Graciousness. Like a veranda or some bitch who sits upon a veranda, graciousness suffuses my life. That is why I have a job where I spread my graciousness to help the world be sweeter, more considerate, just plain better. I am a fabulous, fancy-pants mixologist, as some might say. And, not to toot my own horn, but Toot! Toot! I’m pretty good at what I do.
What I do for a living, is turn out high-volume of tasty, alcoholic beverages. On a deeper level, I create the atmosphere in which you wallow. Your lighting, cocktails, music, the company of select peers, the overall aesthetics of your night out all depend on me. Well, and on you not being an asshole, but mostly on me. That’s a big responsibility, considering that at any given time, the company of your peers might include frat boys, hipsters, your mom, a rowdy bunch of east county bachelorettes and some cantankerous day regulars who demand instant attention to their galloping sense of entitlement.
I run a nice place, the kind of place where the bachelorettes at Table 1 buy a round of drinks for the guys having an intervention for their dad at Table 2, where your mom can come to have a nice time with her man-friend (not your dad, btw, but I’ll never tell), where almost everybody knows your name, except for that one guy that always calls you Ted. Don’t worry, he calls me Lisa.
I’m an interpersonal multi-tasker, a babysitter and a parole officer, which can be very tiring. Plus, I control your mind. So I beg of you, when you walk up to the bar and step into my office, be kind, be courteous, be patient. Otherwise I might lose my thin, lacy veil of graciousness and snap on you like a Sugarbaker sister.