32 Ounces in a Mason Jar

My loving husband and I are suckers for trying new restaurants. Especially when they open near our home. So our little ears perked up when a new steakhouse/mexican restaurant went in near us. We typically don't like chains, but we'll try anything just once- and just once in some instances. Let me preface with the fact that we gave up red meat for lent. So when the headline of the restaurant read Steaks, Ribs and Fajitas, we were skeptical about what we would find on the menu, but thought we'd give it whirl anyway. Allow me to break down our evening.

We walked in the door and we were greeted by a stuffed raccoon. Holding a BB Gun. And sporting an orange bandanna and sunglasses. Yikes, I thought with a small shudder. I went up to hostess who told me it would be a 35 minute wait and we could sit in the "waiting area" cutely named the Cattle Pen. Hmmm. Not good for the self-image to indirectly be called a cow. Oh well, I thought.

They handed us a little card with a number on it and told us to watch the screen for our number to come up. Kind of like Keno. So my loving husband and I made our way to a bench that was made entirely out of horseshoes and sat down. My loving husband leaned over to me and told me he felt like he had just been violated by a horseshoe. To say this bench was uncomfortable would be an understatement. After getting over the initial shock of having a horseshoe try to make its way to areas it doesn't belong, we waited patiently in the cattle pen for our number to appear on the screen. Others joined us and my loving husband and I played the fun game of dodging flying peanuts being thrown on the floor by fellow cattle pen members.

Our number was finally called--er--put up on the screen and I yelled "Yahtzee!" really loud. Normally my loving husband would be embarrassed, but he was too busy picking a horseshoe out of his ass to notice my outburst. Speaking of asses....

We were just getting seated at our table when our very eager waiter came over and asked if the hostess had told us about the featured drinks that evening. We politely told him "no." She had really just thrown our silverware and menus at us and took off, but we kept those details to ourselves. He got a little nervous and starting going into this schpeel about how they serve their specialty drinks in glasses that are shaped like donkey's asses. Hmmmm, we thought. So my loving husband (who can be charming, really) starts explaining to me why they are in the shape of an ass, because they "Kick Ass, Lisa! Not only are they an Ass of an Ass, they are also Kick Ass! You see that?"

As I am rolling my eyes and my husband is making fun of the poor waiter, the poor guy's manager comes over and interrupts his schpeel by telling him they were all out of the donkey glasses. Sad Day. This totally threw him into a tail spin and I had to tell him it was ok, maybe we would try the donkey ass glasses some other day. I would prefer to have a beer anyway. I noticed a large neon sign featuring Boulevard on the wall, so I scanned the menu to see whether they had Wheat or Pale Ale, Tap or Bottle. Except there was no Boulevard on the menu. I guess the sign was just for, um, decoration. I ordered what I thought was a 16 oz. small Blue Moon. He asked to see my ID.

I presented my driver's licence only to hear his manager (who was still creepily peering over his shoulder) ask him enthusiastically, "What are the three things you look for on an ID?!?"

He replied,"Birth date, Expiration Date and the Picture!"

"GOOD JOB!" yelled the manager. And off she went. The poor waiter used the same joke on both my husband and I - telling us both he wasn't sure if our IDs checked out. We chuckled along with him and shot "Holy Hell What are we doing here" glances at each other.

We ordered some food (chicken please, thank you) and our drinks arrived. To my surprise, my beer was served in a Mason Jar. A 32 oz. Mason Jar. Full of Beer. Mmmmm. We were in a bit of a hurry (24 was on!), so I must tell you that slamming down 32 oz of beer out of glass that really requires a straw because half of it goes down the front of you when you are in a hurry is not really an ideal situation. And then having to ask your husband to pause 24 at critically intense times because you have to race to the bathroom because you just slammed 32 oz of liquid is also not an ideal situation. Every time my loving husband would sigh in exasperation, I would just yell out, "I am SORRY! It was the 32 oz in a Mason Jar!"

All in all, we got a good laugh out of our experience. And since I am snowed in my home in March, I thought I would share our evening with you.