Monday, November 24, 2008

Reason #473 to Use Bartender Face

(Photo stolen from this site)

by Honey

Because I hate your husband. I really, REALLY do.

You’re a nice person, mostly. But some times, I want to tear my hair out listening to the asshole things your husband does. And it is true asshole behavior. Leaving you to suffer through a miscarriage alone? Getting mad at you when he finally gets you pregnant again, after HOUNDING you to have another baby? Not because he wanted 3 kids, but because he wanted to try one last time for a boy. He is not only an asshole, he is also the whole ass.

Even though he knows I only see my husband on the weekends, he without fail, calls EARLY Saturday morning, to see if he’s up and out of bed. If he doesn’t answer the phone, he is not above doing a drive by on us, because he thinks that HE is more important than my husband spending time with his wife. I know that he and my husband have been friends since their momma’s were pregnant with them, but holy hell. He spends more Saturday mornings at our house than he does his own. WTF? Yes, they’re friends. But my husband does NOT feel the need to run away from home as soon as the sun comes up; he WANTS to spend time with me. Quiet as it’s kept; he enjoys spending time with me. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t see me often, but whatever. I will take what I can get. I would appreciate it if you could tie your husband to the bed, couch, a tree outside, whatever… just one Saturday morning. Please.

And now, he’s hitting on your friends.

Friend #1 – he called at her house to tell her that she had nice feet. When she called him out on his B.S. he claims “his friend” told him to tell her that.

Friend #2 -- you had a party at your house and your husband spent all night slapping her on the ass. I had to tell MY husband – her cousin, who pulled him aside, to get him to stop. His excuse that time? I didn’t think anybody noticed.

ME -- he goosed me and you saw him and made him apologize. He just said he was too drunk to remember, but he was sorry because you were upset. His words. (Nevermind ME being upset. I didn’t want his hands grabbing my ass either, but…whatever)

We haven’t said anything to you YET because you will rabidly defend any and all negative comments regarding your husband, even though you know he’s a jerk. You want to convince us, and most likely yourself, that he’s a good guy, a NICE guy, instead of who he really is: A SELFISH guy who has no respect for your relationship or anybody else’s. And he is a guy who is looking for an opportunity to screw your friends. Quite frankly, I don’t believe this has escaped your notice, because you made me an offer I could totally refuse. (But that is a story for ANOTHER Bartender Face entry.)

Why I’m telling Bartender Face instead of writing this on my own blog? Because even though my husband says he doesn’t read my blog (and I believe him because he is totally uninterested in my weird ramblings), the one time he WILL read it would be the time I write about how much I hate his oldest friend.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Carrie Bradshaw Is Right

by Honey

(Photo stolen from
this guy)

Carrie Bradshaw is right.

There is no polite way to stop phone sex.

It started not so innocently. I had an affair. A big huge RAGING affair. To be fair, it started off as a retaliation fuck, since my significant other & I started having problems (meaning, I was having a PROBLEM with his screwing around). Mr. Jump Off was 7 years younger than I, a huge flirt and engaged to be married. We started off as friends, I can’t even remember how we met, but we immediately liked each other. Could be because I am also a ginormous flirt and loved to fluff his…ego. (we were FRIENDS, remember?) And I will admit to getting a huge charge out of flirting, and being flirted with. I was emotional and craving attention. I can’t lie, I am an attention WHORE.

He made it so easy because he had laying down game since we met. He paid me PLENTY of attention. I had the softest skin, the prettiest legs, and the nicest lips. He was so fine I wanted to drink his bathwater. And considering I am a germaphobe of the highest order, that’s saying a lot. And we hung out because

1. I had lots of free time
2. He was a pretty cool kid, aside from the flirting
3. He always paid and he wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. There was also
4. I didn’t need my guard up because I was POSITIVE there was no real attraction there, just friendship.

I almost didn’t see it coming. We went out in the summer, my husband had to “work late” …again. We went down to the beach because I was homesick, and I’m always cheered up and/or calmed when I’m near the ocean. It was late, we were walking & talking and before I was even sure of what happened, we weren’t walking OR talking anymore. And me? It was one of the best lays I ever had; I’m not sure if it was because I needed to feel close to somebody or if he was THAT. DAMN.GOOD. Either way, May I have another orgasm, please? (For the record, he was that damn good, even though I wanted to feel close to somebody.)

After that, he’d call me when he got lonely and I’d use my phone sex operator voice and we’d talk about the things we planned to do the next time. I have been blessed/cursed with a vivid imagination, and I can also be turned on by the sound of someone’s voice, if it’s smooth enough., and Mr. Jump Off was smoooth.

He got married on my 8th anniversary. He brought me back a shot glass from their honeymoon. When he came back we had hot monkey sex in my office late one night. Our affair ended after one more month. We felt bad that we were messing around and he was newly married, so we decided to stay friends, no benefits. My husband was trying to make amends for his asshole behavior, and Mr. Jump Off put me on equal (if lowering) footing with the husband.

But for some reason, even though Mr. Jump Off & I never had real life sex again, even though we occasionally met for dinner and a movie, the phone sex never stopped. He would call me and tell me in that sexy, smooth voice to say he was bored and didn’t have anybody to talk to, what was I doin’…and then…”Do you remember how much I loooove your legs?” Mmmmm hmmm…It’s a slippery slope, ladies & gentlemen. And before you know it, you’re right back on the bottom. ::SIGH:: His voice was so seductive to me, and I could picture, his mouth and then, well…then it’s too late because I don’t WANT to stop.

Recently though, I told Mr. Jump Off that I’m putting the phone sex on Hiatus (which in LA speak is the first step to your show being cancelled). The husband & I are doing okay, and we are doing our best to keep it that way. I’m pretty sure that the husband would not like to know somebody else is getting me off AT&T style. And it’s been a while, a LONG while…

But yesterday, he called me before I was completely awake and started with the “good morning, baby” talk… And the minute I heard his voice, I could feel the girly parts getting soft, and I rolled over…and dropped the call.

I guess it’s good my phone is a piece of crap because I am at my most vulnerable when I’m waking up, which is something Mr. Jump Off knows, which is why he probably woke up 3 hours early to catch me still in bed. And I KNOW cutting off the phone sex is a wise decision, but if my call hadn’t dropped…would I have said no? Would I have been able to interject with a no, thank you? I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.

Still taking it one phone call at a time.

That’s my story y’all. I’ll pay for my drink and whoever is up next.

Friday, November 14, 2008

The Waiting

by Minerva

(Photo stolen from this site

My sister-in-law is a drug addict.

She's been a drug addict since long before I met her, long before she reached adulthood. In fact, when I was first dating her brother, the man I would later marry, he told me that it was unlikely I would ever meet Kate. "She'll probably be dead before you get a chance to meet her," he told me, and he wasn't kidding.

But she didn't die. She got herself cleaned up, through a lot of hard work and the support of family and friends. She held down a job, took back responsibility for her young child, even went back to college. Her life became busy, full, and complicated, but in her own frenetic way she managed it. She went to meetings all the time -- Narcotics Anonymous, I presume, but maybe Alcoholics Anonymous, too. She thrived.

She met a great guy. He understood her past and was willing to take her on. They got married and had a baby of their own. They owned a nice home, had two bright and well-adjusted children, and life seemed very good for all of them.

Kate has been addressing, little by little, the things in her life that she has ignored for so many years. One of those things was dental work. When it became necessary to have oral surgery, Kate hesitated because of her need for pain medication. But there was no way around it, and she had the surgery and took the pain meds. At some point -- my grasp of the details is fuzzy at best -- Kate's addiction again took over. Was she immediately hooked, or was it after her bout with pneumonia? Was she using before the two major medical emergencies that hit the family, or did the enormous strain of those events push her over the edge?

In any case, Kate seems to have been at the eye of the perfect storm of crises, and when the storm blew over, Kate was a raging addict again.

After a stint in rehab early this year, Kate was battling back. We saw her this summer during a family visit, and she seemed jumpy, erratic and hyperactive, but as long as I've known Kate she's been jumpy, erratic and hyperactive. A few alarm bells went off in my head, but I kept quiet, because really, what did I know? What could I do? I knew nothing. I did nothing.

I got the call on a recent Sunday morning, from a brother who rarely calls. "Kate's in jail," he said quietly. The call came hours before Kate's parents, my in-laws, were due to arrive home from a trip abroad. They knew nothing of the arrest, nor did they know that Kate was using again. The last the family knew, Kate had been clean again for several months.

Kate's hard-won idyllic life is now in shambles. The family sits by and waits, wondering what will happen next. Moves have been made to protect children and finances, but otherwise, there is not much any of us can do. We wait. Kate sits in jail, as far as I know -- the crimes she committed as she savaged her life and the lives of her family are too many and too dark to list here -- and we wait.

Of all of the horrors inflicted upon families by drugs and by the loved ones who use them, the thing I keep coming back to is the waiting. People who are used to taking matters into their own hands are left wringing those hands, powerless, reactive instead of proactive. There's so little to do or say, and all of the pent-up anger, hurt, and fear are likely to be directed laterally, instead of at the user, who isn't there to take her lumps. When do we all start bickering? Who will start the snarling at one another?

I guess we'll have to wait and see.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

I Am A Liar

by Betty-Louise

EDIT NOTE: At the request of Betty-Louise, I have flipped "Yes" and "No" at the end of the article, in red. It was a small mistake but it completely altered the author's original intent. The first comment now won't make sense so keep this in mind -- Laurie

I lie.

I am a liar.

I read for months and weeks on a lot of my bloggy friends about why “Yes on 8” was the worst thing any person could vote. They told me about equality and gave me loosely related parables about how this had something to do with slavery and the vote for women. They told me in several different ways…that voting to overturn gay marriage in the State of California was EVIL. And that if you loved or knew or ever even walked by a gay person in your life you HAD TO VOTE NO.

A NO vote was evolved.

A NO vote was enlightened.

A NO vote was RIGHT.

And ya know what? I never said a thing. Partially due to my anti-Palin post debacle (a death threat? Seriously?) but partially because I am a big ol’chicken. And I avoid conflict like Palin avoided geography class in high school (oh crap there I go again)….

But here is the thing. This is what I really think. Are you listening Bartender?

I love me the gays. One of my best friends and a maid of honor in my wedding is gay. I have experienced all her relationship woes and struggles. This is not a religion issue for me. I believe Jesus loves gays and straights alike. I have no ethical or moral problems with people who are BORN gay. I know it is not a CHOICE (my God who would CHOOSE a way of life fraught with such conflict and difficulties?). I think gay couples can and do make fine parents.

California continues to allow domestic-partner registration, a right similar to civil unions found in other states. This grants "same-sex couples all state-level rights and obligations of marriage — in areas such as inheritance, income tax, insurance and hospital visitation" (thank you Wikipedia)

Um, so basically they ALREADY have all the rights of “marriage”. Including adoption rights. But what don’t they have? Well their partners do not inherit ANY debt upon the death of the other. They are also not required to enter into lengthy divorce proceedings should the relationship end. Sounds like a great deal to me, so why then all the complaining?

They can’t call their long term relationship a ‘MARRIAGE’. This is all about the use of A WORD.

So…it is a vocabulary issue. And for me the definition of the word MARRIAGE is: Man+Women=children. It is an institution created to induce procreation and the protection and survival of the children. A gay union is not that. It doesn’t fit the definition. It is that simple. Do I think a gay union is just as important and REAL as marriage? Yes I do. But is it marriage? NO. NO IT IS NOT. It is something else. Something different.

So I voted YES. I have insinuated and may have even SAID I voted NO….cuz I am liar. A big fat liar.

Thanks bartender. Now can you get me Mojito? Just put it on Foolery’s tab will ya?

Friday, November 7, 2008

Dan, January 26, 2008

(Photo stolen from crazyscientist_11 on Flickr)

I don't believe you.

The death of Heath Ledger this week brought with it the expected suspicions, whispers and rumors. Once the truth of the actor's tragic death emerges, whether the cause was accidental or recreational or suicidal -- whatever truth it may be, people will say "I can't believe it" and "I never saw the signs" and "if only I had known, I would have done something." This is to be expected. This is how we humans operate. We believe in our power to fix things, to intercede and change the course of history. And often we can.

And often we can't. Sometimes we just can't fix what's broken, and then we let history have its head.

But there is a third scenario, one that I'm sure happens far more often than the other two. That path is the one I'm staring down tonight, the one I'm determined not to take any longer. That way involves the friends, family and coworkers simply shrugging their shoulders, looking the other way, shaking their heads. That's what I've been doing for years, without even thinking about it, but I'm not going to do it anymore.

You're lying to me.

Someone whose job crosses paths with mine is headed down a bad, bad road, and it may be coming to a head soon. I'll call him Dan -- Dan came in to my office Tuesday looking wrecked. Bleary, red eyes. Slow, slurry speech. Insipid chatter, silly giggle. Stoned on painkillers, again. Par for the course. And then, just as suddenly as he had come in, he walked out the door and was gone. I was busy, and had very soon put him out of my mind. And then I checked my e-mail and learned that Heath Ledger was found dead of an apparent overdose.

Wednesday Dan came in again, this time to see my boss about something. I didn't talk to Dan until he came out of my boss's office and stumbled past me. "Take it easy, shweetheart," he slurred, and weaved out the door. I stared after Dan as he left, then walked into my boss's office. "Wow," I said. "Dan looked wrecked."

"Man, he was OUT of it," my boss said. But we were both busy.

Wednesday night at about 9:00 I sat down with my husband and talked about our day. I told him about Dan; he knows Dan, too -- everybody in town knows Dan. And as the words were pouring out of my mouth, I was stunned to realize I had been complicit in a crime. I let Dan walk out of that office and climb into his truck and drive away, when he could barely form a decent sentence. I was shocked at my tunnel vision, my apparent indifference to a friend's crisis. Mostly I was disgusted that I didn't try to stop Dan from brandishing a deadly automotive weapon on the busy streets of my city. "No more," I told my husband. "I'm not playing along any more."


The first thing I did Thursday was talk to my bosses about it. I had had a dream about it the night before, and it had clarified for me what I had to say.

Perhaps I was a bit hasty. Maybe I was being a zealot? I guess I should try talking to Dan first. Okay, I'll do that. Suddenly all my confidence was gone, and I questioned my judgment. I even questioned my own motives. I was not ready for any kind of confrontation, and I needed some time to regroup.

But there wasn't any time. Friday morning Dan lurched into the office looking for my boss again, and I sent him on in. I began a slow burn that turned to quiet fuming. I was angry at myself, at my boss (unfairly -- he was just as caught in this current as I was, looking for any branch to pull himself out), but mostly I was mad at Dan, a man I have always adored.

By the time Dan staggered up to my desk on his way out the door, I was boiling. Dan took off his glasses and wiped his bloody eyes. He could see by my dark scowl I was gunning for him, and though he didn't yet know why, I'm sure he could guess that it had something to do with his obvious drug use. Dan's many years of coming up with lies took over, and he began his patronizing, pathetic cover story. I cut him off.

"Don't come in here and talk to me when you're stoned," I heard myself say. I had no plan, and no idea that I would actually say anything to him. Rage had taken over.

"Yeah, I know," he said, agreeing with me! "I woke up this way, and I have no idea what's going on," he lied.

"Don't give me that!" I barked. "You've come in here three days this week stoned out of your mind. Don't tell me you woke up that way." I was ready for the string of swear words that never came. It would have been so easy. Just give me a reason to make the call, I thought. Your boss. The police. Your wife. Somebody needs to be called. Give me a reason.

"I know, it's crazy," Dan said. "I've been taking the same medications [code for Norco, Vicadin, and who knows what else] for years, and all of a sudden I think I'm having a reaction," he said, smooth as glass. Let me think back -- over the years it's been allergies, allergy medicines, back pain . . . am I forgetting any excuses? There's always a reason when Dan is stoned out of his mind, but it's never the handful of painkillers he pops in front of people he thinks are "cool" that could be causing the "reaction."

"Doesn't matter," I said, still furious, but rapidly deflating. "You are impaired, and you shouldn't be driving. I'm scared to death for you, but more than that, I'm scared for the people out on the road with you."

"I know, I know," he smoothed me over. "I'm calling my doctor to find out what the heck is wrong," he said.

All the air was out of my balloon. I had nothing left. No actual proof -- I am not one of the "cool" people he feels are safe to pop pills in front of, so I can only guess what he's taking. And I was the victim of my own game -- I call it Customer Service Karate: the art of taking a "punch" from an angry person, and using their energy against them. Pretty soon they have no steam left, but you appear unbruised, unbattered, fresh as a daisy It works every time if you can outlast them. Well, Dan had just done that to me. I was definitely battered and he outlasted me.

After Dan left he called me on his cell phone to ask a business question; I answered curtly and coldly. He thanked me for being a friend and for caring. It was the final punch. KO'd.

I'm gonna make two calls, and the second call will be to your boss. But you shouldn't worry about the second call.

Dan may have won the battle, but he hasn't yet won he war. I had to hear him lie to me, face to face, when confronted honestly. Now I know, and I know what I have to do. And my bosses are waking up to the reality, too. There may be hope yet.

As long as Dan doesn't kill himself this weekend, that is.

I can't believe it. I never saw the signs. If only I had known, I would have done something.

Rules for Submitting Stories to Bartender Face

  1. You must be 18 or older to use the account for Bartender Face. If you are younger than 18, please e-mail me your post to foolery (at) clearwire (dot) net or swamidearest (at) gmail (dot) com (I use both).
  2. You don't have to use the account to upload your file to me; feel free to use e-mail. I will be discreet and not reveal your identity. But using the account will keep you anonymous even from me.
  3. No threats against me or anyone else will be posted to Bartender Face.
  4. Illegal activity described in any post submitted to Bartender Face will be subject to the Blog Dictator's Very Random Sliding Scale of Propriety. Simply put, I get to decide. If your story is about having a beer ten minutes before you turned 21, I'll let that pass. If it's about where you buried Jimmy Hoffa, well guess what? I'd like to stay on the good side of the FBI. Probably better not tell me where the bodies are buried.
  5. No grudge matches. The people you write about must not be identifiable. I will assume that all names have been changed to protect innocent and guilty alike, and I won't change them. If, however, you tell a great tale but include a line like, oh, maybe " . . . while I was playing tonsil hockey with Al Franken," I would probably change that name to [UNNAMED POLITICIAN] or [SOME GUY FROM TV] or [A MIDWESTERNER THAT SOME PEOPLE LIKE AND SOME PEOPLE DON'T]. See how that works? If I can't salvage it, I won't post it, so play nice.
These are all of the rules that I could think of at one sitting. There may be more; maybe you can suggest some? I'm a strangely democratic thinker for an autocratic blog administrator.

Some things worth considering:
  • Come up with a completely unique, untraceable screen name for posting at Bartender Face. If your name is Shirley, I'd advise against using the screen name "Shirl." If you use "Foolery" all over the place, as I do, don't use "Foolery" at Bartender Face. But you may wish to come back at a later date and post a follow-up story, or, thinking big, you may become a Bartender Face favorite, making you a pop culture icon, so you really ought to have a unique name here.
  • I will post your writing just as you give it to me, with very few exceptions. If your writing is filled with vulgarities, it probably won't see the light of day. A well-placed swear word or two shouldn't be a problem, but try to keep it reasonable, okay? If you drop a really, really offensive word into an otherwise reasonable story, I may use [EDITED 'CAUSE MY GRANDMOTHER WOULD BLUSH] or something. Work with me.
  • If you want photos or graphics included I will post them (within my standards of tastefulness), but I will assume that you have permission to use them and that they are "safe" and will not identify you. If you want me to find a suitable image, please include a note to me asking me to find something. I will do my best.
Hokay, that should have exhausted you. Welcome, and I hope to have some submissions to share very soon!

-- Laurie

Welcome to Bartender Face

You have something you want to talk about, don't you?

Bartender Face is the place.

This site is named for my own self-diagnosed affliction which renders me a magnet for people's very personal stories. I don't know why people tell me the things they do, but it's been happening all my life . . .

So you can tell me. Anything. Almost.

The rules and regulations and how-tos will be coming soon, but in a nutshell, anything you post here, you post anonymously. I hope this will be an outlet for stories people can't tell anywhere else.

Make yourselves at home.

-- Laurie