Girls Who Drink and the Men Who Love Them; Also, The Big Three Killed My Sunday

Okay, I have several new adventures to post, but my wife requested this one, so it moves to the top of the playlist. 


As Catherine illustrated in her blog, on Saturday we went browsing a bar-ware store while waiting for our car to get fixed (new brakes and fluid-flushing).  Before my very eyes, my own basement pub appeared…greens and blacks and Guinness signs and lamps and Guinness and Guinness and Guiiinnnnnesssss–




So yeah, as my basement land-of-the-leprachauns/home-of-the-Cubs played out in multi-colored, foamy splendor before my fevered eyes, we found the personalized bar-ware.  I’m a total sucker for this stuff.   Slap my name on it and I’m awkstruck, and I have no idea even why.  Example:


“Why the hell does that sign on your door say ‘Chris’s Sausage Biscuits and Leather Tanning’?”


“Because it’s awesome.  Look.  There’s my name, see?”


So needless to say, the personalized coasters and pint glasses with various pub-like designs met with my immediate approval.  There were coasters with fake family crests, shamrocks, Guinness turtles, Bills, Bobs, Edwards, Jonathans, Daniels…


…but no Chris.  Where was my name? 


Furthermore, as Catherine then pointed out to me, where were the girls?  She was right: there were no female names on any of the personalized bar signs.


Now, I’ve seen girls drink.  I know it happens.  I’ve done Irish Car Bombs with Classless and Poorreception, been served picture-perfect pints of Guinness by female bartenders who ran circles around their male counterparts (for example, Rusty at the James Joyce Pub in Berwyn, Illinois – my favorite bar of all time), and generally seen as many women as men get plastered beyond all hope of coherence.  So, what’s the story here?  Was it considered improper somehow for a girl to have her own coasters? 


Or, maybe more importantly – is the whole equality thing not really something that the bar-ware makers want to acknowledge because it doesn’t jive with the oversexualizing of bar culture in general?  Here’s what I mean: everywhere we turned in this same store, there were giant cardboard displays (all for sale, I might add) of frighteningly buxom, porn-star-wanna-be models wrapped not-so-subtlely around steins, mugs, pitchers, pints, bottles, cans, clap your hands…if it held liquid, they were straddling it.  Now, god knows, I can appreciate an attractive woman.  But this giant display mascot thing is a phenom I don’t really get: what purpose do they serve?  If you’re buying them, presumably because it’s your “ideal woman,” meaning that you don’t yet have your ideal woman…you’re still busted, because she’s cardboard, bro.  Are these like, surrogate bar mates/waitresses for your home entertainment area, for those special nights when it just doesn’t matter?


“Shhhhhteve.  Look.  *hiccup*  Look a’her.  She’shhh staring at me.  Whole lashht hour.  By the TV.  I’nnnn gonna hit that ‘fore y’end’a night, I shhhhwear to god.”


I mean, there aren’t a lot of directions that can really go.  And call me crazy, but I don’t generally go looking for sex with my beer.  When I want a Guinness, I want a Guinness.  As soon as possible.  I don’t really care who the hell is serving it to me as long as it’s cold and delicious and as long as that person is still there when I want another. 


(Note: this whole thing kinda goes along with the weird “sexy girls with guns” phenomenon.  Like, the obsession with Lara Croft – I still haven’t been able to figure out what’s sexy about the possibility of being shot with a semi-automatic assault rifle.)


Anyway – I won’t be buying my bar stuff at this particular place.  Because Catherine is just as excited for this basement bar as I am, and I could tell that, even though we were joking around about it, the fact that she couldn’t get Leinie’s HoneyWeiss bee coasters with CATHERINE embossed on his fat little thorax hurt her feelings a little.  And you don’t hurt my wife’s feelings.  You. Do. Not. 


So I decided to get to the bottom of the bar room sexism.  I called the store this morning. 


And their number is not in service. 


So either Catherine got to them first through more nefarious means or the owner hasn’t paid the bill.  But I won’t fault him.  Maybe he was getting lucky with one of his cardboard chambermaids and just forgot. 




Oh, car troubles. 


Alright.  I’ve changed spark plugs, oil, all that.  And I went to school so I wouldn’t have to do that for a living.  For all I really know about cars, in spite of the few repairs I’ve actually done, my car could be powered by magic fucking beans that sprout from their shells with wings attached to carry me down the road.  “Struts,” in my mind, have nothing to do with cars.  A strut is what my wife does in her new heels. 


So don’t get me wrong – I value mechanics greatly.  But Henry Rollins once did a bit about people who were inefficient being “time murderers” and murdering the time of those who had their act together.  I trot this out on various occasions, and many of those have involved a car.  Mechanics are often the ultimate time murderers.  Yesterday?  Constituted a massacre.


And let me be clear: condescending mechanics will burn in hell.   Condescending mechanics who are condescending to my wife?  Will burn in a deeper hell.   


~ by thismarriedguy on February 23, 2009.

One Response to “Girls Who Drink and the Men Who Love Them; Also, The Big Three Killed My Sunday”

  1. What the hell? You can’t get a beer stein that says “Chrissy is awesome?” Fuck that noise.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: