For a good time, please don't call me.

Message received at my MySpace account on Monday at 8:10am:

"Subject: hi

Body:

24 m concord nh , new to the concord area but going to be leaving soon and wanting to get together with a nice gal before i leave for boot camp. your very cute i'd be willing to pay over a grand to hang out with you for an hour or two and i'm dead serious"

My first thought: "I could sure use a grand."

My second thought: "Agh!"

It doesn't seem to be spam. I'd rather not get into the particulars of the dude's profile, as I fear he'll find and kill me. But Jesus H. What, exactly, about my silly MySpace profile indicates that I'd be willing to "hang out for an hour or two" in exchange for money? The unmitigated gall! And don't you try to prey on my patriotism, sir. It'll get you nowhere. Furthermore, if I were to be a hanger-outer-for-an-hour-or-two for hire, I certainly wouldn't deign to "hang out" with a man who doesn't punctuate.

In conclusion, I do not own very cute.

PS. How much more than a grand?

PPS. Just kidding, Mom.

How to Pick Up Your Bartender

It's a full-service establishment around here, and don't you forget it.

Allow me to tell you what to do (and what not to do) when you find yourself smitten with the barmaid (I suppose it could work for the barman as well, but most of the anecdotes that spawned this list are from my experiences and my sister's tales of working behind the bar in Scotland, and we're both ladies, y'see).


First off, I suppose it warrants mentioning that since men seem to find women in the beverage service industry very appealing (guys, correct me if I'm wrong here, but this is what I've heard), so you should probably keep in it in mind that she deals with a lot of douches throwing themselves her way, so you'll need to work pretty hard to prove you're not one of said douches. There are a few easy ways to do this.

1.) Be careful with the tipping. Too little and she thinks you're an asshole. Too much and it seems like you're trying to buy her attention. Always tip fairly ($1 per drink, maybe more for cocktails. Probably lots more if you order sissy cocktails.), with the occasional sympathy over-tip if you go in on a really busy night and feel bad for her. This is something a bartender appreciates over time, which brings me to...

2.) Cultivate status as a "regular." We like regulars. They are comforting. We know they don't get out of control, we know they don't run out on bills, and they're not going to go for the reach-around if we run down to change a keg (all of those things are unappealing in a dude, by the way, so don't do those things). Also, a bartender is much more likely to chat with a regular than some one-off dude who waltzes in and throws a wad of money on the bar and then expects she'll take him home. Also, being a regular means coming in for non-busy hours, which is more conducive to chatting with a non-busy bartender.

3.) You are what you drink (in that we remember what you drink). Don't drink sissy drinks. Nothing with "Breeze" in the name. In fact, you should get into the theme or specialty of the establishment itself. Some young men once asked me to select their beers for them, which was great. It allowed me to nerd out about Julius Echter and Fuller's ESB. Chances are, the bartender enjoys a tipple herself, so it's a nice icebreaker to ask her opinion on a beverage selection. There really is nothing worse than rattling off the tap list and getting hit with the old "I'll just have a Mich Light." I, in my growing beer snobbery, have begun to expand my disdain toward guys who unadventerously go for the Bass Ale... yes, it's a solid beer, but c'mon! Live a little!

4.) You may notice the spot where she's spending a lot of time washing glasses. The sinks may necessitate bending over at the waist. Do not sit in front of that spot. You will be able to see right down her shirt. She will know that you can see right down her shirt. She will find that it creepy if you sit there.

5.) No matter where you're sitting, don't stare. You won't be able to will her into conversation with you. You'll only succeed in augmenting the feeling of being a caged animal. Wait until she comes by to check on you to make light conversation. Once you cultivate the regular status, familiarity will grow and you'll be in business.

6.) Don't get wasted and ambush her. Don't get wasted and stay as she's closing the place down. Don't leave your number unsolicited. If you get wasted, you should probably keep to yourself, because she's going to remember the idiot things you said even if you don't. This harks back to my cardinal rule for picking up chicks: do not be more wasted than she is if you really want to score. This is tricky because bartenders are stone-sober. Or, they're supposed to be (at least in N'Hampshah).

7.) Take a friend. Become regulars together. This will help you to avoid sitting at the bar and silently waiting for her to talk to/look at you (which is creepy.... at all times, you want to avoid being creepy.). I don't tend to engage men who are solo at the bar (fearing the creep factor), but a pair or small group is manageable.

Above all, I think the important thing is that you must crawl before you can walk... befriend before you go for the digits. There are plenty of guys who hit on lady bartenders in alarming ways. Don't be that guy.



As an extra special bonus, I have a few important "Overheard From Behind the Bar" guy-to-girl pick up (or take home) lines that I'd like to share as a cautionary tale (be ye not so ridiculous):

"Mmmm. You smell fertile. No, seriously. That's a compliment."

(I am not making that up. I really overheard that. I very nearly puked into my sink. The sad thing is, the dude had only had two beers. )

"You're gorgeous. I just want you to know that."
"We don't need to have sex. We could just hold each other."
"I'm not just a one-night stand. I need love to get erect."

(These gems are all from one very wasted dude. I am also not making them up. It should be noted that in the latter line, he sort of pronounced it "luuuv." You'll be pleased to know, however, that the gentleman went home alone.)

My opinion matters.

In descending order, my favorite winter ales:

1. Smuttynose Winter Ale - Oddly enough, I first tasted it in Brooklyn. I fervently wish we had it on tap at the bar, but alas. We already have two winter ales, which leads me to...

2. Long Trail Hibernator - Great one. No weird spices or flavorings. We've had it on for a while, and it's consistently popular.

3. Woodstock Inn Brewery Wassail - Not too bad. Again, no flavorings commonly associated with fancypants winter ales. It tastes strong, though the abv isn't on the barrel, so I can't confirm how strong it actually is. I definitely prefer other Woodstock offerings over it, like the Red Rack Ale and Old Man Oatmeal Stout.

And now, the yucky winter ales:

Harpoon Winter Warmer - Ick. Too sweet. I am, for the most part, unimpressed with Harpoon. I really dislike the IPA (I had an awkward moment last week when I ranted againest the Harpoon IPA to a ground of friends and they all looked at me like I'm nuts, because they all inexplicably love the stuff.). It kind of reminds me of Rolling Rock, in that it tastes like beer-flavored soda.

Magic Hat Roxy Rolles - Automatic disdain for being from Magic Hat (though I do like Fat Angel). A customer described it as "tastes like hops and that's about it." This proves my theory that Magic Hat beers are by and large one-note.

That's right. All of the tea.

Jeez. It's pretty chilly out there. Am I right?

I have to say, I hate being a slave to the car, but it sure makes the recent frigid temperatures a little easier to take.

Anyway, you should all congratulate me on surving my bout with the Norwalk Virus, or as we of Harlow's have come to call it, "The Double Dragon" (I'll allow you to explore the possible genesis of that name on your own). It was pretty fucking horrible. Hayley nicknamed me "Corpsey," and everyone in my family offered sympathy and bottles of Coke, all whilst vocally hoping to avoid infection themselves (thanks Mohans!).

"But wait Sheena," you say, "Isn't Norwalk Virus that terrible gastrovomititus thingy that people get on cruises?"

Yes. Yes it is.
"But you're in New Hampshire, right?"

That is correct.

"WTF?"

Well, children. New Hampshire is a lot like a cruise ship. Except fewer people, warmer clothing, and fewer Broadway medley stageshows. Also our soundtrack isn't Iggy Pop.... Yeah, I don't know why Norovirus is running rampant through Southwestern New Hampshire. I expect that I got it because the dirty dirty public comes into the restaurant and spews their diseases all over innocent little me. And then they leave me a lousy tip for my trouble. My handwashing vigilance has increased hundred-fold in the aftermath, let me tell you.

After spending several days weak as a kitten and exhausting all of the HBO OnDemand offerings, I was back in action in time to bowl very badly at our staff holiday gathering (late because we serve the rest of y'all at your staff holiday gatherings) and drink several very restorative Molsons. Between frames, I watched those Pats lose spectacularly in an almost Red Soxly fashion. I hear some people in New England were upset for a few minutes, but now we're mostly all over it. It's my understanding that many of the Patriots were suffering from the Double Dragon whilst preparing for the game against the Colts. If that's true, I must say I feel sorry for them. It was a Herculean labor not to weep like a child when faced with climbing a flight of stairs, so I can't imagine attempting to play that there "American football."

In other news that matters just to me, my iPod has recovered from the iNorwalk iVirus or some such. The cure? Bridget hit it. A lot. And then it came back to life. Huzzah!

Stay with me and next week you'll find a long-overdue post of the instructional variety.

40 lashes with a wet oak leaf... please.

I am back in New Hampshire after a delightful trip to New York. Getting home was a bit of an adventure, involving a dead car battery, AAA, and four and a half hours with non-functioning heat or radio.

Surprisingly, not even the sight of my hands frozen into gnarled blue claws on the steering wheel could get me down, because I started 2007 with The Platza (insert dreamy sigh here).

Tuesday afternoon found me at the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village with Claire and Erin. It was Erin's maiden voyage into the public bath (I'm a big fan), and we two veterans were eager to show her a good time and perhaps sweat out some of those New Year's Eve poisons in the process. We have discovered, in recent months, that the platza is the difference between a good time in the Baths and a superlative bathing experience.

The best thing about the Russian and Turkish Baths is its unfussiness. The changing rooms are separated by a partial wall (such that a dude once called out "God Bless you" when I sneezed), the towels are a dull beige and the staff a somewhat surly bunch of Russians. You can decide whether you want a massage or scrub or whatever when you get into the Baths.

The relaxing unfussiness translates into the treatments as well. The platza is a treatment whereby you allow yourself to be gently beaten with a bunch of soapy oak branches in an extremely hot stone room. Sounds fun, right?

The first time we did it, Claire and I both found it somewhat unpleasant (in a very pleasant way, if you catch my meaning) while it was happening, but fantastic once it was over. You're in the hottest room in the baths, facedown with a towel on your head. The towel is cold, which helps you breathe, but you aren't able to see what's going on and whether the Orthodox Jewish men in there are watching you get scrubbed up and bent around like a pretzel. And the heat. It's so incredibly hot in the Russian sauna, if you take too deep a breath, you wonder if you're going to cook your lungs, and just as you're about to leap up and run screaming away from the bossy Russian man of Mongolian extraction, the hot room, and the voyeurs, the aforementioned bossy man pours cold water over you and you are restored. He cracks your back, scrubs you with leaves, and drags you around the place by the hand like a petulant child, and you let him. It's an overheated, sweaty kind of Stockholm Syndrome.

We knew it'd be different last week when the young man who approached us to offer the treatment smiled. He was barrel-chested, tattooed, and sporting a big gold cross around his neck. We wondered if perhaps he intended to [gently] beat the fear of God into us. We prepared Erin for the torturous element of the Platza. The bossing, the bending, the possibility of burns. Then we sent her in first. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged, mouth agape.

I went next. Instead of bossing, this fellow barely spoke. The same frantic feeling came over me after a few minutes in the heat, followed by the same relief upon a cold dousing. He was gentle at the right times and rough at others. It was all quite.... intimate. Except for an audience of old men.

Reduced to a limp heap of contentment, I found myself wishing I could say "So, can I call you sometime?" in Russian.

When Claire emerged from her turn, my suspicion was confirmed. This guy is the Platza King. No, there is no "happy ending" on offer at the baths. He's all business... but with a smile. And a giant gold cross around his neck.

Praise be.