Martini Glasses Are Fucking Useless

Martini Glasses

I have a martini glass collection. It started as a joke in my early twenties, after I broke every single martini glass at the bar my family owned. I had an affinity for cosmopolitans (thanks in part to my Sex and the City addiction), and my body had an affinity for falling down and breaking shit. It was a match made in broken glass heaven.

After I broke all three martini glasses at our shot and a beer joint, I was no longer allowed to possess a martini glass in my hand at the bar. (Of course they replaced the ones I broke). At the time, my little brother was the bar manager. Every time he trained a new bartender, I’d sit on the patron side and test their mad skill. I’d teach them how to make a cosmopolitan. And then I’d giggle profusely, making them question my educational abilities. I’d grin at my brother, lift my glass and clink his imaginary glass in celebration. And then I’d take a big swig of that delicious vodka delight. And giggle some more.

He’d run over and tell the nervous bartender that I could drink cosmos all I want, but they weren’t allowed in martini glasses if they were being handed to me. I was banished from those ridiculous and easily breakable glasses.

So of course, my best friend Mark thought it would be funny to buy me a pair of martini glasses for Christmas.

They lived in my car for a few weeks before I finally, not-so-ironically broke one and took the other inside into my house. It sat on a lonely shelf in my bedroom for a few months. For
my birthday that year, I received one of those fancy pants Lolita martini glasses. I thought it was the greatest fucking thing ever. I was an idiot.

I decided that I would start a martini glass collection, and made it my business to find Lolita glasses on clearance to cheaply add to my collection.

Almost a decade later, I’m now the proud owner of a shelvy thingy full of useless. Fucking. Martini glasses.martini glass collection

You may remember we recently bought a house. I have a place to store and display those fancy fucking martini glasses. Except for the one I broke while I was unpacking them.

What you may not know is that I volunteered to host Christmas for 30-40 people this year. And that I’ve already hosted a couple of large gatherings. And you know what? No one drinks fucking martinis at house parties. They drink beer. And wine. And other shit.

Last week, after Thanksgiving with Brian’s family, I realized that if I’m hosting Christmas, I’m going to need cordial glasses for Bailey’s. And rocks glasses for Manhattans. And snifters for brandy or something.

So I called my mom, who was sleeping. Dad answered, so I asked him, “How many cordial glasses do you have?”

“Four?”

Oh God.

Okay.

When I cleared out the bar after we went out of business, I never thought to grab ALL the glassware. I took shot glasses and stupid shit…like a CASE of fucking martini glasses.  A case. A whole fucking case.

And now I’m a grown up who has to buy cordial glasses and rocks glasses, but has a fucking armory of martini and shot glasses.

So me and martini glasses? Not friends. Even though I have a collection of them hanging out in our dining room.

Do you have an unplanned collection of anything? What do you collect? Have you ever broken a martini glass? Do you think martini glasses are stupid & useless, too?

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I’ve Got Friends in Low Places…

Friends come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

I’m blessed to have found all of the above. Yes, even the seasonal friends. Sure, they didn’t have some BIG part of me becoming me, but I sure enjoyed the ride.

For Day 13 of the 25 Songs in 25 Days, we’re asked to share a song that reminds us of a former friend.

With my chosen song, I think of many former friends all at once. Back when my parents owned a bar and I was an Irish princess. Everyone’s your friend when you own the bar. It’s when you stop owning the bar that you discover your true friends. The lifetime friends. And even the reason friends. The rest were just there for a season. And that’s okay.

When I was a little girl, dancing around the bar after my daddy’s softball games, playing with the other kids, we’d listen to the old-school jukebox and rock out to the 80’s music we loved. Of course, we weren’t the only ones plugging money into the machine (money we got from nice bar patrons who would hand us dollars to play whatever we wanted). And more often that I would have liked at the ripe old age of 8, Garth Brooks would croon about his friends in low places. And you know what?

He was right.

I may have hated that song when I was 8, but by the time I was an adult, consuming my own legal beverages at the bar, I was singing along to the tune with the best of them. I had friends in low places, where the whiskey drowned and the beer chased my blues away…From Peoria to Lombard I had friends at bars across the state. And that was my world for a spell. An intoxicated, swaying world. But it was fun. And I still have some of those friends. But not all. And such is life.

What songs remind you of old friends?

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I was an Irish Princess

For the first 25 years of my life, my parents owned a bar. Not just any bar. To us, it was THE bar. All of our important coming of age shit was celebrated in the bar. First communions, graduations, birthdays, even some holidays…and most especially, St. Patrick’s Day.

You learn a lot when your parents own a bar. You learn how to mix drinks, of course, non alcoholic drinks…like the Chrissy Cocktail I invented when I was 9–seven up, squirt, grenadine, pineapple juice and orange juice (when I grew up, I added vodka). You tell your kindergarten teacher that you want to be a bartender when you grow up. You play waitress in your best friends’ basement (but you add roller skates, because when you own the bar, everyone is going to wear roller skates). You go to a lot of wakes and funerals because you know a lot of people (and a lot of alcoholic). You decide that you DON’T want to be an alcoholic, because you spent your impressionable years watching them. But you drink like a fucking fish in your twenties, anyway.

And then, one day, the bar is gone. And all you have are these AMAZING memories. And that’s okay. It brought you to where you are. It shaped your existence. It gave you all those AMAZING memories.

You try for a few years to go out to other Irish bars on St. Patrick’s Day. You run around town like the Eurotrash of the suburban town where you once held court. Fallen royalty without a kingdom. And then you realize that a bottle of Jamo, a bottle of Bailey’s, and a 6-pack of Guinness are way cheaper than a few shots and a couple of warm green beers at an overcrowded pub. And your dad taught you to make the best corned beef and cabbage on the planet anyway.

But you still deck yourself out like a motherfucking leprechaun and roll into work. Because that’s just what you do. And you wear a green jacket with the name of the bar and the year of your birth like a boss. And you live every day. With your memories and your plans for the future.

Because THAT is what makes life happen.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!