Under My Skin
After I pick out the temporary ball closure ring I want, the woman in the East Village shop sterilizes the skin, and my friend Molly, who's been through this before, holds my hand while I close my eyes.
"This is going to sting a little, so hold still."
Click.
"Motherfucker!" I say through gritted teeth, and the woman slides the ring through, then shows me how to close it. The pain fades pretty quickly, but it's definitely worse than when I got my ears done. And just like that, I have a pierced navel.
Molly and I take advantage of the pretty good weather and wander up to Gramercy, where we hit the Grand Saloon to grab an early dinner, and catch up on each other's lives for the first time in many months. We know each other from my job in publishing a few years ago, and she still comes into the Bar sometimes for "editorial lunches," but she's moved on to a different publishing company, where she seems to be doing pretty well. I tell her all about the blog, and she's pretty tickled by the whole thing.
"Do people who work at other bars know about it?" Molly asks at one point.
"Sure, there are barmaids and other service folks all over the world reading it."
"That's wild!" She shakes her head, then points at the guy behind the Grand Saloon's bar. "Do you think he reads it?"
"Ha!" I think about it. "You know, I don't remember ever seeing a comment from someone who said he or she was working at a bar in New York City. But I'd figure just with the sheer odds, there'd have to be some, right?"
"You ought to find a way to make sure everyone who tends bar or serves drinks in New York City knows about it. I'll bet they'd be really loyal readers."
"Maybe, but remember, I'm trying to avoid people figuring out who I am or what bar I work in. I can't exactly send a postcard to every bar, or drop hand-written notes all over town."
Molly winds a finger through the frizzy, ridiculously unruly hair she's had since I've known her, and she frowns. "Business cards?"
"Eh."
The waitress finally brings our beers, and throws a couple of coasters onto the table before setting down the glasses. I take a long pull on mine, and nearly inhale some of it when Molly slams her hand down on the table. She grabs my coaster and holds it up to my face.
Mike's Holiday Survival Tip #46
Why spend hours looking for a gift when the
transit authority has plenty of free maps.
She turns it over, and there's a Mike's Hard Lemonade logo.
"Cute," I say, a little confused.
Molly puts her head in her other hand and shakes it. Then she reaches into her purse, pulls out a marker, and writes something on her napkin, then slaps it on top of the coaster and holds it back up to my face.
Read The Damn
Barmaid Blog
Hah! I think to myself, and then I say, "Hah!"
"This is going to sting a little, so hold still."
Click.
"Motherfucker!" I say through gritted teeth, and the woman slides the ring through, then shows me how to close it. The pain fades pretty quickly, but it's definitely worse than when I got my ears done. And just like that, I have a pierced navel.
Molly and I take advantage of the pretty good weather and wander up to Gramercy, where we hit the Grand Saloon to grab an early dinner, and catch up on each other's lives for the first time in many months. We know each other from my job in publishing a few years ago, and she still comes into the Bar sometimes for "editorial lunches," but she's moved on to a different publishing company, where she seems to be doing pretty well. I tell her all about the blog, and she's pretty tickled by the whole thing.
"Do people who work at other bars know about it?" Molly asks at one point.
"Sure, there are barmaids and other service folks all over the world reading it."
"That's wild!" She shakes her head, then points at the guy behind the Grand Saloon's bar. "Do you think he reads it?"
"Ha!" I think about it. "You know, I don't remember ever seeing a comment from someone who said he or she was working at a bar in New York City. But I'd figure just with the sheer odds, there'd have to be some, right?"
"You ought to find a way to make sure everyone who tends bar or serves drinks in New York City knows about it. I'll bet they'd be really loyal readers."
"Maybe, but remember, I'm trying to avoid people figuring out who I am or what bar I work in. I can't exactly send a postcard to every bar, or drop hand-written notes all over town."
Molly winds a finger through the frizzy, ridiculously unruly hair she's had since I've known her, and she frowns. "Business cards?"
"Eh."
The waitress finally brings our beers, and throws a couple of coasters onto the table before setting down the glasses. I take a long pull on mine, and nearly inhale some of it when Molly slams her hand down on the table. She grabs my coaster and holds it up to my face.
Mike's Holiday Survival Tip #46
Why spend hours looking for a gift when the
transit authority has plenty of free maps.
She turns it over, and there's a Mike's Hard Lemonade logo.
"Cute," I say, a little confused.
Molly puts her head in her other hand and shakes it. Then she reaches into her purse, pulls out a marker, and writes something on her napkin, then slaps it on top of the coaster and holds it back up to my face.
Read The Damn
Barmaid Blog
Hah! I think to myself, and then I say, "Hah!"