Hotel Bar Again

No.No.No. Trust me. I’m not worth the effort. I will make your life miserable. At least according to the testimony in my last divorce.

The Context

Ummm, yeah, fairly obvious one here … someone was expressing interest in me and I was deflecting. There are a couple of inaccurate or misleading suggestions though: First, my last divorce was amicable – no testimony necessary; and Two, by saying “last” divorce, it sort of implies there was more than one, which is not true, there was only one. Vocabulary was selected for comedic effect … it was a joke with intent, factual accuracy not required. ūüôā

Emergency Room Smile

So¬†there¬†I was …

In an emergency room,

Once again.


Not really.


The x-ray tech rolls her portable x-ray machine into my station …

And starts to set things up to take my x-ray.

She puts the plate-thingie on the bed,

Positions my hand for the first picture desired on top of said plate thingie,

Picks up the remote activation device that will execute the x-ray taking process,

And starts walking out the door to protect herself from the x-ray diation,

(Always a bit unnerving when you are the one left right next to the x-ray device),

Then just as she’s exiting the room,

She stops, turns to me, and says,

Is there any chance you are pregnant?


Are you sure? Any chance at all?

No. I’m certain.

You know,

After all this time,

That type of interaction continues to give me an inner smile.

To think¬†…

She must believe¬†I’m still young enough to get knocked up ! ūüėČ

A Tight, Well-Balanced Rack

I converse fluently in drunk-speak.

When in such a state,

I slur and mumble with the best of them,

Tossing in some krazy pointing, head wobbling, and spontaneous giggling to boot.


When not in such a state,

I translate the grunts, groans, and fluctuating volume changes of others with ease.



So much so that it really doesn’t register to me when someone is speaking in drunk,

I just understand.

This I mention because recently I had an encounter where I my first thought was …

Holy krap, I can’t believe he just said that to me.

Which was quickly followed by the thought …

And I don’t even think that’s drunk-speak.

Wanna know more?

Okay then,

Here’s the scoop …

I was in a foreign bar.

By foreign,

I don’t mean a bar in another country,

Or one whose patrons speak another language,

Or embrace another culture.

I simply mean foreign in the sense that it was not my home bar,

Or any of the other three of which I frequent with regularity.

I’ve been to this particular watering hole a few times,

It is definitely pleasant enough.

And I was there with some folks I know well enough,

But not super well.

Though combining the slightly unfamiliar location and quasi-associations,

I was slightly outside my element.

So I was maintaining a fairly sober state of mind,

Paying particular attention and awareness to my surroundings.

Going Bourne.

So that night I was nursing a Coors Light, watered down even further with an accompanying glass of aqua,


Which really means I was just a couple hops and barley from drinking pure water all night,

So eventually I had to separate myself from the pack and go to the restroom.

Which I did,

Without event.


Upon leaving the restroom,

And turning the corner exiting the bathroom vestibule area,

I re-entered the full spaciousness of the bar,

Taking a few steps towards our table a distant half bar away.

I was doing the far-away gaze thing,

To avoid making eye contact with anyone.

But as my eyes were still in fact open,

I could not help but peripherally see a guy a few feet in front of me …

Step into my line of walk,

And while looking at me,

Clearly state …

Nice Rack !

Now, of course, you already know what immediately went through my mind:

Holy krap, I can’t believe he just said that to me. ¬†And I don’t even think that’s drunk-speak.

But the more pertinent question is just how did I choose to respond to such an observation.

So, operating in a super, high speed, mental fashion that only a brain tolerating Coors Light can perform,

I arrived at my response by first processing the following:

1. I am in a foreign bar, segregated from my posse for the night, which even if I wasn’t, tonight’s posse wouldn’t be of much assistance if things did take a turn for the messy. I probably should rule out stepping around him while lancing out a caustic “phuck off“.

2.¬†I am in a foreign bar, segregated from my posse for the night, which even if I wasn’t, tonight’s posse¬†wouldn’t be of much assistance if things did take a turn for the messy. It would make a lot of sense to step around him, not make eye contact, and walk back to our table without saying a word or acknowledging his presence. However, I’m really struggling not to say “phuck off“, though I might soften it up a bit by first saying “thank you“. Though again, saying nothing and ignoring does seem to be a prudent course of action.

3. I am in a foreign bar. I don’t remember surveying a pool table here, but maybe there is one behind me. Possibly he is simply observing a properly set up collection of pool table balls and commenting that someone did a good assembly job by acknowledging “Nice Rack !” Unfortunately, in pursuing that thought further, I broke my far-away gaze and turned my head around to see if there was indeed a pool table nearby, or even someone else to whom his comment might have been directed. This, unfortunately, had the unintended consequence of confirming to him I had indeed heard his words and making ignoring him now even less practical. Oh yeah, and there was no pool table, nor anyone else nearby that he could have been aiming those words.

Down to mere milliseconds before needing to make a decision, I worked my way towards my response.

Since he knows I heard him, I have to say something in response. Ignoring him is out of the question.

I need a response that is definitively dismissive as I don’t want to invite a re-encounter or leave open a possibility of encouragement.

I also need a response that isn’t going to be so completely offensive that things get messy.


Game time.

Let’s play.

I turned my head back towards him. Made eye contact, then tilted my head to the left and slightly forward so that my eyes were looking up. Looking at me, he was standing mostly tall with a smiley smirk. I laid out my own responsive smile¬†without displaying any teeth, shook my head “no” in a sad-like manner, stepped slightly around him and while passing by tendered …

These aren’t the droids you’re looking for. Move along. Move along.

I know.

But it was the only quote I could think of quickly that sorta, kinda seemed to work.

Add Some Pause


When I transitioned,

My first name and last name were both changed.

And acclimating to my new first name took some time:

Seemed like it took me forever to stop turning in response upon hearing my Version 1.0 name being called out to someone else;

And it felt as if it took just as long to get me to respond to my Version 2.0 name if I had even the slightest of Coors Light buzzes.

Though with the passage of time,

My new first name has become second nature,

And my old one foreign.

But now,

I have noticed something sorta, kinda, what-I-think is weird about me and my relationship with my new last name.

Seems like whenever someone asks me if I’m related to someone with my new last name,¬†I say …

No” way too quickly.

Krazy quickly.

Borderline rude.

Kinda snappish.

I swear, a couple of times I didn’t¬†even wait for them to finish identifying of whom they are asking before I offered a curt …

No, I’m not.

Granted, I suppose a little impatience is understandable, since I do know the answer:

I’m just not related to anyone with my new last name regardless of whether they are from East Town, West Side, North Shore, South Bama,

Or anywhere else.

But though understandable, I certainly don’t think even a little impatience is appropriate,

Since the question is asked with friendly interest.

And as I do like conversing with pholks,

It doesn’t make much sense that I would suddenly develop an impatience issue because of this simple query.


I don’t think my impatience with such a question has anything to do with having to create a surname past on the fly,

As I’m usually pretty good about feigning whatever needs to be feigned when responding to questions of Amy-History.


I think my impatience with the question is because¬†when the answer to such a question is always “No“,

One never gets the opportunity to enjoy a comfort feel of family identity when you are able to say,


That someone is your grandfather, grandmother, dad, mom, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, cousin,


So I think the unexpected impatience I display in such a situation is that I am reacting to the question in the same manner as I do to the slight discomfort to removing a super adhesive bandage,

Just rip if off quickly to get it over.

I can be such a tool at times.


Now that I have created a reasonably acceptable rationalization, at least to me, for my unexpected impatience,

I will henceforth add some pause,

And exhibit thoughtful recollection,

As I contemplate whether or not I am related to whomever such an inquiry is about.

Oh, for those wondering …




No, I’m not.


I totally dig the State of Colorado.

It is worthy.

Likewise, I absolutely love the City of Denver.

Very Book.

However, when it comes to the Denver International Airport (DEN) …

I am so not a fan.

It’s not the people there that have caused my disdain,

They are always pleasant as one could be in such an environment.

Likewise, it’s not the John Holmes, phreakishly long lines at the security checkpoint.


Annoying, yes, but they move faster than one would expect.

(Tip – if you are flying Frontier out of A Terminal, take the Bridge to A, the wait for security there is not bad at all.)

It’s not even the irksome flight schedules one has to deal with when flying home on a west to east trajectory which require you to be at DEN for an early flight shortly after the bars close the previous day,

Or for the late flight,

A few minutes before midnight the next day.

Heck, one would think I would love DEN because of the whole alien conspiracy story thing it has going,

Not to mention the civic pride I have because it was my hometown peeps that were brought in to solve their original baggage delivery system dork-up when the airport was first built.

Yay Hometown.

I do concede,

A little bit of my issue with DEN is because I think associating it with Denver is a bit misleading considering it was built so far from Denver that it is actually in Utah.

Seriously. ūüôā

Though I do suspect the real source for the sore spot I have for DEN is because of the fake Rocky Mountain snow tops positioned above the terminal,

And parking lots,

And exit gates,

Right behind Blucifer.

For some reason,

Whenever I see them …

I get annoyed.

It might be because when I do see them …

The first thing I think of is …

Circus tent.

Which does not inspire aviation confidence in one,

At least not in this one.


I know.



I mention this because …

The gods of Irony still do like to amuse themselves with the comings and goings in my life,

As I have spent more time in DEN waiting for flights,

Than  I have in every other airport of the world …


Amy In Her Usual Killing time Spot At DEN

Amy In Her Usual Killing time Spot At DEN

And soon,

I will once again be spending a bunch of time in DEN,

Waiting for the late flight which leaves a few minutes before midnight the next day,


My friend TroopLeader and I are meeting up at DEN,

Tripping to Estes Park, Colorado,

And going ghost hunting at The Stanley Hotel.

Yikes !!!

(I’m a complete wimp when it comes to such things, so I’m betting that I will end up spending every night sleeping in the rental car, too scared to stay in any of the rooms there.)

Though considering I’m going to be spending upwards of a day again at DEN in the near future,

At least will be getting some love.