A man in his late thirties approaches my bar in the midst of a busy Friday Happy Hour. He is wearing a skin tight white tee shirt that matches his sparkly white belt that matches his 42 inch wide white watch which matches his white I Phone. Every bone in my body went on immediate douche bag alert, but being the patient man I am I fought the urge to ignore this schmuck while ridiculing him to my regulars sitting close by, and actually decided to serve him.

He orders a dirty vodka martini. After crafting a delicious cocktail for this cockbag I inform him that during Happy Hour his drink costs just four dollars and fifty cents. He gives me a five and I give him his two quarters back which he proceeds to leave on the bar for my tip. While not the desired tip of a dollar it was a tip none the less so my douche bag threat level lowered from a red to an orange (for clarification of color levels for douche bag threat levels please see George W. Bush).

Some time passes before he comes back up to the bar. He orders a dirty vodka martini again which I gladly make. I knew it had to be getting close to seven which is what time Happy Hour is over so I punched his drink into the computer and it rang up as six dollars signifying that it was actually past seven and that any Happy Hour discounts were no longer available.

I returned to captain cock knocker and placed his dirty vodka martini in front of him. He tossed five dollars on the bar. I collected his money and counted it before informing him that Happy Hour was now over and that his dirty vodka martini was actually six dollars. He gasped and gave me a disgusted look.

“Well now I have to use my credit card.”

“That’s fine sir we have no minimum on credit cards,” I replied as I placed his money back on the bar in front of him.

He let his money sit on the bar without pulling out his wallet. I looked around the bar and saw at least three customers ready to order drinks who were waiting on me to finish with this fucktard.

“What time is Happy Hour over?” he asked still not pulling out his wallet.

“7 pm sir,” I replied.

He looked at his giant white watch that was bigger than my flat screen at home.

“That’s bullshit man. Its 7:02 and I ordered at 7.”

“Happy Hour is over at 7 pm sir.”

My douche bag threat level flared back up to a red.

“Really dude?” he said.

“Really what?”

“I ordered at 7 bro.”

“As I have stated before Happy Hour is over at 7 sir.”

“Really dude?”

I scanned the bar. There were now six people waiting to order as I interacted with this asshole.

“Really what sir?”

“You’re going to do this over a dollar dude?”

Astonished at the irony of that statement I could do nothing other than just stare at him. He got the point, eventually and in between a “whatever bro” and not leaving a tip he signed his tab and carried his dirty martini away.

This sort of interaction happens all the time. It’s as if because I serve alcohol which at times makes people do shady things people just naturally assume that my intentions are always shady. Like the girl who had just turned twenty-one a couple of days earlier who wanted to complain about her two dollar and fifty cent vodka cranberry not being strong enough.

She sent her boyfriend up first who sheepishly said that his girlfriend thought her drink was weak. He was quick to say that his whiskey coke was perfect. It was clear that all he wanted was to get laid which with a grumpy and sober girlfriend wasn’t going to happen. I offered to make him a double for five dollars. He quickly accepted.

Twenty minutes passed before he returned this time with his girl on his shoulder. I finished helping another customer before approaching them.

“What can I get for you folks?”

“Uh yeah, I would like a vodka cranberry except this time could you put some vodka in it,” she said.

I was shocked; she didn’t want more vodka she truly believed that I was pouring her straight cranberry juice.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Well my first couple of drinks didn’t have any vodka in them. Last time my boyfriend came up and someone else poured him a drink that was perfect.”

I looked around. I was the only bartender there.

“Actually that was me and it was a double,” I said

“Oh, then like that.”

“You want a double then?”

“No I want a single with vodka in it like the last one you poured.”

“So you want me to pour you a double but charge you for a single.”

The boyfriend leaned in at this point.

“If you hook us up we’ll hook you up bro (shady),” he said.

“A single it is,” I said.

I walked to my well. Normally I pour about a shot and a half per mixed drink but this girl had lost that privilege. I pulled out a shot glass measured the vodka to the line and filled the glass with cranberry. I slid it to her charged her two dollars and fifty cents and she walked away without leaving a tip all because she believed that I wasn’t just short pouring her but that I wasn’t pouring any vodka in her glass at all.

Believe me when I say I have not made a living off charging people for drinks that don’t have any alcohol in them. Not putting any liquor in your drink doesn’t benefit me. Doing so would be shady and would be the equivalent of being a thief.

A thief walks into a bar hovers amongst the crowd and then snatches someone else’s property right off the bar top. Then when said thief is caught red handed and confronted about the theft they look you dead in the eye and lie saying they have never stolen anything in their life. I am not a thief, I am a bartender and a guy who thinks I’m out to rip him off for a dollar or a girl who thinks I am shady enough not to pour a product I am charging for, well, they are just morons.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS AND BUY MY BOOK LOVE LIFE FOR CHRISTMAS BY CLICKING ON THE LOVE LIFE LINK UP AND TO THE RIGHT FROM HERE!

RP, who lived on the East Coast, never got to fulfill his dream.

He died a few years ago. His wife told me after he had passed that his last request was that I would scatter his ashes on the Pebble Beach Golf Course.

GULP! Something that you may not know about me is that I tend to be a Rule Follower, and if I don’t like someone else’s rules I tend to change games—which is one reason I’m self employed (my game, my rules)—but this request definitely fit into the Rule Breaker side of things. I figured that if I fulfilled RP’s last request I would certainly be breaking several rules and most likely several laws.

I was torn. Badly.

Ultimately, blood proved thicker than mere rules and laws (and I have probably never in my life used the word “mere” in front of either of the words “rules” and “laws”).

I discussed my dilemma with my Beloved. She was no happier or comfortable with the request than I, and probably much less so, but she offered to come along to offer moral support. We both knew there was a chance that I would be caught and arrested, and if she was with me she could suffer a similar fate, but she wanted to come anyway, and woe be to the person who tries to tell her “no” when she sets her mind to something.

When the day came, we drove to Pebble Beach, becoming more anxious with each mile closer we’d gotten, too nervous to even enjoy the fantastic views on the way there.

We noted with growing concern that security vehicles and guards were everywhere. It’s like they had their own private army.

We scoped the perimeter like a couple on a secret mission. Actually, we were a couple on a secret mission. Piercing the perimeter looked like a really BAD idea.

Our nerves were on edge but we also noticed that along with the risk and “danger” an element of excitement and adventure began to creep in.

The theme song from the original Mission Impossible TV show kept running through my head. Seriously.

Beloved put the clay urn full of ashes in her purse as we parked our car. We walked through the magnificent clubhouse with its main room that is so large that it has two HUGE and very impressive fireplaces.
The view was magnificent! We walked out the back of the clubhouse, across a patio with diners, down some steps and onto a large lawn area that led out to stone edge which looked marked the end of the lawn and the beginning of a small beach several feet below and the Monterey Bay. The golf course’s 18th hole was to our left and near the stone wall. I don’t recall what separated the course from the lawn near the stone edge but it wasn’t much of an obstacle. Perhaps a rope.

We had much bigger obstacles to deal with. First, parties of golfers were very often either on the green making their final putts or on their way to it. I couldn’t just waltz onto it and start spreading ashes all over it.

But the bigger obstacle was that a security guard must have decided that we looked suspicious and began following us onto the long beautiful green lawn that gently sloped down toward the Bay.

Our hearts raced as we looked at each other, wondering what to do. We’d come too far to turn back now. In a whisper I suggested that we sit on the on the edge of the lawn at the rock edge right up against the 18th hole, and try to look like sight-seers.

The security guard hung back and off to our right about 20-25 feet and appeared to be cleaning his nails. Yeah, right!

I decided to lay down parallel to the golf course and up against it with my back facing the guard. Beloved took out her camera and pretended to take pictures, gradually moving her body into a position that would perfectly obstruct the guard’s view. She reached into her purse and handed the urn to me. I placed it in front of me and covered it with a jacket.

But it became obvious that there was no way I was going to be able to walk onto the green without immediately drawing attention to myself, being stopped, and possibly arrested.

We did catch a lucky break in that a strong wind was blowing inland from the Bay, so if I could time the space between the golf parties just right, and if I could throw the ashes into the wind without being seen by golfers on the course, people in the clubhouse, diners on the patio, and the ever-present and attentive guard, the ashes would float onto the 18th green.

There were too many “IF’s” for my taste, but it was the hand we’d been dealt so we’d try to play it.

The whole urn and ashes thing had kind of creeped me out, so I hadn’t opened the lid of the clay urn since it had been handed to me on the East Coast.

That proved to be a BIG mistake!

When I think of ashes, I think of those soft floaty things that that gently float up from a campfire. So, when I reached into the urn I expected to feel kind of a soft, light powder.

My eyes must have gotten huge when what I felt bore no semblance to anything even remotely resembling ashes!
It felt like a nearly solid mass with a consistency that was closer to sandstone than ashes. (It should be noted here that I tried to be as respectful as possible through the whole process as I was aware that what I was touching was the last physical remains of the man who was one of two humans responsible for bringing me into this world, and that his remains should be treated with respect.)

Still, I was freaked out. It might have even been funny under other circumstances but at the moment laughter was about the furthest thing from my mind as I felt a surge of panic.

I groaned, then whispered the latest problem to my Beloved. She gave a startled expression followed by a shrug and a, “Well I guess you’re just going to have to deal with it” look that I knew so well.

But it was Beloved who came up with the next tactic, whispering “I’ll distract the guard” as she picked up the camera and walked away.

I looked over my shoulder following her with my eyes and watching the guard out of my peripheral vision as I began feverishly scraping the contents of the urn with my fingernails, trying to loosen it all.

I waited for that hoped-for critical moment when everything aligned perfectly: The 18th green had no one on or near it, the guard was facing away, and the wind was gusting in from the Bay. I just had to hope that no one else walked onto the lawn and that everyone else was too far away to notice what I was up to.

The seconds turned to minutes, dragging on interminably, while I continued scraping the contents of the urn and Beloved walking to the other side of the lawn, pretending to take photos of the gorgeous scenery.

The guard had the choice of watching Beloved to his right, turning his back on me, or vice versa. He chose her. GOOD CHOICE!

Just then the 18th green was clear, and I slowly and nonchalantly stretched my right arm high over onto the golf course as if I was stretching contentedly without a care in the world. As I did so I opened my hand and flickes the contents with my fingers. To my great relief and with substantial help from the wind they scattered over the 18th green. I did this a few more times, never knowing if the next toss would end with my arrest, but lucking out every time.

I signaled to my beloved when I was done, and we reversed the process, getting everything back into her purse.

As I stood up I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

The two successful secret agents soaked in our success, and even took a victory lap of sorts. We walked into the clubhouse and sat in some beautiful chairs. I ordered RP’s favorite drink, a Dirty Vodka Martini on the rocks, and Beloved ordered a glass of champagne.

We toasted to RP.

Then we toasted to what we’d accomplished together.

I don’t recall ever having a drink that I enjoyed more.

Apparently, dirty vodka martinis are not the answer to life’s problems.

I had no idea.

Making a good dirty vodka martini is not child’s play. I’m very picky and believe me if you screw up my martini, I will find ways to kill you. In my head, of course. Because murder is wrong. And illegal.

Confession:

Actually, this is more of a warning, a disclaimer, if you will. Before this blog has all of its entries posted, I must warn you that despite of my outside demeanor of a lady with southern charm and a very distinct Latin temper, I am  a very dirty girl.

Which is basically why I’m the Queen of Effin Up life so royally and so often. However, that being said, I do have a lot of fun.

So, being that I am a self-proclaimed dirty girl, I can’t drink JUST a dirty vodka martini. It must be a very very EXTRA EXTRA dirty vodka martini.

From me to you, my new faithful readers…my recipe for the best very very EXTRA EXTRA dirty vodka martini.

(Said dirty vodka martini is in the guide book to effin up one’s life. Believe me on this. )

Vodka (I will refrain from telling you what I use because I do not believe in free advertising)

Vermouth

Olive Juice

Olive

I’ll also never forget the first time I tried to duplicate that perfect martini at home.  Not knowing the slightest thing about vodka (or how to concoct a martini for that matter), I went out and got a bottle of Absolut.  I then grabbed the first bottle of vermouth I saw and grabbed a jar of “martini” olives, soaked in vermouth.  Reading some recipe found in one of those “bartender” guides you see in TJ Maxx for $1.99, I carefully measured 2 oz. vodka and about ½ oz. of vermouth.  I then added five olives …more is better, right?!  Well, the martini was not even drinkable.  One taste and I was sickened.  The vermouth overpowered the drink and the vodka was harsh and cheap.  Then I got hit with the brininess of the vermouth-soaked olives.  Yech!

Years later, I like to think that I have learned a thing or two about how to make the proper dirty vodka martini.  Better than the first one I had, I have tweaked my own recipe over the years.  Here’s a general description of how I do it:

First, start with some good vodka.  My friend loves the extol the virtues of potato based vodka, and to some extent I agree with him that premium potato vodkas are excellent.  But the bottom line is that you need to shell out enough cash to get a premium vodka that works for you.  However, finding the one particular vodka that is right for you requires serious (read: expensive) experimentation.

Next…what good is a premium vodka if you are going to add cheap or old vermouth?  A bottle of Martini & Rossi Extra Dry from your local supermarket is not exactly a bad vermouth…but it is not a good one either!  Gallo?  Nah…still cheap.  Martini Bianco?  Nope.  Cinzano?  Getting there…  Lillet Blanc?  Not really a vermouth…so not really a martini!    Noilly Prat?  Now we’re talking.  Vya?  Very nice.  And guess what?  Vermouth doesn’t last forever…it goes bad…and you need to replace it!  (Hint: Store in refrigerator)

Ok…so you went out and got some premium vodka and some top shelf dry vermouth.  Now what?  Olives.  My ideal pick is the feta-stuffed olives from Whole Foods.  At around $7.99 for 12 olive oil cured gems, they aren’t cheap.  But again, why add cheap ingredients to premium vodka?  For the brine, I tend to like the Santa Barbara olives (unstuffed)….but any olive brine will do.

Now that you have all the ingredients…time to make the dirty martini.  Fill a cocktail shaker (a stainless steel one) with good ice (not that white refrigerator ice-maker stuff).  Add 2 oz. vodka and about to ¼ tsp. dry vermouth.  Add about 1 tsp. olive brine.  Shake vigorously.  Immediately pour into a chilled martini glass.  Spear one olive of your choice and add it to the martini.  Now go savor the martini…preferably away from any kind of stressful situation (such as spouses, kids, etc.)

Like gin martinis?  Bombay is great stuff…but go try Hendrick’s and repeat the above recipe, replacing the vodka with the gin.  Enjoy!