I think being kept on hold for 52 minutes can drive a person to drink, don’t you?
Have I mentioned losing my health insurance due to a nine dollar deficit?
So, what else does a girl do when everything she can possibly think of goes wrong all at once? She dips into her Con-Ed money, that’s what. I thought…what the hell. Since my heat is still on the fritz, I need something to warm me up…
consider it rationale in stemware.
Nineteen dollars for a glass of Merlot…
NINETEEN DOLLARS…YIKES…I know, it’s criminal, but that’s what it costs to sit alongside businessmen with expense accounts and bored women in fur coats.
Since it’s only 2 in the afternoon, the bar is empty except for myself, a bald man bulging out of his vest blabbing on his cell, and a beautiful young girl dripping in designer dress..blonde, willowy, her legs wrapped around the base of her barstool like long strips of Saltwater Taffy with wrists hung heavily with bling clutching an iPhone.
I especially notice a sable coat clinging to her slinky shoulders making me wonder…has she any idea how many animals went into that furry wrap of hers? I’m sure not, and by the looks of her, wouldn’t care anyway. She’s either a mistress, hooker or a debutante. There’s no way she’s a model since there isn’t enough whimsy to be had. Models tend to push the envelope fashion wise with leopard tights winking beneath blazing blazers, or bras worn without much of a blouse, despite ice hanging from their…
This young lady, preening in her 20s, is donned too slick, as if she stepped off the French Riviera.
Fatso, who I want to slam he’s so loud, has no interest in her. She’s sitting there like an expensive plant waiting to be watered while he talks to a guy named Herb. “Herb, wish ah cud meecha for a round-a golf ole may-en...it’s ca-old hea up nath. If ah cun wray-up thangs up fay-est… Heelton Hay-ed, hea ah cum.“
How bout wrapping them up now goober, I think, eating stale chips. How can a hotel that charges this much for a glass of wine not serve fresh snacks. I told the new barmaid, Joan who looks more like a Joe, if you know what I mean…but she said, “Sorry, it’s all I have.”
I devour them like a stray cat not eating them for so long since I’m not supposed to have salt. The noise in my ears went from a low hum to Cape Canaveral without passing go. Yes, salt is very bad for Tinnitus…make a note.
I perch in my corner. Imagine a canary on a swing humming show tunes. When Joan comes over to see if I need anything she says, “You’ve just reminded me, there’s no music on.”
Jazz piped overhead at least drowns out the golfer who finally realizes, he’s not alone. He turns his ample frame outward so now we have a full-frontal glimpse of his rotund tummy splaying Harris tweed down the middle. I so want to say, maybe a vest isn’t the best look for you, but of course, don’t.
The blonde, once he got off his phone jumped on hers but is being very quiet about it. She may even be faking a call so she doesn’t have to converse with fatty who’s now salivating like a St. Bernard.
Men…she’s only been sitting there close to an hour wasting away…women like her need chronic attention or they take their bar business elsewhere….TAXI.
I blame it all on Herb.
Then a family of four storms in, well five if you count the sled. I sit there in my best Connecticut wondering how they could bring something so inappropriate into a five-star hotel bar. Wet snow pants are bad enough. The adults order Irish coffee and hot chocolate for the children, whipped cream all around. The sled gets a bar towel. Joe, I mean Joan who does everything but a soft-shoe to please, runs into the restaurant to order it.
What are we, at the lodge?
I’m sorry…I need another glass of vino, three actually, but unless I’m willing to flirt with fatty, I’m just plain out of luck. If I spend anymore of my Con Edison money, I’ll be without lights and a girl, especially a thin one, has to think ahead.