Miner Mishap, originally uploaded by Brian Wilkins.

Drank this beer while we were in Hot Springs, and it was deeeelish. There were not yet microbrewerys when I was living in Oklahoma so I’d never had it before.

The Oklahoma Historical Society has an excellent write-up of so-called Choc beer which has nothing to do with chocolate and does nothing to dispel the stereotype that Native Americans like to hit the sauce.

I went to the most awesome baby shower Friday for an awesome friend who will be having awesome twins come 2010 (maybe earlier). I post this photo because I ike to be reminded of how silly I look sometimes.

A story for the Houston Press in which I make a Slim Pickens reference.

Oddly, our culinary adventures seem to coincide. For example, I drank my first salted caramel hot chocolate from Starbucks over the week between Christmas and New Year’s. (As an aside, I never go to Starbucks. This was maybe my third or fourth time, but She Eats had been raving about the drink and my curiosity got the best of me. The salty/sweet combo was good (it always is) but the beverage as a whole was way too sweet.)

I read her description of the miracle berry just a week before going to a flavor tripping party.

The salty/sweet/Panda discussion comes a few days after I finished a small bottle of salmiakki koskenkorva delivered early last year by a friend who lived in Finland while we lived in Korea. The friend described it as “salty licorice” flavored, which was right. I don’t like black licorice, and the salmari took some getting used to, but now that the bottle is gone I find myself craving the flavor of it.

*The Times must have a tikiphile on staff.

Typically, my involvement in crimes is limited to my job as a journalist, where I research and write about them. But this time, I was actually a witness — sort of.

Last October, Christopher and I spent Halloween in New Orleans. Our stay there had to be extended due to some minor complications, but that’s a whole other story.

When we finally got back to Houston, on Nov. 3, the first thing I did was head to the bar to pick up my paycheck and leftover tips. I made this my first priority because spending Halloween weekend at a scooter rally in New Orleans tends to be a little taxing on the pocket book.

At this time, I was still for the most part enjoying my job as a bartender, so I decided to stick around for a few minutes, have a drink and visit with one of my coworkers and some of the regulars. Everybody wanted to know how my trip went and why I was mysteriously missing for three days.

Unfortunately, my personal drama got trumped by a woman who rushed in, ran up to my coworker and shoved a piece of paper into her face. Eavesdropping, I found out that this woman, who was accompanied by her sister and a man, was waving around an affidavit that she wanted my bartender pal and Kevin, a regular at the bar, to sign. She told us her ex-husband had been killed in Virginia over the weekend, and she wanted them to sign the papers, proving that they had seen her at the bar on the night in question. She had to provide an alibi for the police, and she had brought with her a notary public, the man.

Of course, both Kevin and Cheryl, my coworker, said no. “If the police are doing an investigation, you can tell them to call me,” Cheryl said. “And I’ll answer any question they have.”

Well, the police did call. And they came to the bar. And they wanted to interview all the regulars. Then the reporters started calling. Then the lawyers. Pretty soon this crime of passion was the talk of the Volcano. Each day as the story unfolded, the regulars at the bar scoured the newspapers, looking for more details.

Piper Rountree and Fred Jablin had been married 19 years. She was a lawyer and he was a doctor. She began having affairs with another doctor, and the divorce was messy. Messy enough, in fact, that the judge gave him full custody of their three kids.

Throughout the high-profile divorce, there was a lot of bad publicity about her. Although she had a good education, she had a hard time holding down a job for more than a year. She racked up huge credit card bills in his name. She was addicted to prescription amphetamines.

Her sister Tina, who had been with her at the bar, was a prominent OBGYN in Houston. After the divorce, the sisters stayed in Houston while Jablin moved to Virginia with the children. There, he gained a loyal following as a professor at the University of Richmond, which is why his death received so much coverage.

Piper Rountree used her sister’s driver’s license to go to a shooting range three days before the murder. She also used Tina’s identity and wore a blonde wig when she flew from Houston to Richmond a couple of days before the killing. Fred Jablin was shot in the back as he walked out of his house on the morning of Oct. 30 and bent over to pick up the paper. That night, Piper Rountree was at Volcano. Investigators believe she killed her ex-husband so she could get custody of the children.

I learned all this through conversations at work and from accounts in the paper (which you can read here). What happened on Nov. 3, the day Rountree tried to secure her alibi, I know because I was there. Luckily, I kept quiet about the whole thing, and I was not called to testify, even though Cheryl and Kevin were.

On Feb. 27, the jury in Richmond found her guilty and recommended life in prison.

This is the type of story people go bananas about. Just look at all the coverage it received in Richmond. According to the Times Dispatch’s archives, the only camera allowed in the courtroom during the trial was a camera for the CBS program 48 Hours. 48 HOURS is even covering the case, for an episode in May for crying out loud!

Here’s the best part. Tonight, they’re filming for a scene for the series at Volcano.

UNDER THE VOLCANO, A HANGOUT FOR MURDERESSES AND ALIBI SEEKERS. I knew I was doing the right thing when I left that hellhole. My jerky former boss has got to love it. You can’t just BUY that kind of publicity.

I think the ‘c’ word is probably the dirtiest, most derogatory word in the English language. Still, when I drive past The C Store I think of the ‘c’ word and I giggle, wondering if the people who own the store have any idea of what everyone else in the rest of the world is thinking when they pass by.

The ‘c’ word is the worst thing I can think of to call someone, anyone — man woman child or creature. And I can be pretty acidic with my insults, especially when surrounded by four other exhausted bartenders who are sick of putting up with the attitude that emanates from drunken 22-year-old boys and their drunken girlfriends who think they’re better than you.

Working in the service industry taught me many things, the biggest of which is that being a bartender is a damn hard job that not everybody is cut out for. In addition to having to deal with horrible customers, bartending is also serious manual labor that involves a lot of standing, rushing around, heavy lifting, yelling and sweating.

C used to have this neighbor, Jan, who was a flight attendant for Continental. Jan’s route took her to South America on a weekly basis, and C absolutely loved her because, in addition to the fact that she had a swimming pool, she would also bring him back bottles of rum from whatever country she happened to be laid over in.

Perhaps the only job harder in the world than being a female bartender is being a flight attendant. I’m not sure how she does it.

One time, right before Jan got married and moved, we were sitting on her back porch, sipping a pitcher of punch, and she was telling us this story about one of her coworkers, and instead of saying the ‘c’ word, she said this instead:

“She’s a real See You Next Tuesday.”

It took a full 30 seconds before Christopher and I figured out exactly what she was saying, and another full five minutes before we could stop laughing.

When I first started working at Under The Volcano, I was so happy to have a continual revenue flow that I smiled at every customer and always said thank you, even if the tip was just a quarter, and went out of my way to make even the most ridiculous of drink requests.

“You want a Duck Fart? Sure, I know how to make that. It’s, umm, Jager and… something else. Right?”

But after a year of unruly and rude customers, I found it was much easier to just act normal, which sometimes meant I wasn’t grinning maniacally and rushing to pour that pint of Guinness already.

Apparently, acting anything less that overwhelmingly enthused about serving someone can really piss them off, because I have pissed off more than my share of customers.

I happen to have an underdeveloped dense of smell, which C loves. It means he can fart in bed and rub all up against me sweaty-like after we go running and try to kiss me after drinking coffee, and I don’t mind, or even notice for that matter. But it also means that I can’t tell when the dog needs a bath or when I’m burning my grilled cheese on the stove or when the house catches on fire.

Mother Nature, obviously feeling guilty for robbing me of the sense most frequently associated with memory, made up for it by rewarding me with supersonic hearing. This is handy in my chosen career, where I essentially get paid to eavesdrop, and has also served me well in other aspects of my life.

Right before I quit my job at the bar, I had particularly annoying customer. He tried to order from me a Michelob Ultra while simultaneously standing next to a sign that said “We do not sell Michelob Ultra, Smirnoff Ice or Red Bull.”

I was feeling extremely charitable that day, since I had recently made up my mind that I was going to stop coming to work, so I resisted the urge to answer his question by silently pointing to the sign, and instead told him simply, “Sorry, we do not sell Michelob Ultra.”

I also handed him a menu, which detailed the roughly 30 other beers that we did sell, most of which taste marginally better than diet beer anyway.

Then he ordered a Curse Laht. Instead of telling him that we had neither Curse Laht nor Coors Light, I again answered him with a “We don’t have that either. Why don’t you take a look at the menu.” I took a few steps away to try to help the customer standing next to him.

Then he ordered a Bud Laht in a bottle. “Sorry,” I replied. “Draft only.” I return to helping other people so as to allow this guy ample time to make yet another decision.

Now, I know that it was not my fault that my employer only chose to carry certain products, but it is typically no use trying to use such logic on someone who has already consumed a large amount of alcohol. At this point, the guy was getting really huffy.

“Come ONNNN,” he started to yell. “Can’t you just give me a Bud Laht in a bottle!”

Other customers around him were starting to get impatient, as was I. They wanted to be served too, and I wanted this guy to get lost already.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked him. “We. Don’t. Have. It.”

“GAWWWDDD!” he yelled, slapping his money on the bar. “Just give me a draft Bud Laht.”

I served him his beer and change, which he promptly snatched away from me in a matter that was really, really intended to hurt my feelings. Ouch. But then, as he turned around and started to walk off, he muttered, “See you next Tuesday!”

The look on his face was less fright and more pure astonishment when I replied, “WHAT DID YOU SAY!?” He looked confused, like he really couldn’t believe that I had actually heard him.

“NO YOU WON’T SEE ME NEXT TUESDAY!” I yelled as I threw a drink in his face.

And that’s exactly how it happened.

Thanks to the utter generosity and complete support of my wonderful, understanding boyfriend, I quit my second job slingin’ Singapores at a local college bar.

A few weeks ago, when we had company at the house, C was giving them the grand tour, except for our house is really just a big loft-style condo, so the “tour” basically consists of him leading our guests around a big circle pointing out all his Polynesian kitsch.

On this particular tour, when he got to the “bedroom,” which is basically just our bed, pushed up against the wall, he said, “And this… this is where the magic happens. Or as Brittanie calls it, ‘rent.’”

Very funny. I think it’s safe to say I have never asked him for much, so the fact that he allowed me to move all of my things into his house, and all of my dog’s things as well, makes him a pretty remarkable man. I especially recognize this sacrifice, considering he is an only child who has lived alone as an animal-free bachelor for a better part of the last decade.

When I first moved to Houston, I had no money in the bank, no job and no permanent place to stay. I decided that the best kind of job to get would be a job where I made tips, since I wouldn’t have to wait for a paycheck.

I moved on a Sunday, went job hunting on Monday, and was hired by the first place I applied to. They asked me to start the following weekend. Score!

I should have known it would be drama from the start. Here are a couple of the warning signs I chose to ignore:

• For one, I may have fibbed a bit on my resume. I said I’d worked as a cocktail waitress, when in truth, all I’d ever done was serve over-priced fried seafood (in Oklahoma, nonetheless. NEVER eat seafood when you’re no place near the sea.) at a hokey themed restaurant that required me to wear a fishing vest complete with tackle as part of my uniform.
• They called me in for three, count ‘em, one — two – three, interviews. For a job as a bartender. At a college bar. I mean, who do they think they are, the Playboy Mansion?
• During my third interview, one of the managers (how many managers do you need in a place with five bartenders, anyway?) actually tried to hit on me. I like to refer to him as “Soul Patch,” only because no one pushing 40 can really carry that off, no matter how hip they once were. None of his questions had anything whatsoever to do with bars, bartending, my resume, the job, booze or beer. I later found out that Soul Patch was a Serial Employee Dater, having sexed up no less than three of my five coworkers, plus some that were no longer there.

But you know, I digress. I was broke and they were willing to hire me right away. And to tell you the truth, if you take away the Emotionally Manipulative Boss, the Boss Who is So Obsessive Compulsive The She Labels Everything with a Brother™ Label Maker, The Boss That Wants To Get Into Your Undies, the drunken frat boys, the snooty sorority girls, the cheapskates, the jocks, The Guy That Hits On The Bartender Immediately After She Overhears Him Getting Rejected By The Girl That’s Sitting Right Next To Him, the drunk girl who hangs her panties from the longhorns every Saturday night I DON’T WANT TO CLEAN UP YOUR PANTIES ANYMORE!, the “It’s My Birthday, Whaddo I Get For Free” types, the “How Much Is…” types, the “Do You Have Any Specials…” types, the non-tippers, the 25-cents-on-a-five-dollar-tab tippers, the cigar smokers, the angries (Why are you so angry?), and the hungries (“Uh, can I, like, have some chips or something?”) and The People That Just Won’t Leave At 2 a.m. Alreadies, bartending was pretty fun. I liked almost all of my coworkers, I got to wear whatever I wanted, I got to say whatever I wanted — so long as it was out of earshot from the owner — the money was real good, and I loved my regulars.

After a while, though, I figured that I should put my degree to use and get a real job. Sadly, however, my degree, which equals roughly $40,000 in solid education, nets me a career in which I make only about half that much a year, pre-tax. I reconcile this in my head by saying that being a starving writer gives me so much more street cred, but apparently the company that financed my car could care less about my street cred.

I’ve done this before, moonlighting. In fact, I’ve done it my whole life. Ever since I was 16 I’ve had a job, sometimes two. I worked all the way through college, full-time, and still managed a 3.8 GPA. And as soon as I was out of college and in my first REAL job, I had to get a second job because my REAL job didn’t pay my REAL bills.

So my second job, bartending, made it possible to do my first job, writing. Without one, I could never have afforded to do the other and, you know, have a roof over my head.

But my part-time job was getting more and more stressful. Four shifts at the bar a week equaled about 40 hours, on top of my REAL 40-hour job. I was getting about 4 hours of sleep a night, getting to work at 9 a.m., working until 6 p.m., getting to my other work at about 7 p.m., getting home at about 3:30 a.m., over and over and over again. The only full day I had off was Saturday, and most of that time I was sleeping. Plus, suddenly, my bosses started to get medievally neurotic, making those late nights even less pleasant.

Still, I stayed at the bar. It was like a bad relationship you just can’t leave. Anyone who has ever worked for tips can understand this — you get addicted to the lifestyle. You always have money in your pocket, usually two to three hundred dollars, after a shift. If you are broke or need some quick cash, you just pick up a shift and bam!, cash money ho. No waiting two weeks for your paycheck, no credit cards, no waiting for checks to clear. Soon you wonder how you ever lived without all that money, and you laugh in that face of anyone who doesn’t carry at least three Benjamin’s in their wallet at all times. I, personally, am all about the Benjamin’s.

My bosses were getting worse and worse. Yelling at us for stupid things, like not putting enough ice in a drink, or then, putting too much ice in one. ONLY HIRING WOMEN (isn’t that illegal?) Don’t pour the Guinness like that. Don’t pick up the tips immediately. Smile more and don’t yell at the customers. Make more small talk. Quit talking already, customers are waiting. Why didn’t you talk to that person?!?

As I got more fed up with it, I started apologizing to my coworkers. “On the day I decide to quit,” I’d tell them, “I’m going to pick the busiest day, and just not show up. It’s supposed to be a big Up-Yours to The Man, but I know you guys are the ones who are really going to suffer, so I’m sorry.”

Poor C was sick of it too. He never got to see me, and when he did, I was always exhausted or cranky or both. I have lived in Houston for more than a year and have never been to any restaurants or bars, because I was always at work. So finally, we decided I should move in, that way I could live on just one job. That, so far, was the best day of my life.

In spite of what I’d told my barmates, I gave my bosses a three-week notice, just to be nice. Two weeks passed, they hadn’t even tried to hire someone. Three weeks passed, no replacement. On the night before what was supposed to be my last night, Soul Patch pulled me aside and said, “Yeah, umm, when do you plan on your last day being?”

“I dunno,” I told him.

“Well, you know, uhh, that when we hire the new person, we’re gonna want you to, like, stick around a week or so until she gets trained.”

“Umm, oh.. okay.”

And then I did it! One Friday last month, after I came home from my REAL job, I just didn’t go to work. I just didn’t show up. It was awesome, liberating, redemptive. That same night, another bartender called in sick, so they had half the staff they should have had, and the bar ended up having one of the busiest nights they’d ever had. They were screwed, but they screwed themselves. I had given my notice.

One of the best things about that job was the overwhelming amount of gossip I was exposed to. Part of what made my last few weeks there so stressful was this new barback we hired. Steve annoyed the wits outta me, especially while I watched him talk on his cell phone instead of washing dishes and sit on a barstool smoking a cigarette while the other barback mopped the floor. When I called him on it, he’d mutter expletives at me under his breath. Luckily, the owners were on the verge of firing Steve when he gave his two-week notice. Perceptive little jerk, huh?

Anyway, I called an old coworker the other day to get an update on the gossip, and she told me that a week after Steve gave his two-week notice, he asked to rescind it. Fool! How you gonna take back a two week notice?