she's still got it

These past few months have been...rough.

You know those snail shells you sometimes find in your garden? Not the hardy, thick, recently abandoned ones, I'm talking about the wispy little shards leftover after months spent baking in the sun that will blow away at the tiniest hint of an ant's fart. They are see-through and remind you more of a cockroach's exoskeleton than anything else? That's kind of what I've been feeling like lately in mind and in body so I was getting a little worried for a moment there. Will I simply keep fading out until one day I just suddenly blow away? Seems strange now, but that felt like an actual concern. The beginnings of my much-needed substantive return came from a most unlikely source; while visiting my hometown, I was kicked out of a bar.

No, this was not the first time I've been kicked out of a bar, but it was definitely the most preposterous; I was turned away for being underage and presenting a fake ID to the bartender. Seriously. Three separate people working at the bar and none of them were familiar with, nor could confirm that what I held in my hand was a legitimate, valid, Oregon State driver's license. No black light, no scanner, no State ID guide book, no Googling, no nothing; just this guy's gut feeling. At one point, he told me that if it really was valid, I should speak to the Oregon DMV about the layout of their licenses because they are missing information and the font "looks fake". I realize this should have been a funny experience but instead, I was livid.

Because of his unknowing blundering across several of my emotional hair triggers, my mood was taken from Owen Wilson to Daniel Day-Lewis in about a second flat. Not being listened to? Hair trigger. It was like acting out my recurring nightmare of screaming at the top of my lungs in the middle of a room while no one pays attention to me except it was in the middle of an empty pool hall in downtown Paso Robles and I was calmly, but forcefully, presenting my case to the bartender while he basically stuck his fingers in his ears going, "LA! LA! LA! LA! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!". Infuriating. Hair trigger number two: being dismissed for being young, female, small, etc. There, there little girl, shut up now, is a common feeling I grew up with and was instantly reminded of when this fellow decided to act on his hunch about my ID and just say poo poo to any sort of actual inspection or research. I wanted to ask him which of my body parts he'd like me to submit to his highly skilled visual discernment (since that is what we were going off of already) as evidence to what my actual age might be. In my head he responded with "your butthole" which my imaginary self then promptly exposed in order to release a diabolical fart directly into his open mouth. Too crude? Whatever. That's how my brain works.

Anyway, I got my revenge. It was subtle, but so pungently steeped in my own brand that I couldn't help but to bask in it (more fart references, what is that all about?). In the best turn of events, I happened to be staying with one of my closest friends- the kind of friend who knows instantly when you've hatched yet another hair-brained scheme and is there without question to do whatever is needed to make that dream a reality. Wielding her laptop and office supplies, I put together an informational packet (securely bundled via manila envelope) with instructions on properly checking United States IDs for validity. I included a visual guide on various forms of Oregon State IDs as well as an addendum on change of address labels and a note explaining why he was receiving this highly helpful and well-organized care package. Finally, I included a newly purchased UV light with instructions on its use for checking IDs as well as an attached receipt with an invitation to use it as a business expense for tax write-off purposes. All of this I hand-delivered to his bar a few days later (unfortunately not to him directly) without fanfare or confrontation.

It wasn't a stand-alone gesture. I indicated that I had given him a one-star review on YELP and that I would be happy to amend it once he responded saying that he would keep this kind of mistake from happening to future out-of-state customers who can't grow a beard or happen to lack the ability to be taller than 5'2" on any given day. An apology would have been neat, but I wasn't asking for that from him- just acknowledgement of his (their) combined error. Well anyway, none of that matters because that's not what happened. I just ended up ruffling his feathers a bit and he posted a long, impassioned, poorly-spelled YELP response that ended with something like, "thank you for bringing attention to our stringent ID policy; you can have your UV bulb back, also feel free to join us during an all-ages night in the future" or something to that effect. Fucking dick. But also; whatever.

Here's where you say, But Juli, wasn't that a complete waste of time and anger and revenge and office supplies and late-night YELP posting that all could have been avoided if you had simply said, "okay" and gone to another bar and moved on with your life? Well yes, dear reader, this is all true. But you know what? I am nothing if not resourceful. And when I'm feeling tired, and beat-down, and sick, and like a former shadow of myself, you know what really riles me up? When someone tries to tell me I'm wrong when I know for one hundred, one thousand, one million, percent that I am not. You want to piss me off? Cool, but I will use that fire to breathe life back into my lungs. So maybe I had a stupid battle with someone who didn't deserve it and nothing about it actually contributed to the greater good of the world. But you know what else? I got my groove back. So fuck that guy, and fuck that bar, and fuck anyone who wants to come at me right now! I am alive and I feel anger!!!!

But also, I don't wish his bar any harm, I just wish that he would not be such an ignorant discriminating jerk. And also I thank him for his contributions to my current mental health and ability to feel bold again.

But also; fuck that guy!