a guest, literally ten times, I too, had to take a break.  I'd had enough.  Maybe it was closer to 9 at that point, but regardless, I had met my limit. A fellow bartender was kind enough to take the wheel from me so that I could discreetly slink away and hide... and hopefully, recover.  

I sat in the back alley for about five minutes, where no one could see me.  And when I looked up and saw my own reflection in the window, to my horror, I saw that almost all the strands of my hair were standing straight up on all sides of my face: the result of standing in a wind tunnel for the past five hours. 

Whatever... At this point, looking like a damn clown was more than appropriate. 

I walked reluctantly back to the bar to hear, "Adriane!!!!!! Yo, Adriane!!!!!! We were waiting for you!!!" Oh goody.... they are still here.

And that is when the lightning began to strike.  Huge bolts flashed, illuminating the night sky.  The wind howled, thunder cracked and I knew at any moment, it was about to break loose. 

And it did. 

The rain sprayed my face as it fell, gusting along with the relentless force of the wind.  And all I could think of was that song from the fifties... You know it... "Mama said there'd be days like this, there'd be days like this, my mama said. Mama said, mama said..."

After all of that, I left work wearing a half smile and a crazy ass 'fro atop my blonde head.  I didn't really see it as a bad day to be honest.  It was just one of those days you never forget.  

Tested by the elements, exhausted and dampened from the downpour, I clocked out and called it a night. 

I have no idea what was in the air.  All I know is that when it rains, it pours... and if God has a sense of humor, well then I had experienced a truly biblical comedic sketch. 

It's a brand new day.  I survived the storm, the unidentified woodland creature, the draft spill, the meanies, as well as a handful of overly friendly gents.  It was an epic night behind bars.  And I just felt that it was noteworthy enough to report.  

I think it's important to remember that nothing in life is promised to us.  The weather can't always be sunny and still.  The people we encounter may not follow the rules, get the hint, or clean up after their dog.  But one thing we can be sure of is that Mama said there would be days like this, and all we can do, is all we can do.  

And if gets to be too much and it's just not funny anymore, take a minute to walk away and look at your own reflection.  What you see may surprise you: even, make you laugh. 

Today:

Nameless Deliciousness

1 oz Cherry Vodka

Splash of Pama Liqueur

Finish with Lemonade.

MAMA SAID: WATCH THIS HILARIOUS VIDEO AND SING ALONG!!!!!

The Loneliest Number

If life is funny, then love is hysterical.  And if one is the loneliest number, then at one point or another, we're all kind of screwed!

I've been thinking a lot lately about perfect pairings: salt and pepper, wine and cheese, mom and dad.  They go together in seemingly perfect harmony, bringing out the finest, most delicate qualities in their counterpart. When I stop and think about it, the prospect of complementing another human being (for eternity) sounds a little daunting.  For as much as you might compliment one person, how can you be sure they will truly do the same for you?  And if one is the loneliest number, then why do we try so hard to find the one?? Chew on that for a moment!  

I've been on my own a little while now.  I'd like to think it's not so bad really.  Table for one please... yup, that's right... it's just me. 

Searching for just the right one of anything sounds a little exhausting.  It's difficult enough to find a pair of jeans that fit just right, let alone if I had to find a pair to fit me for the rest of my life.  Yikes. They'd better be comfortable, durable, well made, and above all else, flexible.  

Like most people, I tend to go through phases. One day, out of nowhere, I suddenly loved green olives.  I hated them my entire life, until one day, out of the blue, I decided to give them another try.  And just like that: POOF! Sparks were flying and violins were playing as I savored the little green olive, as if for the very first time.  From that moment on, I couldn't imagine my life without them.  They are freaking delicious!

Same thing happened with mushrooms, hot yoga, and drinking sake...What the heck??!! 

Last night, as I leaned up against the wall of a moderately crowded bar, I looked around and saw an army of singles.  It was so apparent who was flying solo in fact, that the scattered couplings jumped out of the mix and were quite easy to identify.  Pairings of all shapes and sizes huddled together, lost in their own little eight ball, corner pocket of love.  Some looked like they had indeed found the one, while others were definitely trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans that clearly no longer fit.  It was amusing to listen to one couples' story of how they fell in love: after a drunken night at Taco Bell, waiting for a ride and asking for directions. To each their own I guess. 

But they seemed genuinely happy and it stuck with me all night. 

Looking around the bar I realized something profound, I may be just one, but I believe that is the right one for right now.  And if one is in fact the loneliest number, well maybe that isn't so bad. 

Here are some perks of being a party of one.  Sleeping diagonally across the bed.  Not having to sort the socks in the laundry.  Knowing exactly when your coffee creamer is about to run out.  Scoring the perfect seat in a crowded movie theater.  Going to a book store and losing track of time.  Taking spontaneous last minute trips.  Easier access to emergency boats, exits and escapes.  Lots and lots of time to write about random things, like a newfound love affair with green olives and late night fast food encounters.  

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that one doesn't seem like the loneliest number after all.  I would argue instead that the loneliest number you'll ever have to face, is the one you haven't learned how to be alone with when you look in the mirror.  

Fall in love with that one first, and you might never be lonely again.  And any addition from there? Well that's just math made in heaven. 

Today:

Raspberry Martini

1 1/2 oz of Grey Goose Vodka

1/2 oz of Chambord Liqueur

1/2 oz of Pama Liqueur

Splash of cranberry

Shake and strain into a martini glass

Flying Solo.

  

Breaking Bad JuJu

Long ago, in a tiki-bar far, far away, a lowly bartender was in a fight to preserve her sanity.  It was known across the land as the Terrible Twos: a curse that afflicted this otherwise enjoyable second day of the five day work week.  Tuesdays had suffered a massive plague.  It was a mysterious curse, affecting only a rare few within the tribe, and she was one of them.  As the rain poured and her identity was stolen, she wondered; how will I ever survive Tuesdays and break the bad juju?? 

AH HA! I will have someone cover for me!! I'll take the day off and hopefully break the spell... And that is exactly what she did... And she lived happily ever ...

WAIT... We're not even close to the end of this story!

Let's re-cap.  Breaking the Tuesday curse has been an ongoing battle.  The bad juju had fallen heavy on the shoulders of many good civilians on both sides of the bar. But with some persistence and scheming, the past three Tuesdays have consistently evolved into a day of renewed rest and relaxation.  

And although I've relished in the newfound delights on this slain day, I have to wonder: did I really do it?? Did I really take back my Tuesdays and break the bad juju for good?? 

That first tainted Tuesday I had covered by a coworker was an improvement to be sure.  Although the weather was still a little drab and stormy, I somehow managed to sink down into my small vessel and stay mostly dry as the raft continuously crashed into the jagged tree branches along the riverbanks.  A metaphor you ask?  No no, this actually happened. 

Okay, so it wasn't the greatest start to breaking the Tuesday curse.  I was hungry, a little cold and hung up in the tree branches: causing ice cold water to rush over the walls of my little inflatable boat.  But on the bright side, my sweatshirt somehow managed to stay dry and I hadn't lost grip of my beer to the strong currents of the river.  I wasn't behind the bar that day, the first Tuesday in weeks, so I considered it to be one small step in the right direction.

In the Tuesdays that followed, I had somehow managed to gain the upper hand.  Camping on the boat in the harbor of an enchanted Island definitely proved to be the moment that I felt sure that the tainted Tuesdays were a thing of the past. 

Oddly enough, I haven't been scheduled to work a Tuesday in weeks.  It's weird... IT'S GREAT... But it's weird. 

Ever since I took action and sought out someone to cover for me that one time, Tuesdays have consistently been my day away from the bar, to relax and recover from the madness of the weekend rush.  

Dare I even go so far as to say that I have come to enjoy Tuesdays immensely?? Well, there it is...  Hello, my name is Adriane and I am a Tues-aholic.  

A few weeks ago, a reader had suggested that I post a follow up to see if I had in fact successfully broken the negative cycle.  So today, perhaps a little preemptively, I have provided an update to show the progress of taking back Tuesdays. 

Although I have yet to leave the house today, I suspect that it is shaping up to be a lovely day off (she says reluctantly while knocking on wood).  

My hope for you dear readers, after learning of this little modern day quest for vengeance, is for you to break the bad juju in your lives as well.  Perhaps it's a different day of the week that you find particularly offending.  Perhaps it is an unfortunate work environment.  Or perhaps it is an overall slate that could use a deep cleaning. Whatever it may be, I encourage you to think outside the box and take back the tainted days in your 52 weeks a year as well.  

It may be one small step in a week's time, but a giant leap for the overall quality of your life.  One week rolls into the next, and before you know it, a brand new season is just around the corner.

While we can't always be sure as to whether or not we've truly managed to press the reset button on the dramas that repeat on a seemingly endless loop in our lives, we can (at the very least) do everything within our power to try. 

So far, it appears that I have somehow managed to turn my Tuesdays around for the good of mankind.  And I imagine we are all a little better for it.  

Today:

Tuesday Cure

1/2 oz Vodka

1/2 oz Gin

Splash of Cranberry juice

Splash of Grapefruit juice

Twist of lime 

a sprig of mint 

Before:

After:

photo credit: fanpop.com

Xena Warrior Princess

              

   

Shifting Gears

There's no experience quite as simple and gratifying than that of driving down the Pacific Coast Highway along the Southern California coastline in a standard shift sports car.  For a cool hour or so, and just a short stretch of blacktop from the Venice Beach boardwalk up to the dramatic cliffs of Malibu, the salty wind blows against your cheeks sending chills down the back of your neck.  As you head North, the afternoon sun casts a golden hugh across the windshield as it sinks into the vast expanse of the ocean, directly to your left. The road curves and the pace accelerates; it is truly a joy ride.  

This was the picture I had locked in my mind as I stood before my dream car: a hot little royal blue Mini Cooper.  With tricolor leather interior, a jamming sound system, and a huge sunroof, I could honestly say it was perfect.  I sat in the front seat, and for just a moment, I felt like a true road warrior.  I glanced up into the rear view mirror and adjusted it to my liking.  Bond, James Bond.  

I gracefully sank deeper into the driver's seat and imagined the drive.  Then something occurred to me that nearly drove my little imaginary joy ride off the cliff... I don't know how to drive a stick!

The car salesman didn't seem to be overly concerned about my lack of experience. "I'll teach you.  We'll take it for a test drive,"he volunteered. 

Is he delusional? No way am I going to take a brand new car off the lot without knowing how to shift gears!! He must have had a big plate of crazy for breakfast!

But somehow, with the subconscious image of James Bond as my alter-ego, I agreed to the challenge.  

It was horrifying.  I am pretty sure I stalled the car three times before even making it out of the lot.  First gear to second, push the clutch, shift, and release. The jarring forward motion was far from the vision I had initially fantasized: heading effortlessly down the highway.

The salesman seemed to take some twisted satisfaction from his temporary role of Driver's Ed teacher because no matter how many times I stalled that Mini, he patiently coached me through the process of getting all of us back to the dealership in one piece. 

The second time around the block was a little smoother.  By the third turn around the block, I was hooked.  This switching gears thing is actually kind of fun! Woo hoo!!  I'm taking it to third now... I'm such a bad-ass! 

As we pulled into the lot, I had experienced a type of bonding I hadn't ever known possible to share with an innate object.  And probably at the same moment, the salesman and I both realized something that made us both very happy: there was no way I was leaving without that car. 

Though barely broken in, I was ready to ride.  

Slowly, with the passing of time and a few hundred miles, switching gears was a process that felt like second nature to me.  From behind the wheel, anything was possible. The curve of the road, the peddles, the wheel, the gears, the pavement all felt natural: like we were one.  And I knew it was finally time to take the drive down the Coast Highway. 

It's funny how some fantasies really can come to life. 

Today, I set out on the open road yet again as a novice.  The process of shifting gears in life, is one that takes years of practice to perform with grace and ease.  It is an awkward experience to stall out, just when you thought you were about to kick it into high gear.  

But I believe that it's true what they say about this road we call life, 'It's a journey, not a destination' (or something like that anyway). 

Getting out of the passenger's seat to behind the wheel, I've learned a thing or two about switching gears: roadblocks, detours, fast lanes, slow lanes, turnouts, U-turns, and yes, even a few unfortunate accidents all led to the intersection I am at today. 

Though I'm not exactly stalled out, I have pulled over for a minute to study the map.  Which road should I take?  How much will it cost to get there? How much time will it take?  What if I get lost along the way?  

I realize, oftentimes it's perfectly okay to take the long way around.  The scenic route offers a perspective that short cuts may not.  And if switching gears is too awkward, remember to be patient with yourself when you are trying to master something new. 

One way or another, you'll get there.  And when you do,  you'll smile because you'll remember that first awkward moment when you first began shifting gears, upon hitting the road and never turning back.  

Just don't be too proud to ask for directions if you feel little lost.  That's how people end up right where they start: stalled in neutral gear. 

Today:

007

2 oz Vodka

3/4 Highball glass full of 7 Up

Splash of Orange Juice

Serve over ice.