You know what’s awesome? Happy Hour. You know what’s even better than that? When you go out for margaritas, and the bartender remembers you and decides to give you Happy Hour prices even though it’s an hour past end time. You know what’s even better than that? When the bartender is hot.
Life is good, my friends.
Back in April a few of my bitches came up from Baltimore to hang out for the weekend. Since we’re so old and can’t handle staying up past 11, we figured we needed to start drinking early. I suggested a bar crawl in my neighborhood. I live in a super adorable town just outside of Philadelphia. Everything you could possibly want is within walking distance – there are about 10 bars within stumbling distance – perfect for an afternoon bar crawl.
Stop number 4 ended up being our last stop of the night. Not because we were pussies, but because they had just rolled out their new summer drink menu, the bartenders were fun, and two of them were mighty nice to look at. It turned into one of those nights when the bartenders would just bring over random drinks because they thought we were awesome. By the end of the night it was like we were all best friends forever.
They lit our drinks on fire.
We got drunk.
The next day I vomited. But that’s not part of the story.
Last night was the first time I’ve been back since then. Sure enough, one of the dreamy bartenders was there and remembered us. It was romantic. We should have made out. He flirted shamelessly.
But here’s the thing with bartenders. I can never tell if a bartender is flirting with me because he wants me to give him a better tip, or because he wants me to touch his tip. Can’t read them. My girlfriend insisted that he was totally into it, but you’ll have to excuse me for being skeptical. Clearly there’s only one way to find: go back for more margaritas and investigate. So who’s ready for Happy Hour?
Did I mention he was hot? Did I also mention he wants to move to London with me?
Oh. Did I forget to mention I was moving in the fall…?