A Recipe For Cataclysmic Disaster
Mags, I’m not feeling good.
Without a doubt, I’d rather hear “Ma’am, we’re going to have to wait for the ambulance before attempting to remove that D.O.T/MUTCD compliant traffic sign from your rectum.” or “It appears you’re going to have a baby…eight actually.” The “I’m sick” phone call is to me, as an unexpected car-door slam is to desperate housewife humping her neighbor’s husband…paralyzed, hoping beyond hope that we simply heard wrong.
However, yesterday I did NOT hear wrong. Michelle had poisoned herself [good luck trying to pin-point the culprit...have you ever gotten the 411 on what that girl throws down her throat in a day?]. She was achy, chilled, puking; the works. Okay…don’t panic…she hasn’t actually uttered the words “I won’t be in.” She says she’ll take a nap and hopefully feel better by 3:00. We open at 5:00, so it doesn’t allow a whole lot of wiggle room, but, in general, I’m a very lucky person so I take that bet, pop a few valium, breath deeply and say “You go take a nappy-nap, Pumpkin, and we’ll see how you feel in a bit…’kay?”
That’s when my trusty little iPhone got the workout of it’s life. Tongue hanging out, fingers but a blur, sparks flying from the very sexy 3.5-inch (diagonal) widescreen Multi-Touch display as I texted with speed and accuracy on the predictive Multi-Touch keyboard. Please, please, …anyone….no?…you’re already working?…made plans?…you have a what growing where?…nevermind…please…no?…please. I exhausted all practicing/retired/paroled bartenders and started compiling a list of people who were just big drinkers….but alas…no need! Michelle napped and was well enough to work!!! …sorta. I won’t go on about her appearance or smell, but suffice it to say, I was simply thrilled that there would be a quasi-warm body behind the bar.
Many, many thanks to Nate, our Thursday night Bar Maintenance Assistant, and to the world’s best regulars ever!!!