The Ballad of the Hot Drunken Mess at Bar Seat 2

Hot Drunken Mess: "Are you pregnant?"
Me: "Yes.....?"
Hot Drunken Mess: "Well then you're a bitch and I fucking hate you!"

This is just the beginning of my fun tale with this fine, classy broad earlier this week.

Early in the evening, we get two ladies -- we later figure out that they're mother and daughter -- sitting at the bar. Obviously a little drunk, maybe buzzed, but they start out with a martini apiece. Then more martinis. Time passes, and soon the daughter of the duo, or Hot Drunken Mess -- HDM, if you will -- is sobbing uncontrollably. I mean homegirl is inconsolable. The bartender, from her eavesdropping skills (and later utilizing her gossiping skills with me), figures out that HDM has either had an abortion and is regretting her decision, or had a miscarriage.

Either way, a fetus was involved, but is no longer involved, and now HDM is very sad about it. A sad situation, to be sure, but sitting at a bar (the bar in a pretty upscale Italian restaurant, no less) drunk as shit with your mother is not the place to grieve. To quote Bar Bitch over at Bitter Waitress, " My mom and I usually go to the Waffle House after I get an abortion."

By this point HDM has spotted me -- an innocent bystander by all means, just your friendly dining room server with an all-too-telling bump in the gut. From where she is sitting at the bar, she has full view of the drink station (the only drink station in the restaurant). There is absolutely no way I can avoid HDM as I'm going to and from getting drinks for my tables. I can feel her staring daggers at me as I'm coming and going and finally our little confrontation -- after three martinis' worth of built up courage -- took place.

After that, every time I walked by, she would call me a bitch or a cunt under her breath, apparently very bitter that I was pregnant with a live, living, and continually living fetus, and seemed pretty damn content with myself. (Little did HDM realize I die a little bit inside knowing that I graduated at the top of my college class and yet my only source of income right now is dealing with stupid bitches like her and hoping they are too drunk to scribble anything less than a 20% tip on the credit card slip at the end of the night.)

Not long after she crossed the point of no return -- and between sessions of inconsolable sobbing -- HDM tried to go to the restroom, only to get very lost and wind up in one of our banquet rooms, which was not in use tonight but had dried flowers and other Christmas decorations laid out, ready to be put up in the morning. So she helped herself to making a bouquet, and then proceeded to parade around the restaurant, slurring, stumbling, and yelling obscenities at anyone who gave her a remotely shady eye (because after all, she was ridiculously drunk, and making just a teensy bit of a spectacle of herself).

At this point the manager tried to get her to come sit down again and feed her and pour some coffee down her gaping food hole. She responded to this by trying to kiss him. She was still sitting at the bar with her shining example of a role model of a mother when I left...


Yeah... yeah. Nights like this I go home, stare at my college diploma and cry.