"Did you know that Ellen's got over two million people following her on 'the Tweeter'?" a woman asked the man next to me at Jodi T.'s.
From there, the conversation dipped into the omnipresence of media and how we'll be paying $6 a gallon for gas before the end of the summer. A box of Church's fried chicken sat in a plastic bag on the bar with their beers.
Later, I got to watch as the man next to me unwound the gauze from his finger to show it to another patron. He'd disregarded the warning on his lawnmower about where to not place his hands while the motor was running.
The first bartender had some questions for me. The first one? "Can I see your ID, miss." She rolled her eyes and apologized when she did the math and realized she'd carded a 36-year-old.
I don't blame her. I was sitting next to an old man missing a portion of a finger and his partner, who looked like she'd lived about 80 years in 50 years' worth of skin. I looked infantile in comparison.
The other questions pertained to my skill and interest in shooting pool and throwing darts. Both are taken very seriously at Jodi T.'s -- so much so that pool players brought their own cues. Since I don't partake in either, that was the end of my social networking for the night. I didn't collect any business cards, but I got to see a real-live knuckle bone.
Robin Wheeler writes for the blog Poppy Mom. She also has a strange attraction to drinking establishments with jars of pickled -- or possibly fossilized -- eggs. She reports on these dives for Gut Check every Friday.