So the old lady's friend M came over tonight to watch "The Office," 'cuz her hubby, R, is on the road. Since we still have no fucking kitchen, we decided to order some food from this bbq place in town that actually has a surprisingly edible bbq chicken sammitch. While the old lady was picking up said sammitches, I had the aneurysm-producing task of a-wranglin' both kids up and getting them to bed. Fucking nightmare. I've said it before, but I'd pay top-dollar to get a some sort of nanny in here whose sole job would be to put the kids to bed. I don't know why but it's the most painful goddamn time of the day and I have zero tolerance for their pre-bed bullshizzle. I'd rather have my nipples sliced off with piano wire. I'm accepting applications now... for the nanny position, not for the slicing off of the nipples.
Okay, back to the sammitches. So I finally come downstairs and the old lady and her pal are stuffing their face-holes with bbq, while my order sits in its silvery heat-preserving paper sheath, a-beckoning. I grab the steaming tube, unsheath it and get ready to annihilate it when I notice that the meat, rather than being whitish and chicken-y, looks strangely brown and beefy. Motherfucker. The morons at "Backyard BBQ: Where the 'Q' Stands for 'Moron'," gave us two chickens and a beef instead of three chickens. Sure, it's an easy mistake to make -- "I'll have three bbq chicken sandwiches please!" sounds almost exactly like "I'll have two bbq chicken sandwiches and one COW sandwich, you fucking imbeciles!"
Of course I couldn't eat it because, as Mr. Z likes to tell all waitstaff, "We don't eat mammals!" So I dumped it in the trash and ate a bowl of goddamn Honey Nut Cheerios. I'm telling you, this town is going to kill me one of these days. Their motto should be "Our food sucks, and there's nothing to do here, but at least the service is fucking horrendous." How can people settle for this level of mediocrity? It's hopeless. I'm just gonna drive on over to the Cracker Barrel, walk in, lie naked on a table and have a wait-person pour melted Velveeta and popcorn shrimp down my gullet until my ass explodes.
I give up.
3 comments:
As you know, I *AM* a professional high-priced nanny. I've been wrangling the unmanagable spawn of the rich for over 17 years.
Let me tell you, you're not alone. Bedtime is the single most trying time of the day for most of the families I've worked for. It's a deadly combo--tired kids + tired parents = zero patience. And those damn kids know exactly what buttons to push to piss off the folks. It's almost always ugly.
That's where I come in. I have a professional reputation as a "take NO shit" disciplinarian. I rarely have trouble putting kids to bed, but it's mainly because they fear my wrath. Not that I ever spank or maim, mind you. It's all in the tone of voice. They never try the crap with me they pull on their parentals.
My point? You could hire me for a buttload of money to put your kiddies to bed each night, but then who'd teach Mr. Z about the joys of the dutch oven? I think that's your job, for sure.
Okay Kim. You come in, get the teeth brushed, faces washed, poop pooped, stories read, sheets tucked, and then I rush in, seal up the Dutch oven, shut off the light and then hand you the "big bucks." Sounds like the perfect plan. Can you start tonight?
Hey, every mistake is a gift. Tightwad-Eddie would have turned that mistaken slab of beef into tomorrow's two free BBQ steroid-filled-confined-in-a-cage-eating-our-upstairs-neighbor's-piss-and-poo cluckers tomorrow.
I liked your description of the eating options. It reminds me of the t-shirts our college soccer team had made, "We're not big, but we're deceptively slow."
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