You Know What That Is? Growth.

, , , , | Learning | February 15, 2021

In the early 2010s, I was in high school taking a math course. It was the first class of the day and we had a really wonderful, punctual teacher. One day, she didn’t show up, no teachers came into the room, and after forty minutes — much to the anger of twenty other teenagers — I went to alert the office, worried something had happened to her.

The teacher was fine, but I became the center of horrific bullying in that class as a few of the students got in a lot of trouble for their actions while we were not supervised. Some of my favorites included shoving, spitting on my homework, and throwing plastic Easter eggs with slips of paper in them at me — the eggs were for a fun math game — hard enough to crack the plastic and bruise.

Most of this was led by this super senior; she was held back her senior year and was in her fifth year of high school. This bully went out of her way to make sure I was miserable that entire semester, and she was the reason I hated Easter eggs for years.

Fast forward to 2019, nearly a decade later. I am at a bar with two friends and my long-term boyfriend. The friends grew up around here but moved away years ago and are just in town to visit and catch up with people. A lot of people are coming to our booth to say hi and catch up with all of us. One of them is a woman a year or two older than me, covered in tattoos. She looks sort of familiar and is super thrilled to see [Friend].

I guess she thinks I look familiar, too, because she squints at me a little and finally asks if we used to go to high school together. After a few seconds of trying to remember where we know each other from, her face lights up with excitement. 

Woman: “Oh, yeah! We were in [Teacher]’s class together!”

Me: “Oh, yeah. You were the b**** who threw plastic Easter eggs at me.”

Cue deafening silence from the table. [Woman]’s face runs through a whole range of emotions, from shock, to remembrance, to horror, to complete embarrassment. [Friend] is glaring at her angrily; she’s heard the story before and is connecting the dots. My boyfriend looks like he might kick her out of the bar himself and our other friend is just shocked. 

Suddenly, [Woman], with all the charisma and emotions of a drunk woman, reaches out and takes my hands, her eyes tearing up.

Woman: “Oh. My. God! I have been trying to find out where you were for years! I am so, soooo sorry for everything! I was so unbelievably horrible to you and took out so many things on you, and it wasn’t until I got older that I realized how terrible I was! I was such a b**** to you and I’m so, so, so, so sorry!”

I don’t know what I expected, but it was not that. I just tell her it’s cool and it’s in the past; we were dumb kids and we can move forward now. Her whole face lights up again. 

Woman: “You are like, totally, seriously the best, Egg Girl! Besties! Can I put this on Insta?”

We never became friends, but I did let her take a selfie of us to “confess her crimes” online, and for the next year until the health crisis closed down the bars, we would occasionally run into each other out on the town. She would stop everything just to point me out to her friends and go, “That’s Egg Girl! I threw plastic Easter eggs at her in high school. I was suuuch a b**** to her!” 

Life is like a bunch of plastic Easter eggs; you never know what you’re going to get, I guess.

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Not A Minor Misunderstanding

, , , , | Right | February 13, 2021

We are an all-ages venue until 5:30 pm when we become an over-eighteen area. This occurs at 9:00 pm after all our “No minors past this point” signs are out. A man walks in with his two-year-old daughter.

Me: “Sorry, sir, this area is strictly eighteen and up after 5:30 pm.”

Man: “But she’s two.”

Me: “Yes, that means she can’t be in here after 5:30 pm. She’s a minor.”

Man: “But she’s two; she’s not a minor. Minors are people aged fourteen to seventeen, not two.”

Me: “Minors are anyone aged less than eighteen years.”

Man: *Very condescendingly* “No, little girl, minors are people aged fourteen to seventeen. She can be in here after 5:30 pm because she’s not. A. Minor.”

I point to a sign above the bar that states that no one under eighteen can be in the venue after 5:30 pm.

Man: “I’ll leave, but I’ll be telling your bosses that they need to teach their staff what a minor is! I can’t believe you think that my two-year-old is a minor! How stupid can you be?”

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, , , , | Right | February 4, 2021

I work in a bar. There is a live band on, and it’s Friday, which means that it’s twice as manic as usual.

We are a small bar with a staff of four. Two are managers — a husband and wife.

A group of mums comes in, people that I recognise because they are on the PTA with me. They all order a bottle of prosecco — between four people— and then another.

The band has just finished playing when this happens.

Mum #1: “Someone stole my prosecco! They took the bottle and threw it away!”

Manager: “We’re really sorry for that. You did order it an hour and a half ago. Are you sure it wasn’t empty?”

Mum #1: “It was not empty! It was almost full! I’ve only had two glasses!”

Manager: “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. If someone did throw it away, it’s because it was empty.”

Mum #2: “I bet they have it behind the bar. I bet they stole it.”

Mum #1: “Yeah!”

Manager: “No one here would do that.”

Mum #1: “You need to empty your bin, right now! I want to see if the bottle is there.”

Manager: “The bin has been emptied several times this evening. It’s unlikely to be in there.”

Mum #1: “What are you going to do? Huh? I need another bottle of prosecco.”

Manager: “No.”

Mum #1: “What?”

Manager: “I said no. Leave. Come back when you’re sober. If you believe that one of my staff stole your bottle, I’ll be more than happy to watch the security footage with you to prove otherwise.”

They leave, but not before shouting this gem:

Mum #2: “Enjoy our prosecco, you thieving c***s!”

My manager followed them both and told them to never come back. Later, we reviewed the security tapes. No one stole the prosecco. It was thrown away because it was empty.

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Forever Under 21

, , , , | Right | January 29, 2021

In Tennessee, the law states that bars are able to allow smoking inside AS LONG AS they are twenty-one-and-up only establishments. I am working in such a bar as a server, during lunchtime, just after opening at 11:00 am. A woman comes in with her child aged one or two years old.

Me: *To my coworker* “Want me to tell her? She looks like she’s heading to my section anyway.”

Coworker: “Nah, I got it.”

My coworker approaches the lady.

Coworker: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but this is a twenty-one-and-up bar since people are smoking in here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Customer: “But I am twenty-one! I just want lunch!”

Coworker: “Maybe, but she isn’t.” *Motioning towards the child*

Customer: “That’s just stupid! I come here all the time with her!

Coworker: “Not to be disrespectful, but none of my coworkers would allow a child inside and risk us all losing our jobs. I’m asking you to leave, now.”

Customer: “Useless b****. I’m never f****** coming here again!”

She storms out, squealing tires and almost hitting a car as she leaves.

Me: *To my coworker* “Well, that was… interesting.”

Coworker: “Yeah. I’ve only seen her once before. She tried to order alcohol while heavily pregnant. I told her I wasn’t comfortable with that and she said the same thing to me.”

By the way, there was a HUGE sign on our door, at eye level, that says, “Patrons must be 21 or older and able to show ID to enter.” So much for reading, I guess?

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Confusing The Bar Staff? Hold My Beer

, , , | Right | January 28, 2021

I am trying to order a drink.

Me: “Can I please have a Monteiths?”

That’s not what I intended to say. I’ve forgotten the name of the drink I want. It is actually a brand of beer, though. 

Bar Staff #1: “What?”

Me: “Monteiths. You know, the beer.”

Bar Staff #1: “I don’t know what that is.”

Me: “Oh. That’s not actually what I meant. I want that beer. The dark one.”

I click my fingers, trying to remember.

Me: “The one with the stuff on top.”

The bar staff give me blank looks.

Me: “The Irish one. You know…”

I wave my hand vaguely down the road in the direction of an Irish pub, which they don’t click to. A third barman arrives at the bar. His two colleagues look relieved to see him.

Bar Staff #3: “What are you after?”

Me: “That Irish beer.”

Bar Staff #3: “Guinness!”

Me: “Yes!”

Bar Staff #3: “Ah, sorry, we don’t have it.”

Me: “Oh, no. Do you have a similar one? A Porter?”

I’ve just done it again. A London Porter is a name of a beer, not a type of beer.

Bar Staff #3: “You mean a stout?”

I lay my head down on my arms on the bar.

Me: “Yes. Yes, please. Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I’ve just finished work and my brain has stopped working.”

The bar staff grinned and fetched me my drink. The best part? It was happy hour and I got a tap beer and two servings of fries for the table for $8! I love that place.

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