I met up with my friend Stacey last night for some drinks. It had been about a year and a half since we hung out, so it was kind of a dorky mini-reunion type thing which was totally spoiled and tossed out for the maggots by the bartender of the Apple Inn.

When I chose to meet her there, my rationale was, “My boycott of the Apple Inn has been going on for nine years now. I think that’s a long enough run.” It’s right down the street from my house, so it could have made for a very convenient place to get shit-faced, and then get mistaken for a hooker on my walk home.

However, after I graduated bartending school, I tried to get a job there, and that sort of threw a wrench in any chance of making the Apple Inn my own personal Cheers. The owner, Rob, held me prisoner in a booth for nearly an hour, drilling me, slashing my flesh with his rapist eyes, only to tell me at the end of the interview that he wasn’t hiring girls. I distinctly remember him squeezing my shoulders on my way out and how my sex drive fossilized right then and there.

Rob is also the bartender and for the hour Stacey and I sat at the bar, he did little more than growl at us. Then he acted all aghast when Stacey shouted her beer order to him so he would hear over top of his personal phone call (on which he explained, “Sorry I’m trying to serve these two girls” in an irritated tone). His presence alone made me hunker in my stool, shoulders scrunched.

At one point, Stacey said “sex” at least thirty times in one sentence, which probably set off some kind of bell at the Playboy Mansion, and I was silently begging her to talk about chastity and menstruation and yeast infections so Rob and the two older men at the bar would put their dicks down.

That guy is lecherous. I bet he has a date rape scrapbook.

I was burning to bounce.

Plus, my amaretto sours were some of the worst I’ve ever had.Clearly, nine years is not long enough.

We closed our tab after an hour and walked up to Tom’s DIner for food. I asked the waitress what kind of desserts were on the current, and in a bored tone she pointed over her shoulder and said, “They’re all up there in the dessert case.” So I had to WALK ALL THE WAY UP THERE (I know, right? And half-drunk in heels, too; oh the injustice) only to not know what anything was, so I just ordered cherry pie because it was the only thing I could identify and it was easier than ordering “that chocolate thing with the chocolate stuff”. Taking my pie order, she then asked me if I wanted chocolate syrup on it. No, not today.But thanks.

The waitress never came back on her own accord to offer refills, so Stacey had to keep calling her over. “I feel like a bitch just for asking for a refill,” she laughed.

And when the waitress DID come over, she had no qualms about interrupting our convo, when I was trying to discuss very important matters of the heart, such as kick ball and my cat Marcy.

When I was a waitress for a day, I NEVER did that.

On our way out, Stacey told her to have a nice night and I hissed, “Don’t tell her that! I don’t want her to have a good night.”

Then I came home and was treated like the proper princess I am by my favorite waiter, Henry.