$10

On the occasional Friday, I head over to a bar affectionately known as O's. It's your standard variety Irish Bar, albeit with football memorabilia hanging from the rafters and covering every available surface. By football, I mean American football, not soccer, which would be the expected choice in an Irish bar. That, or cricket bats hanging everywhere. Though that could prove dangerous... Providing drunk Irish-wannabes with bats seems like a bad idea.

FYI, cricket is not the "good craic" that my Commonwealth-y* friends promised it to be. It is boring, lasts for days-- literally--, and has ridiculous rules. I say this as someone who has actually watched the sport. I spent the longest two hours of my life watching a match from the window of my broken down bus in India. The sweltering heat probably didn't do a great deal to endear the sport to me.

Anyway, back to O's. The "regulars" that frequent O's are quite a motley crew. It really is a "Where everybody knows your name" kind of place and not because the guys still have on work shirts with their names across the pocket. Unfortunately, the bartender doesn't look like Ted Danson, he could pass for his great-grandfather though.  Aside from us, there are lawyers, office workers, construction workers, techy nerdy guys (swoon), the random straggler (who for some unknown reason often ends up at our table...), and the guy who helped me move a chair into my storage unit when my old very helpful boyfriend refused.

It is a veritable OC Melting Pot.

Unfortunately, for me I am more often than not melting with Mr. Not-Quite-Right. I'm not sure what it is about this particular bar that makes men stick to me like lint on my favorite black pants. It certainly isn't because I have worn my cutest outfit and freshened up my make-up. By Friday I am usually haggard looking and often dirty as I tend to save all my climbing around in electrical rooms for the end of the week as prep work for the next week. Could be that I am often in the biological minority? Or that I am at a table of dudes who are clearly not in the boyfriend camp? (According to the wise people at Seventeen magazine this makes me seem like a fun girl who can be just one of the guys. I was reading Seventeen in line at Ralph's, stop judging). Maybe it's the bad lighting?  Whatever I am putting out, Mr. Wrong is loving.  

Note to self: figure out what that is and change it. Immediately.

On this particular Friday I am standing at the bar ordering a pitcher of Coor's Light. That's right, we are fancy. I also order myself a cider since I can only drink so much mildly-beer flavored water. Great, now I sound like Sonny Macaulay.

While I wait on the pitcher and my cider another patron whose name I never bothered to find out asks me where my "lovely accent is from?"

I wanted to say "Behind the at on preposition street," but decided not to be snarky since he did seem nice. I reply, "Kentucky."

"Kentucky! What are you doing out here?"
"I took a new job out here a few months ago. Where are you from?"
"Guess," he says while migrating down a few bar stools closer to me.

Really dude? This is your line. Guess where I am from, strange girl in the bar? I JUST told you I JUST moved to California. I can find three things; my apartment, my office, the beach! Frankly, it's a little unfair to count the beach as you simply drive west and eventually you will hit it.

"Ummm... Are you from California?"
"Yeah, but where?"
"Orange county?" Seriously... we are playing the where am I from guessing game? Third grade called, they want their game back. By now the beer has arrived, but my cider is still no where in sight. I contemplate surrendering it just to get away from Guess-My-Town-Man, but realize I haven't paid and don't really want to be asked to leave the bar because I have stolen a pitcher of beer.

"Telling you the county makes it too easy. I'll tell you I'm from Southern California."
"San Diego? Santa Barbara?"
"Between the two."

Grrrreat... You have given me about 350 square miles from which to pick a place from where you might be. Gee, this is really so much fun stranger at the bar. 

"City of Orange? Dana Point? Encino?"
"Closer with City of Orange."
Thank goodness the bill finally arrived and I hand the bartender my debit card.

"Ok. How about this?" says Mr. Wrong as he pulls a $10.00 bill from his wallet. "If you can guess the city I am from I'll give you ten bucks."

Now we are cooking with gas. At least I stand to gain $10 for suffering through this spectacle, which will buy to pitcher's of Coor's Light...

"Tustin? Irvine? Rancho Margarita? Los Angeles?"
"Closer to LA, but you have to get it right to win the money"
"Glendale? Monrovia? Santa Monica? I really don't know anywhere else...Oh wait, Pasadena?"

This is becoming exhausting and the $10 is growing less appealing. Remember, I have a table full of guys who could have come to rescue me at any time. Did they? NO. They preferred to laugh at me and claim it looked like I was having fun.

"Nope."

At this moment Jorge arrives at my side and offers to take the pitcher of beer back to the table.
"Don't leave me!" I hiss as he walks away.

So there I am waiting on my cider, which has been paid for, but never materializes because Rip Van Bartender has forgotten about it apparently. I feel like Danny Zukko when he sings Stranded at the Drive-In. Except I am not the one being branded as a fool.

Left with no other option I say, "Is it north LA county?"
"No, it's southwestish. There is an exit for it off the 5."
"Hmmm... Is it Inglewood?"
"No, do I look like gangster?"
"I have no idea what LA gangster look like. I'm new here."

"Oh Darling! I'm sorry I forgot your cider!" exclaims Rip Van Bartender.
Yes, you did and I now hold you responsible for the worst bar pick-up of my life. Instead I say "Yes you did, but I knew you would remember eventually!" *Thicker accent that usual, plus big smile*

"Alright, well it has been nice talking to you. I better get back to my friends." I say stepping away from the bar.
"You still haven't figured out where I am from! One more guess!"
I'm sorry you are under the impression that I care...
"I really have guessed every place I know the name of out here."
"It begins with a D."
"Downey?" I say more because I am going through what I need from the store than actually guessing.
"Yep! I'm from Downey."
"Alright. Give me my money."
"It took you too many guesses."
"That wasn't part of the deal."
"Okay, tell you what. I will use this $10 to buy you a drink."
"I already have a drink."
"Fine I'll buy you your next one."
"There won't be a next one. I have to drive home."
"Alright. I'll save this $10 and buy you a drink when I see you here next week."

Oh goody! I can't wait. Can we then play guess what car I drive or when I was born?


*Commonwealth-y applies to the Queen's Commonwealth, not the Kentucky Commonwealth. I know alot of you thought I was talking about the great bluegrass state. Understandably so, we are crazy about cricket.