Last week was a doozy. It’s inevitable when you work in a fast-paced industry that something will go wrong every now and then, like going through 30lbs of chicken wings in one night and nearly running out. Chicken wings were my undoing last Sunday. Add in some egos and less than stellar tippers, well then we had ourselves a party.
It would have been fine if I hadn’t worked every day for a week leading up to the end of the weekend or been held as a captive audience for a cover band until midnight the night before. It didn’t matter how loudly every cell in my body wanted me to sing “Come on Eileen”, because who wouldn’t want to sing along to an 80’s banger? I wasn’t having it. I say these things in jest because it really wasn’t all that bad, I just become exceptionally miserable when I’m tired, and no one replaces the toilet paper in the women’s bathroom when I’ve had to pee for over an hour.
The chicken wings broke me, and a short list of other things, but
I won’t go into detail about it for the sake of upholding my desire to be a somewhat decent person at the end of the day. It was nothing a couple pints and DoorDash hot wings couldn’t fix. We broke bread with the hot wings after the dirty dishes were collected and discarded egg shakers were cleared from every flat surface. The tension was dissolved, the olive branch accepted, and everyone collectively sighed, accepting the relief that only comes at the end of the night when the place is finally empty and we can blast whatever music our hearts desire. Sometimes you need to belt out “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” while dramatically waving a chicken wing in circles above your head. It’s almost as good as therapy.
I guess I’m a woman in the music industry now, and I just want to be a badass like the rest of them. Badass women can still cry outside in the smoking section every now and then though, right?
This week I’ve spent two days snowed in, every day tending to a dog who has diarrhea, three hours having lunch with some of the best people I know, and a few hours making eggplant earrings (instead of ones that look like an actual penis). My loveseat is overflowing with dyed wool, there are over 40 books on my “to be read” bookshelf, and some weeks I feel like I’m going crazy trying to juggle all of it; “it” being everything. I’ve learned to accept my life will probably always be some form of organized chaos, and I’m thinking wings might be the solution to most things.
The Rummy Writer 