The other night, a regular gets on the express train to crazy town. He pulls out a twenty dollar bill and puts it on the bar. Moments later he motions me over, he points at it and asks,

“Where did this come from?”

“It’s yours, you took it out of your wallet.”

“No I didn’t.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“It’s not real.”

“What?”

“It’s not real. This money isn’t real. It’s just paper. I can rip it.”

He threatens to rip it and considering all money can be ripped, I’m not sure what he’s going to prove.

He puts the twenty dollar bill down again. He looks scared and confused. I want to help, I offer,

“I can take it for you.”

“I don’t know where it came from. It’s not real.”

“Ok, don’t worry, it’s ok. I will take it.”

He sighs with relief and pays with his credit card.

I’m about to put the twenty dollar bill with my tips, on second thought I open my cash drawer and swap it for a different bill. Can’t hurt.

I thought I won my first game of tennis against my imaginary friend, but according to my new bar manager I need to get more than one serve in the box.

Last week my coach told me to do one thing: practice my toss. I arrive at my lesson yesterday. She asks,

“Are you ready to serve?”

I hang my head. Years of piano lessons come rushing to my mind. I’d go once a week; I loved going, but I had little desire to practice in between. I tell my tennis coach,

“I didn’t practice.”

She shakes her head. She’s right. I could’ve devoted ten minutes of skort shopping time to practice time. Maybe next week. But probably not.

I can still play any one-handed Disney song on the piano. So the moral is that if I take enough tennis lessons, I’ll be able to play as well as any five-year-old without ever practicing.

I was playing frisbee in Boston Common the other day. I regret I do not have a photo, but there were two people: a very normal looking young man and woman, dressed in work-out clothes, walking through the park, having a normal conversation, while each carrying stick between their legs.

My only theory is that they were warming up for a Harry Potter inspired game of Quidditch. BUT the sticks weren’t brooms. And if it’s not a broom then you can’t fly around, so they weren’t playing Quidditch.

I know this is not Craigslist missed connections. But who are you and why do you have a large stick between your legs? It looks like fun.

So my search for a roommate begins again. Ah Craigslist, I did not miss you. But the responses I’ve been getting are worth something:

“Is there a fireplace?”

“I’d be sharing with my boyfriend, is that okay?”

“I am currently a high school senior and my parents will be paying the rent.”

“You don’t say if you prefer female roommates, but I have a car that I’m happy to share.”

“I stumbled upon your ad on Craigslist looking for a roommate.”

Stumbled? Did you intend to browse casual encounters and weird, you ended up in housing?

“I’m a recently single professional and I’d love to meet you.”

“Is a cat okay? I trained her to use the toilet.”

Lockdown. Technically Somerville is not on lockdown, but I have a feeling that anyone with guns and explosives is not concerned about crossing the Cambridge/Somerville town line. So I will stay inside.

I lost my first game of tennis. To an imaginary person.

My coach is teaching me to serve. She tells me,

“You’re hitting about 20% into the box, you’ll never get to 100% but 70% would be nice.”

I think she’s being generous with the 20%. She tells me,

“We’re going to pretend like this is a real game. You don’t want to give your opponent a point for just standing there so get your serve in the box.”

My first two serves go flying. My coach declares,

“Love – 15. Keep going.”

I try again.

“Love – 30.”

I serve two more.

“Love- 40. Ok, last chance, get this one in.”

My balls go flying.

“And that’s game. You lost.”

My imaginary friend is definitely wearing this.

It’s hard being home from vacation. I’ve been waving my arm around for hours and there’s still no cocktail in front of me.

Yesterday I head to work an hour early. In my absence the new chef created a salad special with 23 ingredients and the bar has been remodeled. I spend the shift training a new bartender and trying to find the forks. Where did the forks go? Where’s the bread? Where’s the computer? Who is this person following me around? What’s in the salad again?

Sometimes at night I dream about work. It’s usually like my bar, but different. I’m super busy and struggling to keep up. It’s like the grown-up version of the showing-up-for-school-naked dream.

Last night was like that dream, but I made money and I wasn’t naked.

I knew there was a very good reason I don’t run marathons.

I’m back! It turns out it is very hard to blog from a hot tub. I needed both hands to hold my cocktail.

I did a five day ski camp. I am now at the level I thought I was when I arrived. I’m good. Not great. But good. I’m happy with good. I only ended up on my back with my legs in the air once. We’re talking about skiing people.

I stayed at a very nice hotel. How nice? There’s room service for doggies. You get to ski all day and they don’t have to get out of bed; they can charge all the gizzard pudding they want to the room.

The room service for human beings is exorbitant: $32 for a basic breakfast. It makes the doggie french toast for $9, plus $5.50 delivery charge, plus automatic 15% gratuity look like the way to go.

Meanwhile at the pool all the underage kiddies are running the cocktail server ragged with milkshake deliveries. A woman flags down the server,

“Can you make an adult milkshake?”

“Sure.”

I wave a wet arm in the air, I want one too.

Two young drunk guys with a bucket of beer, plop into the tub. They start throwing beers around to everyone. At $9 a poolside beer I’m happy to snap up a freebie. The guy with the bucket of beer tells me,

“Come sit over here.”

“No thanks.”

“Come sit over here.”

“No thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I’m happy here.”

“Do you want another beer?”

“Yes please.”

I get another beer. He tries again,

“Are you going to sit over here?”

“Nope.”

“Fine.”

With that he moves to another seat further away. I sip my beer. He showed me.

You’re right, I have free hand.

I have a 7AM flight tomorrow to Whistler! That’s near Vancouver. That’s in Canada on the other side of the country. Yup that’s where they had the Olympics one year and there was no snow. But there’s snow there now and I’m going skiing. Maybe in my bikini.

I may or may not blog depending how easy it is to do from the hot tub. I will be back in a week, just in time for summer.

I had my second tennis lesson yesterday. One more and I’m going pro. I have all the pre-requisites: the racquet, the sexy skort and an aggressive tennis coach who appreciates tennis fashion.

Here’s my skort so we’re all on the same page:

My first tennis lesson was a success. My tennis coach is an aggressive petite older woman. As I wait for her to hit the ball to me I’m supposed to be hopping from foot to foot, but what with thinking about hitting the ball and trying to hit the ball I forget to hop. Her voice booms across the court,

“KEEP MOVING.”

This lady means business.

She asks me,

“What level are you?”

“Beginner.”

“True beginner?”

“I took lessons as a kid, but I don’t remember much.”

“True beginner.”

What I do remember is how hot it was and how much I looked forward to lunch.

She continues,

“What are you hoping to accomplish?”

“I’d like to be able to play with my friends who are decent.”

“We can do that. I’m not gonna be able to turn you into a pro, but we can get you so you can play.”

After an hour of hitting balls in the general direction of the other side of the court. She tells me,

“The good news is you’re already in shape and you have decent hand-eye coordination. There are some people who can’t even hit the ball when I drop it right in front of them.”

So you’re saying I’m not the worst ever.

A guest comes into the bar. I haven’t seen him in a year. He asks,

“Are you still blogging?”

“Yup.”

“I stopped reading it because you make fun of men my age relentlessly.”

I turn to my co-bartender,

“Is that true?”

“Maybe not his exact age, but older men.”

I was at a fancy wine bar with a co-worker and his wife the other night. After we demolish the chef’s charcuterie and cheese selection I ask the bartender,

“What’s for dessert?”

“You can make s’mores at the fire outside or-“

-Say no more, s’mores it is.

I head outside. There are already two drunk women struggling to make dessert. They should not be this close to fire. One woman drops her burning marshmallow into the ash. If you’ve ever roasted marshmallows before, you know that this is the end of the line for that ‘mallow. Let it die. Get a new one. Start over.

The woman does not do this. She plucks up the still burning marshmallow. It is now covered in ash and she puts it on her chocolate and graham cracker. The flame finally goes out. She takes a bite. Her astonished friend who’s response time has slowed, manages a,

“What are you doing?”

Too little too late.

When it comes to cooking I may not know much, but I’m a pro at s’mores. I take my perfect s’more inside. My co-worker looks at me and says,

“We have to make them ourselves?”

“Yeah, what did you think I was doing out there?”

“Doesn’t seem like a good idea to let drunk people get close to the fire.”

I used to play tennis as a kid. I’ve been wanting to play again and not just because I get to wear a sexy skort.

After five minutes of researching courts where I can play, I spend the next half hour shopping for my tennis outfit. Ok, so maybe the skort does have a lot to do with it, but the trendy tennis tote bag should not be overlooked.

I should be shopping for a racket.

P.S. I’m not the only one putting fashion before the game. There is a web site called SlamGlam.com: “Unique and fashionable sport accessories for women. On the court or strolling through town, you will look your best.”

I’m taking this seriously.

The regular that’ll kiss you if you get too close, motions me over. I ask,

“Yes?”

“Can I give you some hair advise?”

“You probably shouldn’t.”

“Ok, I’ll back off.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Can I tell you one little thing?”

“If it’s not nice, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Your hair would look better straight.”

A well-dressed, good-looking man comes in to the bar. Based on his awkward stance, I assume he’s waiting for an internet date. I’m right. Points for me.

She’s cute, but she’s wearing sweats. She looks like she came straight from the gym. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. This date is over. They only get further apart until I can almost put another bar stool between them. There is no smiling. I assume this is a one drink and everybody cuts their losses, but it’s my job to sell alcohol so I offer,

“Another round?”

Without conferring, she replies,

“Yes.”

I look at him. He nods his head kinda yes, kinda no, kinda ‘help me I’m trapped.’

Then they get a third round. They are still as far apart as ever and looking miserable. Is this an exercise in dating torture? Finally he puts his credit card down. She mentions,

“I was on a date once and the guy put down a Black Amex card.”

“What do you have to do to get one of those?”

“Have a lot of money.”

That’s an understatement. Wikipedia says the average Black Amex cardholder has 16.5 million in assets.

The guy turns to his date,

“So?”

“So what?”

“So he put that card down and you went home with him?”

A group of four approach the bar. They become six, then nine, then fifteen. They’ve taken over two-thirds of the bar. Some are here to drink. Others are content to ask for water refills. I’m trying to maintain my patience. One of the women shrieks at her friends,

“I want nothing to do with your masturbation conversation!”

I do. A guy notices my obvious interest and explains,

“Oh it’s nothing. We’re all teachers and the fifth graders had sex-ed today.”

I’ve been there.