Yesterday morning I got the inevitable call. 9:30. Phil has gone to the emergency room, and the golf lounge needs a bartender. Guess who got tapped? So I threw on some makeup, did my hair up, and trudged down to the lounge to pour drinks for the good ol' boys. They needed gin and tonics and someone to call honey. I got a lot of "honeys" and a few "darlin's." Why is California the place to find a concentration of old southern gentlemen? I remind several of them of their high school girlfriend (I beg your pardon) and several others thought I had a nice smile. (Must have let that slip. I try not to smile at the bar. It only eggs them on. Kidding!) Right when I was closing, seven men came in for their daily 'turkey club.' They talked war and politics, and Phil's rib problems, and why wasn't he there, and if I wanted to be a good bartender I'll hang around with him for a while, and remember that other female bartender 'bout ten years ago? What was her name? That's right. Look bud, they sent us a pretty one today...

And so on. The perk? At the golf lounge they leave cash tips!