my life with bartender

letter twenty

2011-08-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

11.3.2010

Dear Bar Owner,

you had your first official shift last night. i tried to stay awake until after closing, so i could call you and see how it all panned out after we last spoke, at the beginning of the shift, when the hum of the television and friends could be heard in the background, behind your nervous and hopeful voice. with only four hours of sleep from the night before in my reserve, however, i fell fast asleep around 9. fighting a bossy cold. i texted you as soon as the weight of impending slumber tugged at my eyelids. i woke at 12:22 for a few seconds. thought of you. wondered if you had closed or were staying open until 1. fleeting thoughts. fast asleep soon thereafter.

i woke to a quiet house save the television. bumbled around our home. acknowledged the strangeness of leaving lights on and prepping for the day without care of the sounds such kitchen fumbles made. usually, while you sleep through my morning routine, there's no illumination. unmatched socks and spots of bread mold have been the results of such timid morning practices. not so today.

as soon as i arrive at my desk from the first chilled morning of the season, i text you. do tell me of your shift. call me when you wake. and, you do. it goes something like:

i felt fine last night, but every morning i wake now, i'm nervous again, feel like i could throw up. just hearing your voice though, calms me down. our friends came by. friends of friends too. some curious stragglers. my mom - she told me she hopes that next week i have wine glasses and better wine than the sutter home small bottles. someone who works at a local restaurant was happy that the bar was open again. previous owners had been closing at 5. friends commented on how the beast of a jukebox being gone and the red walls were already lending a new air to the room. still nervous though. need to hire more people. we don't have the funds available yet to do so...

i tell you how i've started a separate blog to detail this new life. you laugh at that. we soon end the conversation. you promise to send photos of the progress. i assure you that you are only two days in. it'll get better once the old sign is down and ours is launched. when we put trees out front. when we stay open to certain times each night. become reliable for patrons. i'll launch a facebook page. handle the marketing. get the word out.

just before we hang up you say, it's all for us. that you'd never put yourself through all of this just for you. i laugh at this, knowing that if you were still single, you would be leading a different life. you'd have no reason to return to the town of your roots. you wouldn't own a house there in preparation for our family. you'd most likely be living that bartender life. you know, the typical one. the one you strayed from after i walked into the barroom. i'm both elated and guilty. the level of stress you endure wears upon you in the silver strands breaking through your dark locks and beard. you wear it well, my dear. and, i hope you don't resent it. i hope the surprise of this new path enlivens you once it's all set in place.

i truly hope it's all that you want.

letter nineteen

2011-07-29T08:00:00.000-07:00

11.2.2010

Dear Bar Owner,

i'm writing on this hazy tuesday morning with an equally hazy mind. we've had quite a run of it the past few days and i believe it's now catching up with me. you worked until 6:00 in the morning friday night through saturday so you could make some pocket change building a takeout window at the cambridge bar. i woke a tad early on saturday with many chores in mind that i kept at bay until the hour you woke. the lack of sleep. the worry of what was ahead for us on monday. it was all showing in the puffy lines on your tired face. my poor man. i poured you a glass of juice instructing you to get some nutrients. you left to meet with the guy who rents the pool table and other "amusements" at the bar soon to be ours. i took care of housekeeping to be sure all was in order in our home before i left. tangible cleaning/sorting eases my mind.

we spent saturday night with our friends decked out in a psuedo preppy best for halloween shenanigans. then sunday we met with our attorney. he had the financials spelled out. he had a problem. a large problem it turned out. we worried that the deal would take more time. again. then, monday finally arrived. you didn't want to wake to meet with the current owners to count their inventory. apparently they didn't either. "let's just call it an even exchange." we agree. you return to bed for a snooze before the hour arrives. when i wake you, you ask if we can just not go. i don't want to be without you, you admit. can't we just stay in bed and snuggle.

you are not one to snuggle. although a grand idea, i don't allow for this avoidance. get up. this is the moment you've worked towards. for a decade. let's jump in.

paperwork, close to a foot thick, makes everything final. the issue of the day previous is muted, not gone, but not as costly. you rest your hand on my leg. you're warm, sweaty even. nervous. i hold your hand, patting with reassurance. when we're asked for our licenses, you shuffle your wallet around and sneak a glance at a note i wrote to you on friday morning. you nod at it - keeping it close it seems. this small gesture makes me happy. those simple words do make a difference.

the attorneys wonder about the name of the llc. you explain that it references our pup. the closing attorney says that anyone who names something after their pet is good in her book. talk of our dogs is filler between the itemized list. five pages long.

two-and-a-half hours later, we are outside again. congratulations in our wake. we stare blankly at each other. we do not grasp what we've done. we kid that we don't even know where the light switch is in the bar. we decide to open a p.o. box. then, standing in the post office parking lot, you say, let's just go to city hall now. we're in it. why not go and make it really official. i entertain the idea for the rest of the afternoon. instead of going straight to the bar, we visit our soon-to-be bartender and always friend across the street at the bar she is currently at. she raises her arms in paused cheer until we smile and say YES. we are here to check out the competition. the day regulars cheers with us a celebratory shot. it's blue and fruity. we munch on warm flat bread 'wiches from across the way. mustering up a slight buzz to relieve us of the morning's stress as well as fuel a calm enough to visit our new endeavor.

hours later, we are there, light switches in place illuminating a room filled with friends helping paint away the dirty nicotine white walls with a bright, energizing, warm red. i learn the register with the help of perrya. she kicks into gear making drinks, wiping the coolers, washing glasses. attention to upkeep an indication of how she's waited, like us, for this moment. she's invested somehow too.

hilarious dancing ensues. we marvel at our new identities as "the owners." we close at midnight. cash out. yeah! turn off the lights. perrya hugs us outside. seems to abound with excitement. i love you guys. she's not one to say such admissions. all of us are tired but aglow. i worry about when to return to the city. vow to sleep for a few hours then drive back when it's still dark. you cuddle up to me. this arrangement also new. but, we need this closeness. soon i'll be back in the city, somehow returning to normal when everything is but that.

a deer's shape and glowing eyes will wonder from the road what i'm doing driving at this hour. it's the hour of deer grazing in our area. not of people driving. the road is vacant save for truckers and a few suvs. i try to maintain my usual granny driving but am impatient to return home for more sleep. my throat is scratchy and aids in a raspy singing voice. sing a duet with bonnie raitt. relish the talking heads and ben folds five. scan until i hear jim morrison, your favorite. then, grow teary eyed when the neil young song i want to play at our wedding fills the speakers. i haven't yet mentioned this song to you. yet, every time i hear it, my eyes are wet with the visualization of us dancing at our wedding. of you surprised by my song pick but singing the words into my ear. because i just know it must be familiar to you.

the city still rests beneath a dark sky when i return. the skyline still lit as if in night. i grasp at an hour or so more of sleep then ready for work in our quiet abode. is this how it shall be now? separate? i try not to ponder. i grow weary the closer i maneuver my car to the office. i can't do this much longer, i admit. now that we've made this first step possible, i need to continue. what dream of mine may i bring to fruition now?

i relate the goings on to my office friends. by the fifth retelling, my throat is scratchy. you phone me just to hear my voice. share that the newness/nerves haven't worn off from a night's rest. you want me there with you. me too, sweetheart. we console each other with mention of the day's plans. with comforts of mention that we'll be together at the end of the week. that somehow, we'll make it so we don't have to be apart.

and, just like that, through a pile of paperwork, our days and nights are changed. i'm no longer simply a bartender's lady. i'm now an owner. serving a supporting role to yours. and, somehow, it feels like something i was meant to do.

letter eighteen

2011-07-26T08:00:00.000-07:00

10.29.2010

Dear Bartender,

Four days from now, we'll be in the thick of the planning. Tearing down a ceiling. Tearing up a carpet. Laying down wooden flooring. It's going to be a big, dirty job. And, when all is in place and dusted off, we will have a bar. A bar!

Yesterday I was numb with exciting energy. Today, after telling my office mates and sending an e-mail to my boss about the time off needed, I've passed the climatic point. When you call from a drive in my car, listening to NPR, you begin to rattle off what is on tap for you. A meeting with the accountant moved to Tuesday, after all the numbers are flush...

What's wrong? Why so down? You ask.

I'm bored. Tired. And, frankly, let down. Telecommuting options for work do not seem possible. I want to split the time with you between Poi and the city. I don't want to broaden our opposite schedules. I don't want to be alone THAT much. Yet, I do not have an option. I will remain working in the city and you will be working and living most of the week 60 miles away.

The glow lasted 24 hours. Almost exactly. Now, I'm simply worried. Fret about the negative repercussions. See the week ahead of you not really including my help. I have to wonder now, if all my musings about my role were just a fantasy.

Am I going to be living by myself all week? What will be the point of that?

But, I chalk my tone up to tiredness (true) and boredom (true, true) because these are things I know to be true at this moment. All other worry, notions, wonderment are just that. For now. After the ups and downs since April, I've learned to feel the emotions but to not allow them to take over because they evaporate tomorrow when another course of events takes us on yet another path.

Ugh.

letter seventeen

2011-07-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

10.19.2010

Dear Bartender,

so, here we are! a week away from our closing. last week, i had planned on spending time in the city. a last hurrah. then, on friday, you mentioned an appointment with the insurance agent on sat morning. wanting to play a part in this planning, wanting to simply be in the know, i cancelled a belated birthday dinner and plans for an early morning yoga class. fri night i celebrated a belated birthday dinner with a dear friend. over polenta strewn with roasted veggies, scallops atop Moroccan spiced veggies, a bibb lettuce salad with autumn flair of apple slices, sugary pecans and sharp cheddar crumbles we caught up about the past month and she shook her head in disbelief that we are *this* close to being bar owners. we cheered the heck out of our ginger beer spiked with scotch and fresh lime juice, to us & them!, to the year ahead!, to our weddings! it dawned on me that, holy shit, we are going to be owners of a bar. our lives will be joined further by this venture. i will no longer be on the sidelines, cheering on my bartender. i'll be on the field with you, planning our plays.

last night, we attended another beer event. i wanted so badly to write, the bitter end on our v.i.p. name tags. soon, however, we will be associated, perhaps even defined, by this bar name. impressions of us will be predetermined when introductions are made. strange.

i am planning to surprise you with business cards. am waiting on our dear friend to amend the logo design and send it to me so i may rush order cards i'll custom make for you. i tried to secretly surprise you, but you are an impatient man. you wonder aloud about when i'm going to make cards for you. three times you ask. i assure you with fake annoyance that i'm working on it. i never let on what that actually means. your title will be head hippie in charge. you beam when i suggest that.

days away. can you believe it?!

let us trail away one last weekend before the world taps on our shoulders. we'll spend time with friends, grooving to your favorite band. the only music that quiets the constant worry and concern of your mind. for three days, we'll let go. we'll visit our old stomping grounds of our alma mater. we'll regress. then, on monday, we'll be adults. officially.

letter sixteen

2011-07-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

10.15.2010

Dear Bartender,

we are a bit more than a week away from the closing date. judging by how we're edgy - toward each other - of late, the pressure may be presenting itself. work has been terrible for me this week. although i didn't mention the particulars, when you snapped at me about signing the sba paperwork, and i shot back that i needed to run before i lost it, i suddenly felt like the bonding we'd felt over the past few weeks, had dispersed. the end of the honeymoon? as i dressed in my running garb, in another room, i talked myself off the ledge. returned to kiss you atop your tv watching head and headed out as you claimed that you liked me all fired up - don't go soft on me. the run helped ease my tension, but we were still nudgy. playful. sarcastic. nudgy still.

then, yesterday, when you said that you had to go to mattapoisett to meet with the insurance agent in the morning, regarding the bar, i felt like i should be there too. i had sets of plans to cancel to do so and as i tried to rework my weekend in mind, you took that as me being mopey. then after much prodding about your thoughts, you unleashed.

i had mentioned turning your old bedroom in your dad's house into a photo studio so i could stop carrying my props and book to and fro every weekend. somehow this combined with my supposed moping caused your angst.

at first, i thought you were refraining from sharing your feelings because you were going to tell me to stop being a dreamer. cut out the blog. the photography. the creative goals. live in the reality that if it hasn't happened now then it's not going to.

that's what i thought your reluctance was about.

instead, you broke out in a tirade about how talented i am and how you admire what i can do and how i don't have any confidence in myself. how i don't push for what i want. how i won't stand up for myself. how i'm the strongest person you know but how i don't use that strength to get what i want.

you silenced me.

you spoke the words i've been needing to hear. sleepless nights for two weeks because i feel stuck in a toxic job and now that you're moving ahead, i wonder how i may as well.

soon, i was teary. you brought up my childhood. your childhood. how both were less than stellar and played on our emotions. often. how you've since let go of the past. that you think i'm still holding on to my own.

perhaps you are right. yet, i explained, it's because of the childhood that i strive to become what i was told i couldn't. i was always told what to study. where to go to school. how to drive. how to answer the phone. all that control had the same effect. self-doubt. depression.

you held me close while i explained why i try so hard and how i feel stuck and not living up to my potential. unsure how to move forward. more education? a better camera?

neither of us had the answers. i'm sure that we should.

even though we've been pushing each others' buttons this week, we somehow came back together stronger. yet again.

its our faith in each other. our adoration. our constant challenging. these are the elements that will carry us through what is about to happen.

i told my boss today about the bar. i was nervous. he asked about the wedding and i said that we had something else to focus on right now. and, you know what? he never asked if we'd be moving or if i'd have to leave. the standard questions that everyone else has uttered. he only wondered if we'd rely on the company for any products. we did talk about the barroom and our initial plans for improvement. and, how i don't think we even know what we're really taking on. and he said, that will come round two months in when you look at each other and say, what have we gotten ourselves into. it was the most honest conversation i've ever had with him though. and, perhaps that's because i finally had something to talk about that proves i have more potential than he gives me credit for. either way, it's been quite an interesting 24 hours. i'm still considering your professions. i want to be my most for you. and for me. maybe if this bar encourages writing, then we'll both reach our respective goals from the same source...

we'll have to work and see.

letter fifteen

2011-07-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

10.5.2010

Dear Bartender,

the past few days have brimmed with social goings on. and, despite feeling the drain of "on the go" I motored on beside you. because, you made a good point. these are lingering moments in this town we've resided in for what seems like ages. soon, we'll no longer be able to do these things. see these people (as much). we must do it now because we can. it's fleeting and you recognize this fact and encourage both of us to sacrifice sleep and time spent mulling over chores and projects so we may enjoy these last moments in this city. in our condo. the place that's been home for over six years.

you feel lovey and feel abnormal feeling so. professing so. i pull into a parking spot and shuffle toward home. someone calls my name. my full name. i turn to see you a little ways ahead. we walk toward each other. perfect timing. returning from work at once. seemingly together. i laugh watching you run toward me with a look of eager surprise. you rattle off our plans for the evening. a walk to our favorite burger pub in spite of potential rainfall. a pit stop at the thirsty scholar to see if your "wednesday night crew" is there. then, dolphins vs. patriots game at our house, surrounded by our local friends. just like old times.

i rush to clear away the workday from my person. shed clothes. refresh with new ones, hair tousle and sneakers for the walk. i head to toss out the recycling while you warn me not to do so. i got it. don't you dare bring it out. the challenge only fuels my want to fulfill this mini-chore before we leave. least i may do. you run after me, collect the pail and we grab items from the pail in unison. you, bottles, cans. me, cardboard and paper bags. shuffle, shuffle. toss, toss. done.

my hands feel grubby. you turn me round and hold me in front of our door. i'm so desperately in love with you. love in your eyes. warms me but also makes me shy. i want to freeze this moment. i also want to be inside, away from prying glances of snooty neighbors. you apologize for being uncharacteristically sweet. i say, please don't stop. you admit to not knowing why you've been feeling this way lately. i acknowledge similar thoughts. wonder aloud if it's because of everything we're committing to do together these days. combined plans. hopes. they must bring us together.

the next day, you agree with this sentiment. hold me in your arms. tired from a night spent late with friends. two nights in a row. my lunch break spent in your arms. solidifying our feelings into something other than words.

letter fourteen

2011-07-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

10.4.2010

Dear Bartender,

this past weekend, we attended the new bedford oktoberfest. there was a banner. that banner announced that the bitter end will be opening in october 2010. yes, our bar. opening! although the banner was tucked in a corner, it was there. a soft announcement of sorts. we sipped from craft brews. you hummed sweet nothings in my ear about plans for our future. now that this bar opening is real, with a proposed closing date in a couple of weeks, we're softening up to the idea of the next steps we'll be taking. together.

you repeat often these days that you're doing "all of it" for me. for us. each weekend is spent motoring around poi for home goods to rehab our someday home. with each power wash that removes years of neglect from the surface of this house, you are readying our home. with each coat of stain you spray on with an unruly sprayer from high atop a ladder, we are "this much" closer to making that place our home.

with all of these little big things in motion at the same time, i think we're both starting to calm. warm to the concept of it all happening at once.

grown up time. it is.

you and i fare better with plans in place. now that the reward of the worry and paperwork we've endured since may is coming to a close so the thick work may begin, i feel the realness of it all is maker us happier and contented together. we're slipping from the cusp onto dry ground, bare and ready for our building of the next phase.

and, damn it, i think we're actually ready for all of this, even if we're not quite sure what it's going to be like, taking it on together is bringing out the best in us.

cheers, baby, we're days away now. soon you'll have what you've been working so hard towards for a decade. i look forward to the smile you'll have when working your own business. i know just how that look will be. and soon, i'll no longer have to imagine it.

letter thirteen

2011-07-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

9.28.2010

Dear Bartender,

do you realize that our potential closing date is also the anniversary date of our engagement when you mentioned oct 7 last night over the phone, you didn't make note of it. in fact, i didn't realize it. i just felt a faint recognition of the date. as if i had something to do that day...then, when i was about to fall to sleep, i remembered. what a fine coincidence, no?

you wonder if we should take off for the vineyard with friends this weekend or if we should attend the Oktoberfest in which our first official mention of opening will be pronounced on a sponsorship banner. it would be a last hurrah of sorts. and, you say, if this closing date is the actual date, well then, we won't be able to go to the vineyard for my birthday as is now the tradition. instead, we'll be pulling up carpet, moving a bar top, feeding hungry friends whose construction know how will be in full effect so we can have a soft opening a few days after.

i fancy the image of us running off to the vineyard. our last boat trip for this season. letting loose for a couple of days before our life's work takes charge. i also wonder if we should be at the festival, spreading the word, rubbing elbows, sipping stouts and pumpkin ales from plastic cups.

i may be excited by the later option. seems a start of something. i am worried, however, that we may need the trip away to clear away residual stress from the process that's worn us both out, but more so you.

i'm torn. but, i think i know what the answer should be.

letter twelve

2011-07-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

6.22.2010

(this post is more "notes" style)
as we wait for word from our underwriter, we are stuck in the "in between." we travel to hartford and saratoga springs to see phish. nils leaves before me. departs after i do. he is relaxed for the first time in months. although the beer flows freely, a perk of magic hat friends, we both maintain an even flow of buzzed calm. the music tends to the distraction of mind. concerned only by where to eat late lunches, what to drink once at the venue and where to land our crew while guessing the set list. high fives when one of us "calls it." intent staring at the stage and swaying loose bodies when we're surprised by a not often played tune. we walk. we talk. we sneak in a kiss or hug when due. we laugh until abs sore. we must add depth to facial laugh lines. we do as we normally do. all the while, we wonder how much our lives are to change with a simple sign off of approval.

perrya and i concern ourselves with drink recipes on the ride up. i break in a new notebook, scribbling confidential and top secret on the first page. as billy drives and talks on his cell, we devise the possibilities for cocktails, infusions, theme drinks, names -- all the while looking forward to the chemistry session of shaking them into fruition. what will the crowd like? who will we attract with a bellini? a berry-driven mojito. two cans of bud and a shot from the well.

somehow the thought process comes naturally. sure, i've worked in bars and restaurants. heard many stories from nils and friends. yet, this is a side of the business i haven't been privy to. the planning. yet, the impressions scatter forth too rapidly for me to capture with neat penmanship. the red sharpie caresses a few pages with our stream of boozeness. i take a photo with my phone and text it to nils. see, we're working...the message never goes through. yet, as if he had rec'd it, he sends me a picture of the hefty cobb salad he's about to rearrange with a hungry fork. later we muse about the timing of these photos given he never rec'd mine.

letter eleven

2011-07-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

8.16.2010

Dear Bartender,

still waiting....still waiting...cue the appropriate song...

more papers were signed this weekend. the edge of signing these documents was somewhat curbed by doing so at our attorney's home. the meaning of the signing, however, was not dampened by the location. the pens clicked all the same as they would have elsewhere while we signed our names here, here, initialed there and there. the breakdown of everything. the projection of the next five-to-ten years. it's all so real.

after the signing session, papers are stowed and discussion covers the rumors around town of how we apparently already own the bar and whom we've hired, etc. etc., the improvements you plan to make in four days before a soft opening. are we just weeks away from closing now? nothing is set quite yet. appraisal is still needed. please may it schedule for this week.

this moment is so very strange. we must plan for the beginning without the excitement of doing so. nothing is set. yet, everything must be ready at a signature's notice to begin.

renovations. drink list. interior improvements. tap line installation.

i see the weight of it all bearing down on you. the stress of the process is a norm. but, the terror of making this move, taking on this responsibility without the confirmation of knowing it's all going to turn out as you plan, well fine sir, that's plaguing your mind now. after viewing those numbers, and viewing your worried eyes, it's my burden too.

I've never shared such an immense burden with you. a burden that you strive to hold solely upon your person. your thoughts. your hopes.

sure, I'm beside you. we write the business plan. we discuss the theme, drinks, um, everything. even so, this is your business, your next step, your decade's worth of experience being tested. I'm a partner, but not the one giving birth to this business.

i find myself caressing your face more these days. taking your hand. offering comfort to sway those worry lines elsewhere. but the reality is thick and you refuse to be distracted. and, babe, it's this intense focus that has gotten you this far. and it will carry you forward toward success. fear is in the idea of failure. would be failing yourself more, however, if you stayed where you are despising your daily grind?

being here is an accomplishment in itself. i hope, someday, that you may realize this. you are too far ahead in will and mind right now to see. i perhaps i see for you. so i may tell you so. someday.

your girl

letter ten

2011-05-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

7.28.2010

Dear Bartender,

could we be just days away from a commitment letter from the bank? truly?

so we were told on monday, when luckily, we both found ourselves in mattapoisett on the final day of our staycation for your birthday. after a call from d at the bank, once dropped, twice picked up, i quickly showered and readied myself presentable after having only worn my cargo skirt and tank top sans shoes for most of our vacation, spent on the boat. an application needed to be signed. an application that should have been already completed weeks ago. you set aside your annoyance and we made the trip to the bank. fed the meter an additional 30 minutes to its already remaining 4.

d is energized. conversational about her weekend spent at rained out baseball games of her kids. we sign next to the x on each page. verify that the information from the other application is correct. chatter about the bar. our plans. whether or not 51% of the property is the business. whether i'll be part-owner. you've reached the "whatever is easiest" phase of responding. whatever will get us in and making money. after four months, you are ready. the imagining needs to cease in honor of the tangible.

my stomach turns. only a bit. i've already filled out paperwork. for some reason, being in the office makes it more real. the air conditioning in the bank cools my sandal-clad toes. i cross my ankles, resting feet closer together. we resume common discussion with her about when our wedding will be. how our type of vacations/weekends are a blur in her memory after having kids. we scoot out quickly and greet the heat with heads heavier than before.

we could have a commitment within days. then the appraisal. hopefully it'll match near to what they're asking.

this weekend, we taste test drink recipes. perry texts me today to see what we need. glasses/cups. i'll be taking photos. that will be fun. tipsy fun, no doubt.

i want to remember all of this. if/when we are able to begin, it'll be a blur. just like it is for d when she imagines life before her kids. life before this bar will be something else. we are already not planning to far ahead with vacations, etc. in anticipation.

your girl

letter nine

2011-05-15T00:32:00.000-07:00

7.14.2010

Dear Bartender,

it's been weeks. weeks since we've heard any updates from anyone about the loan status. when/if we may close. the eagerness to begin is thick. your frustration with the silence is understandable. i'm at a loss of how to console other than by kissing your worry away. assurances that this is just how it goes. slowly.

then, this week, the progress flooded in.

you attended the license committee meeting on monday night. while i grocery shopped and cooked a pot of corn chowder (that's what i do in these times of worry -- cook comfort), you waited out an awards ceremony until your moment arrived to speak to the town about the transfer of license. you came home late sharing the good news. they actually wished me luck with the new business.

our architect-friend also e-mailed you sketches of what the building's facade may look like if you have your way with it. how cool is that?! you exclaim. i got chills when i saw the secret name in the subject line. is it becoming something real? do i dare say, i think so? i've driven passed that building so often. spent late nights and sunday afternoons beside that bar. never have i imagined that it could look as lovely as it does in his sketches. even when my mind pictured the improvements you were mentioning as we drive by each weekend. just the sight sparking conversation. these friends of ours. amazing. guiding our path in their own ways. one discovers the suitable name. another guides you through the legal process. and, this one, sketching our dreams on a piece of paper. sigh.

with these two occurrences, the veil of worry is lifting. yes, yes, i know new worries will come with the business. but, your frustration with the process and not being where you want to be in this moment--behind your own bar--that's scattering away.

now, we wait for the state to grant you a license. and, while we do so, the fun is beginning.

i find the sysco glass catalog online and send it to you. virtually flipping through the pages. imagining what the drinks perrya and i devise will look like in all of the styles of glasses. a glass. a simple glass will lend an air to the vibe of the room. sangria in mason jars? old style highball glasses? thin? thick? ah, the sweet relief of minutia.

letter eight

2011-05-09T15:46:00.000-07:00

6.24.2010

Dear Bartender,

You let me ramble on. Laying phrases of stress upon your curious ears. All about the next day's blogger event at WBUR. I didn't know what to cook. I had a recipe to write. I had a fritatta to make for dinner. You had, as I'd requested, sauteed the ground meat with the special seasoning. You remained leaning against the stove-side wall. Quiet. Watching my moves through cabinets and drawers.

Need anything?

Yes, potatoes.

We have one.

That's perfect.

An onion.

Here's one in a bag. White. Oh, and there's half of a red onion in this container.

I'll use both. This fritatta is all about using up the fridge remains. Shredded cheese. Remains of blue cheese from boat trip.

Here. Anything else?

Eggs.

As I set out the cutting board, grab the pink knife my sister bought me for Christmas, and continue to ramble, your silence starts to seep in and pauses my activity.

I look at your face. Clearly you're holding something back. Your eyes say, ASK, ASK!

Wait? Did you hear back from her. Holy crap, how could I forget?

Yes, maybe I did. Your smirk turns to a full smile then you catch yourself and resume the serious face. As if in doing so you prolong the suspense.

Well, tell me! Did it pass? Are we approved.

Yes. You are unbelievably calm.

I put down the knife and walk over to you for a hug. How could you let me ramble on?

Then, we settle into the you talk/I cook routine. I ask whether you found out via e-mail or phone.

Phone.

What are her impressions?

She thinks the bank will approve also.

So, we're almost there, yes?

I think so. Her boss approved it. Now, it's up to the bank.

I'm kneeling down to reach the large skillet in the cabinet. I turn to you and simply say, holy fuck.

Well put.

We're just about there. I shuffle you out of the kitchen so you may rest before work and I may cook our dinner quickly without distraction.

Yet, my mind is full of thought now. So close. A fritatta is the perfect meal for us right now. It'll fill our bodies to match the weight of our minds.

What's next?

xo
your gurl

holy f*** fritatta

1 lb ground meat, seasoned
extra virgin olive oil
1 potato, chopped
1 small white onion, chopped
1 red onion, chopped
1 heaping tablespoon minced garlic
5 eggs plus 2 egg whites
1 1/2 cups shredded cheddar cheese
any bits of leftover cheese
1/2 cup milk
pinch crushed red pepper flakes

set oven to 350 degrees.
saute vegetables.
saute meat.
whisk eggs.
layer potatoes/onions.
layer meat.
pour eggs over the lot.
cook until set, about 5 mins.
transfer to oven for 15 mins.
cool for a few mins transfer to plate.

letter seven

2011-05-04T10:50:00.000-07:00

6.23.2010

Dear Bartender,

today is the day. the day when our financials and loan request are presented to the committee. we don't know what time this is happening. and, when i asked you today, you said it made your stomach turn and that you'd rather not think about it. throughout all of the other bar buying opps we've had, we've never been this far. this close. this nervous.

phish allowed you to chill out last night. well, since last thursday, really. you called this break your mini-summer vacation. and, somehow, we both forgot about everything going on, just danced and enjoyed time with our friends, until you said that tomorrow (today) is the day adulthood starts. i stopped dancing and wondered why i hadn't addressed the date. sneaky lil bugger. you smiled, nodded toward the band and resumed dancing with a quick mention about if anyone is going to push you into this new phase, it's these guys.

so. now. we wait.

the decision is out of our hands. i really hate that lack of control.

we are "before the bar" right now. and, if that panel decides in our favor, a single e-mail or phone call will shuffle us rapidly toward everything "after."

are you ready? are we?

i think so.

letter six

2011-04-23T15:49:00.000-07:00

6.15.2010

Dear Bartender,

We're on the cusp. Swaying to and fro. For days. Weeks, even. Knee-deep in plans for this endeavor, while waiting for the bank to shoot the starter gun. The frustration of the ebb and flow has surfaced again. You're anxious. Tired. Elated. Grumpy. Close. Distant in thought. All for the better.

I do feel the distance. We both do. And, as I hugged you goodbye last night at Green Street, leaving you with PerryA, your future right hand woman, so you two could hit one more stop on the research train, your face went all soft and concerned. You asked if all is good. Oh good, I thought, you feel the distance too. Literal distance. You in Poi. Me in Cambridge. Every. Weekend.

Yet, as you delve into plans for this proposed business, the distance grows more. I can't help but wonder if I'll ever see you when immersed even more so in our opposite lives of employment schedules. I know we're strong enough to make it all work. I wonder though, when we'll ever have quality time to nourish US. I curse opposite schedules even more as the days pass and we discuss decor of the bar, the name (should we include the or lounge?), and PerryA and I are assigned the luxurious task of developing the drink list. I see you moving forward. For you. For us.

And, yet, I'm drifting through days of the same after the same. Will I simply continue working my usual gig? Will I need to commute into the city? Then, I'll never see you during the week...And, you'll branch out into the new life and others will join you and I'll scamper in and out, barely part of it all. Perhaps not, but as of right now, seems it could be so. I hope I'm wrong. Because I can't take the divide growing any larger than what we deal with now. I cherish the hour we spend between our work schedules, tucked on the couch, minor utterances, many looks of acknowledgment. Then, you're off.

I have enjoyed scouting out bar ideas with our friends whose talents will grace the pages of this business. I appreciate that you respect my opinion about decor, theme, name, drinks, vibe, clients, etc. etc. etc. All of the things that you focus on at once when I encourage you to view one at a time. One by One (a Billy Bragg & Wilco song is playing right now, how appropriate...). PerryA laughs that that's what I'm good for -- narrowing both of your attentions to one topic. One moment.

Please don't take my nervousness as a negative. The transition is close. Oh so near. And, being nervous is natural. My nerves stem from wanting to build it all together with you. Not apart. Can we do it?

We have thus far.

xoxo
your girl

letter five

2011-04-07T15:48:00.000-07:00

5.19.2010

Dear Bartender,

I've had much in mind to write to you; however, I haven't sat down to do so. Perhaps it's the holding pattern I find we're in right now. Or, at least, that's what these couple of weeks have felt like.

Last weekend, you went with a carpenter friend to measure the bar. When I asked you how the trip went, you rattled off your plans for introductory improvements for the opening then those that'd elbow up to the occasion once the business finds its groove. You seem calm. Quietly focused. The frustration of the paperwork, nagging computer use, and waiting for e-mail responses and phone calls has subsided. Now, you're back to your comfort zones of carpentry and bar service.

Funny thing is, this impending change looms in the background of our usual daily happenings, despite being the one circumstance that will change EVERYTHING -- where we live, where we work, how often we see each other -- simply everything.

I'm nervous. I don't share this energy with you. Nothing is wrong, per se. I just don't know what I'll be up to once all of these changes surface. Makes me feel...unsettled. Unsettled before being settled. I try to imagine what job I'll have. I can't. I try to imagine where we'll live. I can't. I try to imagine how I'll help with the business. I can't. All of these selfish unknowns test me. Do I just let go of the concern? Hope it all with fall into appropriate place?

The last time I found myself among this sort of mindful company, was over six years ago, just before we started dating. I moved twice. I fell out of love with a longtime someone (and like with another). I watched for signs.

After a few months of doing so, I landed in Cambridge, blocks away from you. A friend brought us together. Soon, we were dating. And, that's when I realized that letting go of plans could lead to my perfect outcome. Now, I must rekindle familiarity with this lesson. Trust in the unknown. Nervous. Curious. It's all good.

letter four

2011-04-01T15:46:00.000-07:00

4.30.2010

Dear Bartender,

After your meeting with the adviser, you were totally spent. The weight of the burden of the computer work you had ahead of you was resting atop everything else you're balancing at the moment. When you arrived home, I heated up lasagna. Set your place with sriracha sauce, sparkling water and three heaving slices of pasta squares. You went back into the kitchen to retrieve the beefy corn soup from the fridge. I want soup too. I shooed you out of the kitchen with strict instructions to sit down. Relax. I'll warm up some soup.

Three minutes later, the steam is rising towards your face. You slurp the hot liquid in between bites of the also steamy lasagna. Isn't that hot? I inquire while staring up at you from my reclined position on the couch. Ya, but I'm starving. I watch you. You watch the sports program on television. Eat, eat, eat then sit back. Moments of repose before another shift. I ask if you got the note I left in the morning, wishing you well. Drank the water I left out. Ate the snack bar. I see that you're wearing the button down shirt I put out. Do you know why I did those things? You curl your face inward, trying to beat out the smile with a scowl. Because that's the only way I may feel like I'm there with you, supporting you, when I have to be at work instead. You snicker. Rest your head on my shoulder/chest. Many moments pass before you rise again. Time for work...

The next day, you call me at work while you're waiting to park in the bar's lot, stuck behind a Sysco truck. 15 mins so far. This happens a lot. Then I hear you talking to someone and you say that you need to go. That you'll call later.

One workday for me. One gym visit for you. Later on, I return home and you're typing at the computer. The monitor's glow shines on your glasses. Concentration straightens your features. I rest my bag in its usual spot. Place my lunch things on the counter. Teeter over to you. You type for a few seconds. I ask if there's anything I can do. No, not yet. I have just a few more hours of work left on this. A bit today. Some tomorrow. Then I need to send it off to her again.

You spin the office chair around. What's up, my nerds? You motion for me to sit on your lap. Tender kisses. You are calm. You grab the Excel sheet and explain the breakdown of first year projections. Line-by-line. We talk about advertising costs. What the notion of good will is where a commercial loan is concerned. You strategize potential profit. Your earnings. Retiring at 50. Having the building paid off by 45. I comment about how you seem in better spirits. Ya, this stuff is actually pretty interesting when you look at it. Well, baby, you like things to be broken down into lists. It's no longer a large single number looming over you with no reference for why it's so large.

I rise and we discuss concern over the appraisal. The only factor at this moment that could blow up the whole deal. If the town's appraisal is much higher than the appraisal we must pay for next, then this whole project, work, fantasizing will have been for naught. If the appraisal comes in really low then the asking price needs to be lower and the owner may not budge. And, since we're both mentally prepared to make this move, uproot our city life to the country, we're really concerned about this block. It's totally out of our control. Unsettling.

You break away to continue typing. I watch you from the couch. Typing with only two fingers. This sort of computer work is foreign to you. Perhaps that's why you were fretting about this portion of the process?

You call me over to edit the spreadsheet. We triple check to make sure we've saved both documents. You head to work turning yourself around in the alleyway not sure where you parked. The usual routine. Nightly dance. I head to yoga. All seems per usual. All except for what's resting on our minds now. As we can't discuss with others what's going on, the burden is fully ours.

letter three

2011-03-17T19:04:00.001-07:00

4.28.2010

Dear Bartender,

On Monday, you returned from Mattapoisett. So much marked off on your List. Most regarding the boat. Her launch is a week away and your joy rests just below the few lines left to check off. Days away from the waves. Your only stress release.

I made sure to be home soon after work let out. I wanted to serve a meal for your return. To bake a full blown lasagna, thick with ground turkey and chuck, and seasoned ricotta cheese. Our baking dishes are slight. Sauce and cheese bubbled all too near the edges. There was much meat leftover. Just as I was storing it in a dish, I recalled a bag of frozen sweet corn kernels, an opened box of beef broth and a couple handfuls of cooked wheat spaghetti leftover from the scrumptious chicken parm you tossed together late last week. Soon a pot was warming these tidbits together as well as onion slivers and a heavy handed seasoning sprinkled from the secret spice blend.

You called, delayed in traffic. I assured you not to worry. Your timing would be perfect. And, it was. You walked through the door just as the lasagna began to rest. Calm its puffiness. We noshed on half-bowls of the mishmash soup after I shooed you away from a too hot tasting direct from the pot.

I perched on the granite counter top with bowl in hand, turned toward you on the other side of the bar top, freshly showered, balancing your checkbook. Soon we were discussing the business plan we needed to flesh out. We started to plan the vibe of the bar. What did we want exactly? That moment was when it first felt REAL.

That was also the moment I scribbled down the soup's recipe, wanting to seal it in mind forever. The soup that came together on a whim. The soup that we nibbled at pensively while discussing this phantom business. A business that could take over our lives. As I had spent a late night filling out the business plan outline, I felt confident that we could write the first draft quickly. Assured you of the same.

We settled into the Monday night norm. Eating by the television. Watching Seinfeld's 10 year part 2 recap. All seemed usual. Until, the notion of the plan nagged at the back of my mind as I began to feel too comfortable settling into the couch's deep leather cushions after a couple gooey squares of lasagna devoured.

We need to write this thing. A matter of fact you shared while lounging. Asked if I'd get it started then you'd be over.

I'm not sure if you're aware. Aware that writing the plan---contemplating the phrasing, typing quickly to capture our thoughts in unison---all of it, delighted me. I'm beginning to see the role I'll play in this act. Up until this point, I wasn't sure. I've been a bystander for so long. The girlfriend. The life outside the bar. Now, I'm supposed to play a supporting role. It's new.

Somehow, I CAN do this thing. Write this plan. You knew before I did. You banked on that. Sure, we nipped at each other a couple of times. I was tired from daily computer overload. My eyes losing focus after a certain hour. Well, I have the next 40 years to work on this, you remark. Knowing stress is the factor at play, I grab your face and kiss you. Rub your beard. Bring us back from the depths. Console us both. Somehow.

Type, talk, pause. Type.

A few hours later, after many turns of phrase, financial calculations, quick attempts to summarize the atmosphere, food, competition in just sentences not extensive paragraphs, we're spent. The first draft is complete. We both head to sleep shortly thereafter.

Today, you are traveling south to meet with an adviser from the small business association. I know you dread the drive. That's many miles to travel in a day, before your shift, and after working until 2:30 AM. It's much to take on. I try to soothe your annoyance/concern/burnout by stating that it's one step closer to what you're striving for. Soon, you'll have a business and that space will fill your days. Worth it?

This morning, I made sure to leave a sticky note on the mirror, wishing you luck. I poured cold water into a thermos and sat a Kashi bar next to it, knowing too well that nourishment would be furthest from your mind during a hasty day. You're meeting with the adviser to discuss the business plan we wrote (in a single night!). Pat on the ole back.

What will today's meeting bring? And, is there comfort found in the trinkets I leave behind. I want to be on the road with you. Be by your side as the strategy continues. I think you'd feel better for it. But, I have my own workday to contend with and I can't escape it. The only way I know how to show you that I am thinking about it all too, is by these minute actions. Do they help?

letter two

2011-03-08T19:35:00.000-08:00

4.20.2010

Dear Bartender,

You were upset yesterday. Despite being together over the holiday weekend, I think we both were feeling an awkward distance from each other. Sometimes when you're working on the boat---sanding dusty bits into the air, muffling your hearing and speech with the sander's scream and a face filter mask---I let you be on your way.

I know how much you detest this portion of the boat work. I stay away so as not to be a distraction. This wooden boat, in so many ways, makes me feel inadequate. Yes, we've discussed this lacking on my part, but I don't think you can fully grasp just how much so. All of this---the rehabbing, the handiwork, the art, the driving---all of it is foreign to me. Yes, I want to learn. But, you're in a rush to get your beauty back on the water and you don't have time to teach me. Right now, that is. Please don't see my apprehension and care of your attention and need as dislike or nonchalance. I simply am ignorant of this pursuit and need many years to get at it. You've had a lifetime. A lifetime. I'll get there.

On top of that stress, you are amid this bar business. You woke to meet with the bank rep to fill out a commercial loan. I should have gone with you. Then, you wouldn't have shook your head in my direction later that day when I returned to the boat shed after spending the afternoon with a friend. You wouldn't have turned your head when I asked what's the matter. You wouldn't have had to admit that you feel alone in all of these pursuits so what's the point of any of it.

You remark: How is the business plan going? Meaning why wasn't I at the house writing the plan instead of being out with a friend. Honestly, I don't know what this bar business has in store for us. I'm not a player in that business each day. You are. I'm a bystander. A confidant. Not a participant. You rush away before I have time to answer. Before I may explain my hesitation about starting the plan without you near to coach. Because of my self doubt, your comment runs deep. I had trusted that we'd find time to build the plan together before the due date.

I listen to your rattling engine trail away. I curse my doubt. I sit upon the cooler in the back of the boat shed and hold my hands over my agonizing face.

I wonder...How may I write about a business I don't know? How have we gotten to this point? We are both scared of what's to come. The weight of the responsibility is taking over.

If we hadn't had the spat in the boat shed I wouldn't have found the need to drag you for a walk on the beach. To reconnect. No distractions. We talk. Finally. Linked arms. Pink sunset on the water. Calm. We share doubt. Unknowing. We sit upon the bench you built six years ago and marvel at what may be ahead. You spew forth plans of renovations. Quick renovations. Your words flutter sketches upon the sand and sky. Each page flips to a new update of the bar room in my mind. Heightened ceilings. New windows. Bar-top move. Outdoor lighting. New sign. New name.

You emphasize the need for the business plan write up this week. No later than Thursday. My Timberland boots crush shells and I tell you to give me thirty minutes of your time detailing your/our imaginings. Then I'll write. Writing. That, my dear, I can do.

Then I try to imagine myself behind the bar when we visit the spot on Saturday night. I catch sight of you scanning the room. See those wheels turning. When the glaze of thought and planning lifts, you catch my sight and smile.

You ask me how others are satisfied with the mundane. The everyday. Never striving for more. I don't know. I'm trying not to let go of that myself. Especially, since you're not as well.

letter one

2011-03-02T13:36:00.000-08:00

Okay, here it goes...I have a secret. It shall not be a secret for much longer though. Right now. This very moment. The secret is broken.

I have been writing letters to The Bartender since before the bar was purchased. I never told him. I wrote them as e-mails and sent them to myself immediately after signing my name. I didn't want to edit them. Typos, fragments, capitalization --- none of it mattered. The point of these letters was to capture the moment. Freeze in time the emotions I was feeling while embarking on this crazy process. My hopes, fears, excitement --- all of it. I knew that when the stress subsided (still not sure when that will be!) we would not reflect upon these times with the same edge of emotion. We would have survived those moments and because of that satisfaction, we'd grow from the knowledge as well as cast away the residual worry and woes. That's the wonderful side-effect of time, no?

I've thought about when I should break these words free from their Gmail folder. When would be the opportune time to share with you as well as The Bartender all that's been in mind since last April. Yes, last April. I can't believe it has been that long.

Today, I decided it was the time to begin sharing. The Bartender has worked himself to the bone and now he's bedridden with a sour back and hip. His body is rejecting the pace of his schedule and he's been forced into a comfy hiatus.

Also, to be blunt, there's too much going, and the only time I may write anything is in these letters. Yes, I'm still keeping them. Wrote one just today, in fact. So, for those of you who have asked me when I'm posting next, and others who have said that you enjoy reading this site more than my food/wine site these days, here you go.

And, Bartender, if you're reading, this one's for you.

Letter One: 4.1.10

Dear Bartender,

I'm writing to you, not knowing when or if I'll even share this letter. I suppose, since I'm sitting down to type to you, on this Friday night instead of watching television, reading, blogging or knitting, well, I suppose I hope to show this letter to you someday. When, I know not. I have decided, however, to type to you instead of handwrite this note in a journal. My writing gets illegible the more thought and feeling and rush I put into it. What a shame it'd be for you not to understand words meant for you because of a light stroke heavy with too much feeling. Now, on to the reason for this impulsive note...

There's been a shift of late. I know many factors and their occurring simultaneously are causing this shift. It will not be ignored. We are amid our annual sobriety month --- two weeks in to be exact. We have three weeks remaining, since you vowed to not take on the drink again until Vintage (our boat) is in the water on May 8.

During this time, I've allowed myself to slow down. Yoga clears my mind and body. And, I'm noticing that my practice is aiding in this stillness. I feel at a crossroads of sorts. Whether it’s because of age or general feeling of midway existence, I've felt so rushed these last two years to accomplish, accomplish, decide. I witness others gain so quickly what I aspire to, and the more success I witness, the more let down I feel. I've been so down on me. There's much I want and often I literally am turning round and round in different directions between projects of interest. I've been spiraling.

In two short weeks, I've stopped this self doubt. I've realized that we can't force our dreams upon ourselves. And, I'm feeling much better for it. I'm scared that I won't be what I hope to. As a woman. A mother. A daughter. A partner. A friend. A writer. I'm tired of trying to discover with keen awareness each and every one of these paths at once. Since, I've been able to enjoy reading a chapter from any book I choose, right before bed. I lay on your side to keep an eye on the door and keep the spot heated for you. I practice yoga to tone from the innermost everything of me outward. Hope that you'll begin to notice the changes. Try to have a smile for you when I arrive home from work so our small time together may reflect that you've been on my mind despite a shitty day at work. Call friends and family more. Send trinkets of appreciation their way.

And, simply listen. Listen to myself. Listen to the changes in it all.

I think there may be big changes coming for us. Maybe a bar?

The idea of you owning your own bar, finally, both ignites my happiness for you while also terrifying me. I know you're thinking: Yeah, I knoooow all about that. As every day brings us closer to what may be, and we strategize reeling in our spending, writing the business plan, inventorying the existing business, readying the boat for another summer, wondering where we may live, who will rent our current home and where we'll store all of this STUFF, the shift clicks one more notch in a new direction.

I feel older. I acknowledge today that we've been living responsibly yet easily carelessly. Traveling. Spending. Enjoying.

I also feel so young. Do you even realize what you've achieved at our age? I mean, really, stop and please notice that. Just that. And, now we're hoping to take on another mountain. Hoping that on the other side is the grown-up life we are drafting.

Tonight, I realized that I want to write to you during these times. I don't want to forget all of these fluttering emotions and passing moments. I remember when my parents were our age. They seemed so adult. And, they were also building a difficult path toward a more comfortable future. I remember ascending the stairs of our second home in Mass to let my dad know that dinner was ready. He was huddled on his bed, behind a closed door, making cold calls for potential clients. I'd knock, crack open the door until we caught eyes then sign that dinner was ready by pointing my index finger toward my open mouth. I remember eating lots of dinners where white rice was the filler. I remember the sheet that shielded our stairway to keep the warm air upstairs. I remember lots of visits to the park to feed geese and fly kites. All was simple. And, I’m fond of those times.

Slowing down. Speeding up. This is quite a ride so far. I know we have struggles ahead. I don't have any answers. I am scared. I am curious. I am excited. All feels more meaningful.

I do know how to soothe your mind. I do know how to help you write the business plan. I do know when to press kisses into the frown wrinkling your forehead. I do know that we are in this side-by-side. I hope that this newfound peace inside will guide me toward being your strength. I want so much for us, the kids who grew up too early.

I want those days of waves and sunshine for you --- gardening, cooking, and writing for me. I suppose we have to earn it.

All. In. Time.

just photos

2011-02-15T05:30:00.000-08:00

Things are getting quite hectic around here.

I suppose when referencing a business, that's a good thing.

Thought I'd share some of the quieter moments with you, since I've been away from this space for a bit of time.

A few photos to view while I gather my thoughts...

a good guide to a cool martini

2011-01-19T16:50:00.000-08:00

I meant to share this recipe with you just after we opened the bar and were researching cocktails. We have a copy of the Diffords Guide and when PerryA and I seek a spirited muse, she tosses this honkin' book my way. I flip through the pages at random and dart a finger at the ingredients list of an unsuspecting drink recipe. If the bar stocks the goods, she gets mixing.

One night, long long ago (in November) we tag-teamed this rosy bevy. Although the scent of tequila whiffs me towards memories of dizzying nights swirled through dance clubs and the all-day achy-headed sleepfests that followed, my curiosity won. How would the melon, cranberry and tequila taste together? A few months and rounds later, I still marvel at the flavor this triple play ignites. I solicited others to sneak a sip just to be sure what I was tasting really was...Well, let's not spoil the surprise for you.

This book is a hefty companion. Lucky for you, the recipe is available online. Feel free to pour the blend into a martini glass. At the time of this photo, we didn't have any yet and I don't stray from what works.

snow day

2011-01-12T11:11:00.000-08:00

A snowstorm is keeping many New Englanders home today.

Not The Bartender. He's at the bar contending with issues stemming from a fiery, downed line infront of the bar. The wire broke lose after being weighed down by wet, heavy snow.

A power outage. A stubborn heating system.

He's having quite a day. So, here's some positive news: the sign is well on its way. There's always ~~only~~ that.

for eight days only

2011-01-06T19:59:00.000-08:00

Because The Bartender and I didn't take a vacay last year, I had a week to spare before the 2011 bell tolled. The timing for this stayworkcation suited me fine. We'd been having a rough go of it lately, as sometimes happens when you spend most time apart and only tense time together. Absence may grow a heart fonder in some cases. In ours, the awkwardness of this new separation overwhelmed and we needed a few tug-o-wars to reach the strength of a new standing. All was for the better. But, I'd be damned if I didn't share that it's a painful and tiring process. These emotions. They surely are suckers of a good time, sometimes, aren't they?

Moving on...

Although I wasn't typing the day away behind my desk, I was put to work.

Behind the bar serving Jager Bombs and domestic brews and being told that my pour was too light by someone who had tipped me $4 on a $7 tab just hours before. What a difference a dinner makes...

Behind the wheel of PerryA's car, rushing to gather change for a busy shift.

Behind in my knowledge of plumbing, smack-dab in a Sears Hardware aisle, searching for a flushy part for the men's toilet. Not one or two, but three trips to said aisle later we'd bought a third handle-lever-thingamajig, slightly different than those tried before, and good enough to rig the can for a proper flush.

Behind armfuls of boxes filled with paper goods for the loo and napkins for the bar, after two trips with PerryA to dusty, daunting storerooms where everything is oversized and intimidating and the men mockingly complain that "I knew you were trouble when you walked in."

And, friends, you know what? I loved every freakin' moment. Whiling away my days behind a desk, a daze-worthy amount of miles away from The Bartender and all that's Bitter, hasn't been easy. I feel like it's all passing me by and he carries the burden of the business to an unfair extent. In those eight days, I was able to serve when he needed to check inventory or ring reps. I could run out to grab...I could help him and PerryA string lights across the room for New Year's Eve. I could simply sit near him and rub his neck when his sighs worry. I was there.

Those eight days rejuvenated us. The tension has ceased. The I'm just gonna complain at you cuz I am overworked and under-slept and have no one else to unload on bickering dissolved. In its place is the usual tender moments we sneak when only our eyes are meeting.

We spent New Year's Eve at the Bitter bar, listening to favorite music, surrounded by so many friends as well as many new faces now familiar. Oh, and I was there to pour and pass the sparkling wine to all of those smiling faces, relieving those Bitter bartenders of the duty just before the bells sounded and the glittery ball dropped.

Cheers to 2011! Thank you for starting this journey with us. In the months ahead, I hope to continue quenching your thirst with a tale interesting, served with a smattering of drink recipes enticing. I know not of what's ahead. I sure hope you're just as curious as we are.

the naughty toddy

2010-12-30T14:05:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, while sitting at my desk, sipping a new-to-me tea, I fathom a drink recipe. I text PerryA the idea. She shares the enthusiasm. We test a few variations. A week or so passes. Then, there arrives a night when the honey whiskey we have on hand makes it all fall into place effortlessly.

happy, merry

2010-12-30T13:52:00.000-08:00

The room is growing cozy these days. And, nights.

Here are a few snapshots to share the holiday pizazz with you.

I hope the holidays and the days between are delighting you.

I'll return soon with a drink recipe for warmth and photos of the New Year's celebration.

Until then, happy, merry times to you.

Cheers!

a sign of things to come

2010-12-21T15:39:00.000-08:00

The Bartender is a hands on kinda guy.

If he wants a boat, he buys the shell of a priceless vintage wooden boat and restores her to a lovely version of her former self. His adherence to the nuances of authenticity are admirable. His dedication to a decade-long project humbles me.

When he has a vision of the potential for a room, he tackles the space with his wits and bare hands as well. Our condo is a tribute to that.

And, now so is this bar.

I will say that I'm sorry for the confusion caused by the barfront remaining nameless since we opened.

I promise you, however, all with be worth the wait.

What can I say, he has a vision...

first shift

2010-12-15T18:15:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday, The Bartender sprang my first bartending shift on me. He knew the best approach to get me back there. You know, the sneaky kind. Of the sort that doesn't allow me a single moment to mull over anything. To worry. He casually suggested I serve a beer. I obliged.

And, Snap! Just like that, I was behind the bar on a Sunday night. More folks arrived. More beers cracked open. Poured into pint glasses. A few shots. Anxious moments. Many questions. Happy exchanges. Sooner than expected, it was almost midnight and I wondered when I'd sleep before waking at 5:30 to drive back to the city. There's no time for pondering or complaining behind the bar, however. You must keep moving on. It's not about you. It's about all of them.

Yes, my feet were crammed into inappropriate urban-style shearling boots. My hair was tucked into a knit cap. A thick sweater warmed too much. Yes, as I had not prepared for this session of serving, I was not clad as I would have liked or would have felt more comfortable. The Bartender sympathetic but enjoying a shift off, suggested I step outside for a cool, rainy pause. That's what you have to do, babe. The shift continued.

I have bussed tables. I have waitressed. I have even poured pints o'plenty on many a slow Monday dayshift. Up until last weekend, I had not spent eight hours behind a bar. Pacing. Eyeing. Bored. Tuckered. Cranky. Smiling. Chatting. Serving and serving.

Don't for one second think that anyone can bartend. It just isn't true.

I never wanted to be one of those owners who doesn't know the business. Yet, here I am. In fairness, it is the business of which he's familiar. I want to know every facet as well. I hate being vulnerable behind the bar. Having more questions than answers. I am grasping at the comfort of knowing that we are learning the whole of this business, together.

See that lady above? She is learning lessons the hard way. Quick and dirty. That's just how this business is. She can pour a perfect Guinness, however. That she can do.

Yes, it's here. Our new tower. Slinging drafts we will be. Ain't it pretty? Nautical, no?

Now, excuse me while I resume quizzing myself with basic change calculations.

cheer

2010-12-14T17:55:00.000-08:00

We are amid an adjustment period. For the sake of a dramaless post, I'm putting it mildly. Instead of recounting how rough the last two weeks have been, I want to share with you, patient readers, what gifts our friends have bestowed.

When the word got out- Wait a moment, I don't even think we uttered a request. More accurately, when our friends grew tired of the unclad walls of The Bitter End, they brought gifts.

An antique clock salvaged from a father's closed printing shop.

Armfuls of framed works from The Painter. Seems he paid attention during all of those studio visits when we hinted at, not so discreetly, what art of his we favored.

Holiday flair warms the room all glittery and sweet from PerryA's careful attention.

An espresso machine drips an amber nectar to encourage a new drink recipe (more on that in a later post).

With these gifts, they are making this bar their room too. I like that.

what remains of our first month

2010-11-29T20:59:00.000-08:00

We woke with a late start on Thanksgiving morning. Minds foggy with hangovers. Bodies weary from the odd hours we keep these days. The bloody mary morning started without us. Seems we weren't missed, however, as the bloody mary mix was flowing well before we arrived and there was only a gallon or so left of the six (or so) gallons of mix PerryA had whipped up.

Phew. That morning was the true test of the mix recipe we'd devised. Seems it's here to stay. That's one concoction down.

The Bartender and I are accustomed to awkward Thanksgivings. When playing a part in this industry, it's more than likely that you will be working on this holiday. Previous years, I spent the meal with my family and drove tepid leftovers home for him to eat after his shift ended. This year, my siblings have moved states away and my parents met with other family members at their cabin, a few hours travel from here.

Up until the afternoon of, we couldn't say until what time we'd keep the bar open. Or, if we chose to pause for the meal, what time we'd reopen for the post-meal crowd. As the room mellowed mid-afternoon, we locked up for a few hours. Spent the remaining moments before his night shift between his brother's house and his dad's, where he fell asleep from pure exhaustion.

We headed back home (together!) at around 3:00 AM. Waking for work the next day was brutal. The desolate roads and almost empty parking lot were not encouraging. An early release allowed for a lunch spent together on the couch, followed by yet another nap (noticing the trend here?) before he left for work. Again.

With crossed fingers (and toes) I tell you that we are starting to surface from the maze of this beginning. Days shy from the first month marker, the paint has dried around chatting patrons. The mammoth jukebox is replaced by a smaller wall-mounted cousin. The new bar sink is being set in place by The Bartender. He is finishing the sign with a friend. We are selecting a draft tower to replace the crooked basketball tower that currently resides there. (I never would have thought so much goes into picking a draft tower.) I've replaced the 4-pack wines with a house red and white that I may feel somewhat proud of.

We are nudging our way into a new routine. Cherishing the few moments we share each week. Growing used to being at the bar on "nights off" because that's where we now find our friends. We have added a new member to the bar family. And, yes, we are starting to feel like a family. Delving into this business together, with care, has done that to us all.

On Saturday night, we were seated at the farthest end of the bar. Friends he'd grown up with but hadn't seen in many years were surrounding him with talk of what's new and memories of what once was. I was focused on devising a few holiday-themed cocktails with PerryA. During a moment's pause, I caught sight of: a woman grooving her shoulders and swaying her hips with eyes closed in sync with a song she clearly had chosen; our newest member dancing along with a regular between shots of pool; our dear painter lad intently discussing life since high school with another friend; and, PerryA sashaying behind the bar between servings. While musing internally about these coinciding moments, I felt content.

I realized then that I enjoy being on "this side" of the bar more so than in the mix of the drinking. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a night out just as much as most in this bar. This moment was the first time that I took to stop, pull myself away from the thinking/worrying to simply look around at what this bar is right now. The change is already set in motion. The lot of us are creating this room. This scene. And, we have much more to offer. In time.

The moment passed quickly. Was memorable just the same. After a bit more time, I put the work away, grabbed a glass of red and got to mingling.

week 2 recipe: the bitter end bloody mary

2010-11-18T18:09:00.000-08:00

Let's take a break from the daily grind and get down to the real reason we're here. The sauce.

PerryA and I need to develop a drink menu. First up and most important? The Bloody Mary. I may not know everything about the bar business. What I do know is this: regulars are born of a consistently good bloody mary.

Feels so wrong to admit that soon after we knew the bar was set to be in our future I began obsessing about crafting a signature blend. While The Bartender calculated his mind dizzy with figures and facade changes, I mindfully sifted through ingredients--the must-haves and the have-nots--wondering how we could make ours stand out. I'm sure there was a twinge of selfishness in this mind-play. I rarely suffer through a Sunday hangover without this remedy.

After weeks of wonderment and verbal strategy sessions with PerryA, we dive into an impromptu crafting session after The Bartender and I return from a date night spent rushing from restaurant to movie theater in hopes of relieving our minds of the bar, if only for a few hours. The distraction fails. We talk about the bar throughout dinner and zoom back immediately after the movie lets out, with a new register and a feeling relief at being back in the room.

PerryA gets to mixing our calculated measures. I jot down the recipe. Photograph the three rounds it takes to reach the right texture and spiced heat.

The recipe is crafted just in time. Soon after we concoct the mix, whispers about a tradition the previous owners put in play begin filling in the pauses of our conversations.

A "bloody mary bar" in the early morn of Thanksgiving. There are tales of lobster and shrimp garnishes.

An 8:00 AM opening. As a bloody mary fiend, this tradition I can get behind.

the bitter end bloody mary
We aim for a bloody mary that kicks your hangover to the curb while reviving your senses with slight heat, lots of flavor and a smooth body. A mini dill pickle is an irresistible garnish. Fancify with shrimp even! This recipe is for a single serving in a frosty pint glass. Multiply as needed or just whip up a pitcher portion and enjoy your day off. Cheers!

1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 heaping teaspoon horseradish
1/4 teaspoon sriracha sauce
1/8 teaspoon wasabi powder
2 teaspoons worchestire sauce
1/2 teaspoon celery salt
Juice from a quarter of a lime, reserve the wedge
1-1.5 cups V8 tomato juice
1.5 shots vodka
2 mini dill pickles, 1 in the mix, 1 for garnish
3 olives
a glass rimmer of a few pinches of ground pepper and a pinch of salt

Fill a shaker with ice. Shower the ice with pepper, horseradish, sriracha sauce, wasabi, worchestire sauce and celery salt. Pour the lime juice, tomato juice and vodka over the mixture. Toss in a pickle. Seal the shaker with its cover and shake vigorously for a minute, until your hands feel the achy chill of the ice. Rub the lime wedge around the rim of a pint glass. Run the rim through the pepper and salt blend to coat. Pour the bloody mary into the glass and garnish with the other pickle and a few olives.

notes on week 2

2010-11-15T17:04:00.000-08:00

I'd be remiss not to mention the hardships that tag along with starting a bar.

Before I do so, however, I want to thank our amazing family and friends:
To all who have offered assistance from afar,
Those who have lifted paint brushes and scrubbers,
All who listen to our rants and worry,
And, to those who simply admit, "I have no idea what you're going through,"
thank you so very much.
We are grateful each day (and night) for your effort and care.

Now, on to the dirt...

When an existing bar is purchased, there are many bones to contend with. First, there are the expectations of the patrons who came before---for this bar to be as familiar to them as the other bar was, despite our best efforts to make it something new---dare I say, better? There are just as many complaints about the changes as there are compliments. Daily, we listen, defend our choices, grin with relief when told we've done something right, and always quench their thirst.

When the bar was neglected, there is sooooo much to do. There's an ice machine to order. Bags of ice to keep cold until its arrival. There is a new sink needed to replace the one with a leg so bent it resembles a horse begrudgingly kneeling, ever slowly, to the ground. A quirky dishwasher with which to contend. Draft lines to install. Soda lines to flush out.

And, cleaning. Ohhhh, what a the thick layer of grime. I thought I knew the meaning of that word. Grime. I did not. Dust so thick it resembles mossy hair. Dirt caked on with a stronghold only a putty knife and a bleachy soak may render loose. A basement cluttered with forgotten remnants of years passed. Many hours and four daring people huffing against a thick cloud of astringent air is what it took to get this joint to sparkle.

There is envy. I envy those who are able to drop former professions and delve together into the business. Some friends say, oh, I'd never be able to work with [my partner]! Yet, The Bartender and I are compatible in this sense. We admire, discover and feed our own strengths while equalizing weaknesses.

As each week passes, our time together dwindles and with it my exposure to the daily goings on at the bar. Sure, we catch up over many telephone chats. By not actually being there, I kind of feel left out. Then, I worry that I'm not fulfilling some unmentioned task that I should just know to complete, instinctively.

The Bartender has always shielded me from the bar business. Somehow, I feel like the guard remains strong even though I want to get my hands dirty.

Even if I don't play a daily part in this production, this bar is consuming our lives. There's no time for affection. No time for dates. Our free time is spent at the bar with our friends, since they all go out to the bar now. All we talk about is the bar. All anyone asks about is the bar.

Since the shifts are only split between two, I attend my brother's dual birthday and sendoff alone. Maintain upkeep of our urban abode.

Lack of sleep and days apart render us out-of-sync. Memory is immediate and slight. Keys are forgotten. Alarms are set incorrectly. Opportunities for exercise are slim. Weight is gained. Worry is thick. We grow grumpy. Bitter. These emotions encourage minor spats, which serve as a guarantee that we soon will talk at length about us, reassuring each other that yes, we're okay.

Every little decision seems to hold the weight of the future. We contemplate all of the what ifs. At the same time, we can't plan too far ahead. Any decision seems too final when in the thick of the business obsessing---when all also appears unstable enough to be up-in-the-air.

The frenzy is starting to subside. When most is set into place, we will officially unveil this baby to the neighborhood with a grand opening. There is much more to accomplish until then.

week 1 recipe: chicken "lasagna"

2010-11-12T05:23:00.000-08:00

"These days are getting long," The Bartender complains over the phone, moments before his second shift is to begin. He's been at the bar all day, painting, cleaning, arranging, meeting sales reps, cleaning, and pouring a few drinks to curious passersby, now patrons. The usual bravado in his voice is missing. He's gone soft. All is almost intimate whispers.

He lays out his day to me through an audible check list of chores accomplished, those that have been added unexpectedly and those he figured on that still need a good tackle. Then, he asks me what's new.

"Well, I'm creating a blog to share our bar goings on...Oh hey, as I was going through the photos I shot over the weekend, I noticed one of wine glasses. They are in the basement. Did you see them?" I ask because his mum had visited and told him that she'd be back next week and that he better have better wine (my task to select) and wine glasses. All we have on hand is what the previous owners left behind. Think, Sutter Home 4-pack. As a professional wino, I cringe to even type these words.

I walk to the kitchen, phone in hand, hunger surfacing. Open the fridge, eye the chicken breasts he set to thaw before this whole thing got started. "And, I'm gonna do something with this chicken...these almost empty jars of pasta sauce...oh, and the remaining ricotta cheese."

"And, I'll eat some of your cooking when I get back," he intercedes. Somewhat dreamily. Only moments before, he had shared that he missed Cambridge. I assured him, he wasn't missing anything as I reflected in mind on my commute to and from work. The utter chaos on the roads right now while they seemingly repair every route I venture to travel.

"Well, I miss my home. My stuff. It's not fun sleeping with Chocolaty (one of many of our pup's nicknames)."

"I can't imagine it is," I muse, full well knowing how our 85-pound mutt loves to sleep across the bed, taking up, frankly, all of it. I often accommodate him and tuck myself into a very snug fetal position.

When he mentions looking forward to my cooking, I know he's homesick. He's not one for commenting on recipes or cooking. He eats. It's as simple as that. And, that's when it truly sinks in. This distance between.

I should be there with him to nudge him out of stress. I should be there to serve patrons so he can organize the cooler and dry storage. I'm not. The scheduled meeting with my manager to discuss telecommuting part of the week, never came to fruition. I complain and Nils now is comforting me with the all popular phrase we utter a lot these days: We'll figure it out.

For now, as in all times of unrest, I comfort myself through cooking. Now, for one. Soon again, for two. Of late, while in this state of being, I've been crafting recipes that serve well for one immediately and two at a later sitting. As a bartender's lady, such culinary habits become ritual.

As such, I have been jotting down each recipe along with notes of that day. Most of the recipes were knee-jerk reactions to our daily fretting over the bar purchase. If I came home from work and he was lounging, watching TV with that blank stare--the one that says, I'm shutting down because I can't absorb any more aggravation--I'd scurry to the kitchen to heal the only way I know how. Rustling skillets and bowls toward something of comfort.

These recipes and memories are scribbled on paper scraps, e-mails to myself and as notes on my phone. The most recent is the one I developed on the same night I launched this blog. (What a relief it was to make this space available for immediate writing!)

I will sculpt the other recipes as time wears on. I like to share decent photos and to do so, I must rework them on the weekends, when I may encounter the most spare time (for now) and beautiful light. I will, however, share this most recent dish with you. How cruel of me would it be to keep you waiting?!

These recipes will not claim to be exquisite. As our focus and funds are being transitioned "elsewhere," I use the odds and ends on hand. They do come together in a jiff and quench the kind of hunger that resides in times of fret and strategy. Culinary therapy at its best.

chicken "lasagna"

I made this recipe twice in the last week. Both times, I nibbled at the dish immediately after it'd fled the oven. Hours later, The Bartender has his answer when he asks, "Wanna feed a guy?"

I played around with baking the eggs on top in the last few minutes of cooking and each time they seemed too tough. Therefore, if you, like me, think oozy eggs lingering in a pool of pasta sauce is something special, I'd suggest frying an egg a few minutes before the timer goes off for the chicken dish and topping each serving with a personal egg. Please refrain from inserting the joke most obvious in this instance...

2 cups ricotta cheese
2 tablespoons minced garlic
1 avocado, split in half, pit removed
2 cups pasta sauce
5 thin, skinless breasts of chicken
1 heaping handful of baby arugula (or baby spinach)
2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
optional: 3 fried eggs

Place the rack in the middle of the oven and heat to 350 degrees.

To a small bowl add the ricotta and garlic. Scoop spoonfuls avocado from their leathery shells into the bowl. Mush together until almost blended and a bit smoother. You want the avocado to offer chunk and texture, however, so don't overdue the mashing.

Pour 1/3 cup of pasta sauce into an 8x8-inch glass baking dish. Tilt the dish back-and-forth until a see-through coating of sauce covers the bottom.

Rest two chicken breasts, side-by-side in the dish. Carefully spread a blanket of 1/3 of the downy ricotta upon the chicken. Scatter the arugula over mixture. Sprinkle 1/2 cup of mozzarella over the greens. Layer the remaining chicken over the cheese. Spread the rest of the ricotta mixture over the chicken followed by the sauce and cheese.

Bake for 45 minutes, until the mozzarella cheese is golden. Top each serving with a fried egg, for added soppy deliciousness.

notes on week 1

2010-11-10T05:23:00.000-08:00

"How did you sleep," I ask quietly, as I'm at work and our office has no semblance of privacy.

"Fine, until I woke up an hour before my alarm, to major anxiety," as has been the case every morning this week.

After pulling through doubles everyday, I know he's mentally and physically beat. He sounds rattled and worn. Assures that he's not down but that the numbers--the cash flow--needs to pick up. Like, now.

"But, you get to come home today!"

"Yeah, for like 14 minutes, then I have to go back to work here and return to open this bar tomorrow morning...But, you'll be here with me and that will be good."

"Yes," I grin, "It will."

This week, our first as parents of this bar, has worn on us both, in different measure. He wakes to the actual workload. It is, as our friend, Maple Scone Girl suggests, "his thing" after all. Although I'm as hands on as I may be, the truth of the matter is that I'm the lady behind the man behind the bar...

He rings the register. Greets everyone. Cleans. And, today, will be removing the sign from atop a lift, to make room for the new sign--the true indicator that this place speaks no longer of its former self. We both hope that a new facade will grasp attention of drivers. Spark an a-ha moment that encourages them not to pass by, but to come in.

I really hoped to photograph the removal of the sign. Have I mentioned that it still needs to be built? The Bartender, this man of mine, loves to tackle it all with his own hands. Luckily, he knows a few friends whose woodworking skills are, frankly, amazing. And, I hope he's able to team up with one of them to craft the sign he has in mind. Soon.

While he's been at the bar, I'm 90 miles away in the city. My job keeps me here while he's there. Why is our bar so far from where we live now? Well, that's where opportunity came about. It's where he grew up and is well known. And, it's shaping up to be our now home-away-from-home and sometime later, home. We will make do, somehow. It's only week one.

He's been staying at his Pa's house and I've been at our urban dwelling. The things I notice/mutter about just for voice play aloud, when alone for days in this home I usually share with him, are the best stream of consciousness has to offer:

His eyeglasses resting on a table. Less laundry. An almost empty toilet paper roll lasting for days. My PM teacup empty and left on the table overnight just so I may fulfill a portion of my usual morning routine of cleaning remnants of our yesterday. His work clothes and socks not strewn in their usual spot. Stored television shows we may never have a chance of watching together. His untouched snacks.

I wonder what it'll be like when he returns. Feel guilty about lounging in our home while he is works another shift. Fall asleep on the couch to sounds uttered from the same episode of In Treatment that's been on at this time each night this week. The hum of the same dialogue a sure thing to put me to rest without care of missing something.

the beginning of the bitter end

2010-11-03T15:33:00.000-07:00

It feels peculiar to rise hours before the sun. To begin a day when the remains of the night cloak the scenery and the new day is on the cusp of the lighted hours. Time, however, is a fickle ruler. Steadfast in its tick, tick, ticking. Shouldn't the day truly begin with the new sunrise? Why adhere to the resolution of stiff numbers held forever accountable to the notation of a day's passing when the hour isn't portrayed through truths visible to the eye?

There is something about this time of day, 4:00 AM in particular, on a crisp autumn morning, that encourages somewhat stagnant traits of my personality to surface:

Resentment. After only a slim few hours of dreaming, leaving behind my slumbering gentleman and pup in a warm, dark bedroom in his Pa's house by the sea, to return to a dusty, heaving city. Headlights of my thawing car beaming a path otherwise too dark for telling---so much so that deer may only be noticed when their eyes are set in a bright glow as they capture and hold still a gaze dead set on my car. They are still perhaps in wonderment as to why you are awake during their designated wandering time.

Impatient. My usual calm acceleration quickens pace, striving toward a couple of more hours of sleep before work.

Singer. Acceptance of musical offerings at this hour, I sing a duet with Bonnie Raitt. Yes, her. Stave off quiet with my scratchy, almost husky morning voice.

Hopeful. Wet my eyes with slight tears of joy when the song I aim to cherish on our wedding day, unbeknownst to The Bartender, croons, conjuring in mind a dance shared after our nuptials.

Focus. A mind usually tender and foggy before a cup of coffee is somehow more focused on true goals of my heart. So easily. All seems obtainable when the road is dim and stretching forth for miles into a vacant slate of morning.

Perhaps I am overly pensive on this particular morning because I am leaving a bit more behind than simply a resting lot of those loved.

I am driving farther from a new beginning.

And, after I find my way home, sleep through the sunrise then resume a usual work week, I can't help but feel that I'm moving backwards.

You see, we've gone and done it.

The bartender and I went and bought a bar. Somehow I have...

discovered my supporting role in this amazing endeavor.

I am numb.

Overjoyed.

Scared out of my wits by this...

BAR. And, as I while away the week in my usual way, I am miles away from him,

this venture,

and my new sense of self. It's perplexing. Annoying. Heart-wrenching. And, so much more. We know not of how to adjust.

Somehow, we just...DO, without pondering too much.

Coat-by-coat we're adding touches of a new identity to this room we're well too familiar with.

We plan. We hope. We care. We worry.

I promise to share. Everything.

I do hope you'll come along.

And, maybe when all is just so,

you may visit.

Until then, my words and photos will lead the way.

Welcome, my friends, to the next phase.

Welcome to The Bitter End Lounge.