A New Brew

As a woman of the new millennium, I declare this: beer has long been a boys’ club—a frothy symbol of their drunken lore, rife with slurred complaints about “the wife.”Well, it's time we rewrite the script.

Too long we've turned from the bottle, perhaps ever since we learned its active ingredient is yeast—and let’s be honest, that didn't help. But rest assured, after considerable study, I can confirm: the connection to infection is purely mythical.

It’s our turn now. We’ll stumble through the door at midnight, hiccuping the chorus of our favorite anthem, belching between giggles. That alone should send the first ripple of dread through our unsuspecting partners.

Curiosity will draw him near. The scent—his ancient emotional camouflage—now clings to us. He’ll blink, unsteady. Ignore it. March over to the TV. Turn on the game. Untuck your blouse with a smirk. He’ll misread the signal, think you’re a lightweight.

Let him smile and lean in. Now—belch, scratch your stomach, slouch into the couch and laugh like a thunderstorm. That, my sisters, is the coup de grâce. His individuality? Gone. Another domino in the fall of macho ritual.

Ah, but fantasies do get carried away, don’t they?

Back to the mission. First, we drink the elixir. Not for pleasure—yet—but for power. It severs emotion, dulls the senses, and renders this grimy bar tolerable. It reeks of socks, smoke, and stale sweat. No matter. The beer will soften that.

They’re staring. Perhaps they’ve never seen a woman in pinstripes here, this late. Their pit stop—a place to tank up on courage before facing the homes they built. Crafty cowards. I meet no gaze. They must sense it—I’m not just financially free—I’m here to steal their sacred brew.

The bottle could use a makeover. Brighter colors, a better label. But enough critique. Down the hatch, as they say.

Gurgle! Damn bottle slipped on my Maybelline gloss! At least it spilled on the Gucci, not the Armani. No one noticed—quick lipstick fix—let’s try again.

Caught a few drops. It tastes like my husband’s breath on Tuesday nights—minus the cigarettes. I’ve tolerated that for years. I can do this.

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

Make way! Bathroom. Now. Thank god for Listerine. That was vile—the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.

I can hear them laughing. Laugh it up, boys. Enjoy the victory lap.

This is only Round One.

I am woman.

...Hear me—(puke).