This Beer Sucks

I am not one who is easily insulted. Pick on me because I have may have a zit the size of a wasabi pea on my nose and I won't be insulted. Remark that my posture is worse that Kurt Cobain's and I'll say, you're right, no offense taken. Remind me that I adore breasts and I'll ask, who doesn't?

But despite my resiliance to petty put downs, an insult was recently hurled at me that penetrated my thick skin like a flying shard from a broken heart of glass. While away on a two night business trip in Providence, RI, I was served a pint of IPA at a prominent and well established brew pub that was so unacceptable, I had no choice but to think that the server had mistaken me for some kind of Budweiser-loving die hard curious to know what a micro-brew tastes like and would never know that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Not that there's anything wrong with Budweiser-loving die hards.

I was so insulted by being served a pint of apple-cider-looking, bad-home-brew tasting, brew-pub-business ending disgrace, that I politely sent it back and ordered water. The next night, at a different brew pub, the same thing happened, and a salty injury was added to the wound from the former night's insult.

So, at the next bar, I ordered a bottle of Budweiser, and it was delicious.

It's a Wonderful Job, Eventually

February is here, and I couldn’t be happier. Call me Grinch or Scrooge, but I vehemently disagree that Christmastime is the most wonderful time of the year. I’ve felt this way for a long time, but until this year, I wasn’t sure why.

About a week before Christmas, I had an epiphany that hit me on the head like one too many glasses of my cousin Lenny’s extra-special eggnog. My lovely fiancée and I were relaxing around our Christmas tree, which was leaning a bit to one side and aglow with old fashioned, energy sucking bulbs. Elvis’s Christmas album was playing on the turntable. With that velvety voice caressing my ears, I got to the bottom of why I always have a blue Christmas: I work in retail.

Too many of the negative aspects of Christmas—the commotion, the consumerism, the true meaning-robbing commercialism—surround me during the entire holiday season like gaudy rows of garland on a fake Christmas tree in the lobby of an insurance building. The plastic blinking star they stick on the top represents the headache I get that doesn’t quite go away until the tree gets unplugged, covered with a plastic bag, and stuffed in the corner of the office supply closet.

I am fortunate enough, however, to have Christmas day off, unlike the movie theater concession stand vendor, the shifty ski resort lifty, or the convenience store clerk in the Santa hat who has to finish making that guy’s egg sandwich before he can ring you up for a twelve-pack of beer. But simply not having to work on Christmas day doesn’t mean I’m singing “Deck the Halls” during the four-hour drive to Maine for my family Christmas party. For me to sing “Fa la la la la,” I wouldn’t have to drive back to Vermont later that night, because I wouldn’t have to be at work the next morning for the worst workday of the entire year.

I like to imagine how some folks spend the day after Christmas. I picture the happy couple, young and in love, who bought each other cross-country ski packages, skiing side by side in a meadow, while soaking up the glistening beauty of a perfect winter’s day. I see the content mom, bundled up in her brand new down jacket, taking the dog for a nice long walk. I envision the encouraged dad, his cholesterol level approaching the outer limits of healthy, determined to exercise more often this year, heading out the back door for a romp with his new pair of snowshoes that the whole family pitched in to give him.

I can conjure up these warm and fuzzy sugarplum-shaped visions, but my reality is helping the unhappy couple that bought each other cross-country ski packages and wants to exchange their ski boots because they don’t fit, or because his heel lifts a bit and her boots are not quite as comfortable as her bedroom slippers. Or the discontented mom, who loves everything about her brand new down jacket except the color, and wants to special order the one in the lighter shade of green. Or the discouraged dad, who after trudging around the back yard, would prefer a different pair of snowshoes with bindings that are a bit easier to undo. He only used them once, so he can’t imagine that we couldn’t simply take them back. After all, they are only scratched a little.

The joy of Christmas Eve has also been lost to me. That day is defined by stressed-out last-minute shoppers who don’t have time to pleasantly accept the fact that we are sold out of whatever it is they should have purchased sooner. Or who are too exasperated to understand why we won’t hang around after we close until they arrive, “in only 15 minutes or so,” so that they can “just run in and buy something real quick.” No matter how hard I try to allow the holiday spirit to overtake my petulance, under these circumstances, all I can say is, “Bah, humbug!”

So when it is all over, and the rest of the glorious winter is ahead, I am a much happier person. The craziness of the holidays gives way to the routine of our annual end-of-winter super blowout sale. It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and I’m full of joy. I’m so carefree that when a customer says, “So I see that these tele skis are 40 percent off. Would you take 50 percent off?” I can actually say, “No!” with tact. I can even be persuaded to stay awhile after we close for a nice customer, unless he wants to exchange a used pair of snowshoes.