Then, when I actually go in to work at noon, I am serving a bus tour of 46 people. So, my dream was actually a premonition of how the day would go. Most of the old bastards were pretty nice, but there's always that oooone table that has to ruin my life. One fellow flagged me down to insist that I had not taken his drink order, to which I replied, "Really? I was sure I had been to all of the tables." Sure enough, he clearly had a cup of coffee in front of him. What he meant to say was, he could really use a pint of beer and my substandard server skills were preventing him from getting his 1 o'clock buzz on. I had just taken his drink order when the food was ready. This means I spent the next few minutes taking plates three at a time from the kitchen to 46 hungry bus riders. (Grab the eveing paper and sit down in your chair, Grab yourself a toupee cause you're osing your hair - The Guess Who).
When I set down a plate of quiche and salad in front of the old fart (quite winded from running back and forth and definitely breaking a sweat), he says, "Where's my drink?"
I was flummoxed and started to stutter. "I can't... I didn't... Uh.. Um... Er...... <sigh>. I will be right back, sir." But, before I could turn around, the woman across the table from him asked, "Could I have a dinner roll with some butter, please?" I just stared at her, red-faced and panting. "He has a starch with his meal," she explained, referring to the crust of the quiche. She was having the chicken salad. "I need to have a starch!"
This would not normally be a big deal, however, if I had the foresight to predict everyone would want a dinner roll, I would have brought them all out BEFORE the meal. Now, things were going to get messy. I returned to the table with a dinner roll and some butter on a plate. Of course, now the other five people at the table want to know why I didn't bring dinner rolls to them as well. Back to the kitchen for five more dinner rolls and more butter. No sooner did I set that mother fucking basket of buns on the table when that mother fucking drunk tank says to me, "Did you forget my beer?"
Now, this little nightmare situation is not as easy as it sounds. It is not just a matter of 10 steps to the kitchen and back to the table. Our big groups sit in the "FAR" verandah, as opposed to the "NEAR" verandah. We call it the "FAR" verhandah because it is so goddamn far from anything that you might need to serve people properly. Like bread, butter and beer. To add insult to injury, as I turned to walk away, a man at the next table asked me when his group might be getting their dinner rolls. FML.
All I wanted to do was go home and play the Zumba game for my Xbox 360 Kinect. At 3:30 p.m., I walked in the door and took off my work stuff (down to my lucky orange underwear) with the intention of putting on my yoga pants, my tight black bra and my tank top for a serious workout. I NEED that black bra for a workout. It's the only thing that keeps my knockers from flopping around and causing serious injury during my serious exercise. I couldn't find that sonofabitch anywhere!
I was so frustrated, I decided I wasn't putting on a stitch of clothing until I found that bra. But, I clearly had to clean my house before it would turn up. I started with the dishes, cleaning off the counter, and throwing in some laundry, all the while my tits are swinging around and knocking into each other. I vacuumed, sorted laundry and even made my bed. It was quarter of five before I found my bra... on the door knob of the bathroom where I keep all of my bras. I just assumed that I hadn't put it away.
The Zumba for Kinect was too hard for me. It was too fast and not really very fun. I prefer the Kinect Adventures or Biggest Loser.
After supper, I thought about trying to salvage what was left of my day with popcorn and a movie. I would really like to see Insidious. But, my niece Facebooked me to invite me out to play cards at her house, which sounded like more fun. For an example of how to play Pass the Ace, check out a previous blog http://sherlas-life.blogspot.com/2010/12/im-dreamin-of-redneck-christmas.html .
As I was driving out to McKinley Crossroad, there was a bright rainbow that looked like it might end right over Angie's house with a pot of gold. This was the sign I had been looking for and I knew then that my day was going to get a lot better. I won the first two hands of cards, lost one, and won a third. We had a little bit of dinner, including a lovely broccoli salad with nuts and berries and some nachos with the ground beef picked off (Thanks, Ang!). The conversation was great - I found out all the latest news, had my own scoops to dish about, and reminisced about things I haven't thought about in 15 years or more! Even talked about some things I wish I didn't know, like the existence of a photograph of my nephew with a mangina (if you don't know what that is, Google it).
Next thing you know, one of the other ladies lets rip a big fart. Now, I'm all for passing gas as long as it doesn't gag your neighbour. And, since we were finished eating, I was kind of hoping I could work up some flatulence of my own for a little contest between the ladies. My bowels were a no-show though.
Speaking of my bowels, New Kids on the Block are performing in Ottawa again this June. My other niece has been a fan of Joey, Johnny... Tommy, Dick and Harry ever since they were still singing soprano, so she's going again. Somehow (I missed the segue), the topic switched from an innocent concert viewing to whether or not NKOTB fans suck dick. Apparently, if you are a fan of the boys with "The Right Stuff" you DO NOT perform fellatio. This statistic could easily become a euphesmism for cocksuckers. For example, you might say, "My wife never liked New Kids on the Block and now, all of a sudden, they're her favourite band!" (That means, she used to suck it, but she doesn't anymore). lol.
This is where the conversation got really weird. Amie says to another lady at the table, "You should tell Sherla about your dog."
To which I respond, "Why? Does your dog suck it's own dick? Because I know someone who has a dog that does that." I really do. And, apparently, he isn't just cleaning himself. I haven't seen him in action, but I've heard eye witness accounts.
No word of a lie, the lady beside me says, "Is it a Jack Russell Terrier?" As though this is common practice for the breed.
"As a matter of fact, I think it is!"
Turns out, Jack Russells are NOT New Kids fans.
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