Sober in State College: My First Hormonal Meltdown

Brian and I shared a fun weekend with four of my THON friends from college and their spouses. Although we both had our doubts about my patience spending an entire weekend in a town full of drunken college kids, surrounded by my drunken friends, I not only survived the weekend, but I actually really had a lot of fun. We took advantage of the opportunity to do a few sober things we rarely do on visits back to our alma mater, like stroll through the HUB, visit the renovated commons building I lived next to for two years, window shop downtown and walk around THON for more than just a minute.

All-in-all, it was a really nice weekend spent laughing, reminiscing and catching up with people we wish we saw more often.

However, the weekend did also feature one not-so-pleasant moment for me, when I totally lost control and became a crazy irrational pregnant psycho.

Imagine this: me, lips quivering uncontrollably and tears streaming down my face faster than I can wipe them away. When? At midnight, Saturday night. Where? In the Adams Apple, while about a dozen or so people enjoying sins watched uncomfortably, all trying to avoid my gaze.

And now for the best part. Why? Because the bartender refused me a cup of hot decaf tea.

However, since this meltdown was the unfortunate culmination of a number of frustrations, lemme back up a few hours to Bar Bleu, where my patience was first tested.

We get to the bar around 9 p.m., to order some food before hitting another bar or two. Upon opening the door, we're greeted by a bouncer requesting a $3 cover from each of us to enter this martini/sports bar. Of course I'm a little miffed, since we're just there to eat, we plan to leave before the band begins and we're never even going to step foot downstairs, where the band is to play. So basically, the bar is requesting nearly $30 from us, to allow us the priviledge of paying for food and beverages in their establishment. Whatever, if it's fine with everyone else, it's fine with me.

After shelling out $3, I sit down and make what I think is a pretty simple request, a glass of grapefruit juice. Our cocky little weasel-shit of a server tells me he's pretty sure they don't "have any of that," so I get a water and quietly begin to simmer. Convinced that the weasel-shit doesn't know what he's talking about -- I mean seriously, this is a bar that never serves a seabreeze or greyhound? -- I ask Brian if he'll check with the bartender. He does, and she confirms we've found the one effing bar in the world that doesn't carry the single mixology staple that appeals to me at the moment.

Alright, everyone else is enjoying their drinks, so I suck it up and stick with water. Hopefully the menu has something appealing to offer.

Wrong. The menu has not a single item that appeals to me. To illustrate, here are just a few of the samplings: a "pig plate" of pulled pork, ribs and some other oink specialty; a platter of sausages and deep-fried pierogies; and buffalo wings. Absolutely nothing that would do for me. But everyone else is excited to try the fried and barbequed vittles, so I assure Brian I'm really not all that hungry anyway, he should order and we should both enjoy the conversation. All the while I silently steam some more. Everyone else sucks down their own $7 individual pitchers of Jack-and-Cokes.

Eventually everyone else at the table joins me in my pissed offedness, however, when after ONE AND ONE HALF HOURS, NO FOOD HAS YET ARRIVED. Did I mention we're the ONLY TABLE IN THE PLACE THAT ORDERED FOOD? Someone inquires about the food, weasel-shit brings out utensils and promises the food is coming right out. It does come shortly, and EVERY SINGLE PLATE IS COLD. I'm not talking luke-warm-because-it's-been-sitting-under-a-crappy-heat-lamp-for-10-minutes-cold, I'm taking just-pulled-it-from-the-refrigerator-cold. Forks are thrown down, hands are thrown up, and weasel-shit consoles us by saying "yeah, it's actually all the kitchen's fault." Oh, and he makes things right by telling us the manager has already taken $20 off our bill. Since each plate costs more than $10, a couple of members of our group inform weasel-shit that solution just won't do, and that we need to see the manager.

Enter manager, a chubby weasel-shit who has spiked hair and maybe two years on weasel-shit-the-first. He does the best he can do in a situation spiraling towards disaster (Remember the really cheap booze? That's all that has been consumed over the past two hours, at the pace only a bunch of 30 year-olds acting like 21 year-olds can achieve), and takes all the food charges off our bill while bringing out new platters of fried food. Turns out Bar Bleu had just started offering this new menu, which somehow affects the hours of the kitchen, and the kitchen staff had closed up for the night at some point during the process of preparing our orders. It doesn't make a bit of sense, but it's the only excuse the manager offered.

Everyone else seems content with their cold, yet free, dinners, however, I'm still pissed at having paid $3 to sit and watch everyone else wait for cold food. So I demand our covers back on top of the comped food, and the manager sheepishly agrees. Next thing you know, the bouncer is walking around the table counting out three one dollar bills for each of us.

By this point the crowd for the downstairs band is starting to form, so the front door is constantly opening and closing. Since our table is right in front of the door, I'm getting a horrible draft every 45 seconds. So I call another server over and ask if she could get me a cup of hot tea. Don't know what the hell I was expecting, but I'm sure you guessed it: the cover-charging, no-grapefruit-juice-carrying, weasel-shit employing, cold-food serving suck-ass bar carries no tea.

Finally, we leave. Never, ever to return. We head to an old favorite, the Adam's Apple, so that every one else can enjoy sins in all their liquor and champagne goodness, while we all sit by the fireplace and chat.

And here's where it gets nasty. I approach the bar just moments after Fitz and Claffee, so I patiently wait as the bartender stirs up a sin for each of them and their wives. While he's mixing, however, blondie pops up to the bar, right next to me. It becomes obvious that the bartender knows this chick, as he starts ribbing her about getting past the bouncers underage. I take a quick peek, and this chick has got to be 40. But she's flirting with the bartender, so as soon as he finishes the sins for my friends, he asks her what he can get her. At this point I think my ears actually started smoking, because, again, I had been waiting patiently, next in line.

This old cougar makes a drink request the likes of which I have NEVER heard, in my 13 years of bartending. Leaning over the bar and with all the class and tact you can imagine approprite for such an order, she asks him for a labia splitter, a shot she's apparently had a few of somewhere else tonight. He retorts by telling her just where she can find his labia splitter, and the two engage in the kind of vulgar banter I'd never expect at the bar connected to the effing Tavern. I swear to all that is holy this is the God's honest truth because I could never in my life make this shit up.

I think I must have looked like I was going to explode at that point, because the bartender finally moved over to me and asked me what he could get me. I asked for a sin for Brian and a cup of hot tea for me. He tells me they don't have tea, and I tell him I'm sure they do, as all it requires is hot water from the coffee station and I'd be happy to dunk my own tea bag. Smart ass tells me there is no one to get me hot water or a tea bag, since the restaurant closed an hour earlier.

I give up, literally throwing my hands up in the air, and I walk away from the bar while Brian retrieves and pays for his sin. Next thing I know, my eyes are burning, and I have completely lost any semblance of control, as my friends begin to notice I'm now bawling and failing miserably at disguising my breakdown by pretending to check my phone. Brian tried to console me, and I assured him that I knew my reaction was completely irrational and that I wasn't really crazy, I was just acting like it and couldn't stop at the moment. Looking panicked, he brought Erin over to talk to me as he begged a couple of teenage bus boys to do anything they could to find tea for the crazy crying pregnant lady. They stuck with the bartender and told him there was just no way for them to get tea at midnight.

After a brief chat with Erin, I regained my composure and rejoined the group for another hour or so of jokes and stories.

And I think I'll probably call the owner of the Tavern this week to let him know of my experience. Why? Because after a decade and a half of working in restauratns, I just don't buy the line of shit that hot water ceases to become available when food stops coming out of the kitchen. I think the staff was lazy, and I think Pat should know.

Oh, and for what it's worth, I'd rather never see the inside of a Penn State bar again while pregnant. Turns out it's not a town that caters to the non-drinking crowd. And let's face it, Nittany Lion Country is always just a little smoother around the edges when you have a solid buzz on.

Regardless, it was a great weekend with great friends.