Once upon a week ago, my roommates and I took a trip to Donato’s for some birthday festivities. We had been drinking at another bar beforehand, but I have the tolerance of a 60 year old man who has been drinking since they were 12 so I remained unfazed. “Onward to pizza!” we said. Little did I know, my tipping point was near and the spiced watermelon margarita I ordered would seal the deal. And the one after that.
We had a very nice waiter whose name I’ll leave out in case you happen to wander into my evening’s old stomping ground and see him. Despite being told repeatedly what his name was, I proceeded to call him “Jordan” every single time he came to our table. Maybe I had convinced myself that I was right. Or maybe I’m just self righteous enough when I’m drunk to ignore someone’s birth name and give them one of my own. In my defense, he never corrected me.
After we finished our food and drinks, it was time to journey home. He dropped off our checks and said that he didn’t mean to rush us, but it was almost time for him to perform in the open mic night and he had to get ready. Donatos open mic night…what a vision. My normal response to musical open mic nights is to run in the other direction because I’m just like that. However, something about my self-proclaimed Jordan and open mic night seemed like the most attractive combination that this planet has ever known. Rather than stay and see the performances (I wasn’t that drunk), I left him an excessive message on my receipt. It said “Good luck performing” with approximately one million exclamation points, a smiley face, and my phone number. Unfortunately for my roommates, he had no idea which card belonged to whom so now we’re all shit out of luck. Delivery from now on. There’s also a 110% chance that I was talking with my mafia accent as that is something that I’ve begun to pick up while drinking. And while not drinking. I have too much time on my hands.