Saturday we had a small going away party for some friends of ours. They’re moving back to LA after two years of this [shitty weather] northwest experience. I thought I’d help out since it was a last minute party and offered to bring some beer. I mean, comon, you need beer at a party for bloggers. Or anyone, for that matter.
I stopped at the brewery to pick up a growler of local fare.
“Can I see your ID?”
Sure you can. Thank you for asking. Oh, hon, you’re just so lovely.
Let me find it here. Hang on.
Ok, it’s in here somewhere.
No, I don’t know where else it would be. It would be HERE. HERE IN MY PURSE.
It’s gotta be here. One more check.
Ok, look, I’m thirty-five. Can I just have the beer?
“No, Ma’am, I need to scan your ID”
Look, you just called me MA’AM. That should work, right?
“No, I can’t let you have the beer.”
DUDE. I have grey hair! Do you see this body? THIS IS A WOMAN’S BODY, not a girl, not a young, mid, late twenties. Hell, not even early thirties. I’m Mid-Life now. AND I NEED BEER.
“Yea, no, we can’t do that. I’m sorry.”
The people behind me are starting to foam at the mouth. Their beer is within reach and this lady, THIS OLD LADY, is arguing to get her damn beer from a 19 year old who probably isn’t even old enough to be in the bar.
Gah. Fine. But I’ll remember this!
I leave empty handed and head to the party. I relay the story. People think I should be flattered. “It’s flattering! They thought you were young!” It’s a load of crap but it’s nice.
Thankfully there was plenty of beer at the party already so no bunnies got punched in the face.
Just to prove we’re the kind of rad people who send our friends off to California all proper, I even gave Tricia a lap dance.
‘Cause that’s what we do when we’re old. And I did it better than a 19 year old.
———————In other news———————-
I’d like to congraluate my parents on their official marriage. They tied the knot via facebook this morning.
All I have to say is thank you for being such a great example to your grown children. It’s about fucking time.