My Life if I Dated My Neighborhood Bartender

As many of you know, I live above my favorite bar in Chicago. Won’t disclose the location in case any of my stalkers (or people I’ve defamed on my blog) are reading and want to come knock on my door with a few lengths of rope and duct tape hidden behind their back.

Anyway, it’s gotten to the point where rather than sitting around upstairs cleaning, reading or doing other productive things (like making healthy meals from my friend Victoria’s blog, Dahlicious), I’ll immediately change into my skinny jeans and a casual-but-still-sexy t-shirt and run downstairs to see “what’s going on” if I’m bored. It’s gotten so bad my mom now calls me “Madame Bijoux”…you know, the old lady Leonardo DiCaprio discusses in “Titanic” who “used to sit at the bar in all her finery, waiting for her long lost love…”

Yes, my mom thinks I’m a lonely drunk. All I can say is, I wish that were true. I usually end up sitting there, drinking water, eventually caving in and ordering fried chicken. Not sure which is worse.

Naturally when you frequent a place, you get to know the staff, and that’s where this blog post comes in.

I have a slight crush on my neighborhood bartender.

Anyone who knows me knows I typically gravitate towards douchebags who wear backwards hats and slam beer cans against their heads. Having played sports in college is a minimum requirement; male chauvinist views are preferred. Hey, the heart wants what it wants.

But my bartender, I’ll call him Mike, is so not that guy. Mike is a hipster. GASP. He has like, a stylized haircut that is all swoopy, and he wears tight-ish pants and jean jackets from Salvation Army. He has gage earrings. If you don’t know what those are, they are those semi-tribal looking pieces of like, wood (???) that you stick through your earlobe. To have gage earrings requires a commitment of permanent earlobe disfigurement, which is obviously a commitment someone like me could never make. I don’t think they manufacture pearl gages.

Back to Mike. Mike is tall (a requirement), muscular (how??? Does he haul cases of PBR for exercise?) and plays in a band. I think he has feelings.

Wait, men can have feelings?

Mike is so damn sexy. Here are further reasons to prove my point:

  1. I have never seen him spill ANYTHING. Non-klutz? Sexy.
  2. He eats apples at 2 am on Saturdays when everyone is drunk. Yes, he eats apples while he works. Who is this guy? I didn’t even know guys ate apples. This unexpected act = sexy.
  3. He eats salads and doesn’t look like a total wimp doing it. Sexy.
  4. He wears a necklace with a skull on it. Normally I would laugh at this, but on him, it works. I like to imagine he bought it in New Orleans from some voodoo priestess during a feast of the autumnal equinox. If that exists. Anyway…SEXY.

I have fantasies of what my life would be like if I dated Mike. Would I become one of those girls who has a record player, wears exclusively black and owns combat boots? Would we spend our Saturdays eating brunch at places with vegan options? Would I start to take fedoras seriously? Would he encourage me to buy a canvas and express myself through painting? Would we do the New York Times crossword puzzle together and go to movies at independent movie theaters? Would I become one of those people who refuses plastic bags at the grocery store because I brought my own eco-friendly, reusable ones?

The possibilities are endless!

Mike is the type of guy who would probably be happy to do an arts and crafts project with me, as long as it didn’t involve sorority letters and rhinestones, which until now, almost all my projects have involved. Maybe we could repurpose vintage t-shirts into blankets for African kids or make candles from natural ingredients.

I imagine we would take trips to places of significant cultural relevance. I do not think Mike would like to rip shots at a club in Vegas or tolerate my reading InTouch Weekly by a pool in Cabo. I’m guessing he would want to visit an ashram in India or something. Maybe for a winter vacation we could, err, go hang out with his friends who are snowboarding instructors in Breckenridge? If we did that, I guarantee we would NOT hang out at the overpriced touristy bars at night. His friends would know some local watering hole and probably manufacture craft beer in their basements. Naturally we would drink this and whiskey, pretty much exclusively.

Food: no more ramen noodles and take-out for me. Because he is entirely comfortable with his sexuality, Mike and I would most likely visit the farmers market and select some seasonal produce for a healthy stir-fry. Maybe, once in awhile, just to be ironic, we’d eat at Taco Bell. OLE!

Unfortunately, none of this will ever happen, because Mike has already made sweet, philosophical love (guys like him DO NOT “have sex”) with a friend of mine.

Womp womp.

Back to backwards hats.


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