Single-malts & Exs

There is nothing fun about walking into work on a Saturday morning disheveled and wearing the same clothes you wore Friday night. I should know. I have done it more times than I care to remember. The walk of shame into work is usually made worse by coworkers who, of course, have to point out the fact that you look (and probably smell) terrible.

In my case, this would be the kitchen staff.

"Nikki aren't those the same pants you had on last night," Jose, our sous-chef asks.

I nod and mumble greetings to the kitchen guys, who are whistling and having a laugh at my expense.

"Why do you look like you just rode a horse," Manny, another cook inquires, smiling slyly. He is right, as much as I hate to admit. I do, in fact, look like I just placed first in a rodeo. Perhaps because my male friend of the previous night decided that pouring single-malt scotch into my nether regions was good foreplay. I now know the true meaning of the expression "fire in the hole."

In his and my defense, it was at least a good eighteen-year old scotch. However, it is really not meant for any bodily orifice other than one's mouth.

Lesson learned!

The day proves to be pretty uneventful, so I am happy when my coworker Austin joins me for the dinner shift. At least now I have someone to talk to beside the fruit flies.

Still suffering from the after effects of my scotch crotch incident, I seriously contemplate sitting in my ice bin. Somehow I think the Board of Health might frown upon such behavior, so I refrain.

The night passes quickly,(thank God) and aside from a few inappropriate comments from the kitchen guys about my dirty stay-out behavior, without incident. I am practically salivating over the thought of last call, when the door to the restaurant opens. In strolls my ex, X, and his new girlfriend.

Great, I think to myself. There is a bonfire going on in my vagina and now I have to deal with this. I silently hope they sit down on Austin's end, but instead they plop down on my side of the bar.

"Hey Nikki," X shouts, leaning over the bar to kiss my cheek. He orders a beer for himself and a vodka and club soda for his girlfriend.

I cannot help but think that God is punishing me for my unholy activities of the previous night. I really should do two Hail Marys and douse myself in holy water when I get home.

I get their drinks and make small talk for a few minutes. My attempts at conversation are cut short when the two begin speaking to each other in baby talk. I guess this is fitting considering she is almost fifteen years his junior. I make a mental note to give him directions to the nearest abortion clinic since he seems to like fetuses so much.

After about ten minutes of "I wuv you baby"s and "You complete me"s, both myself and Austin have had enough of the happy couple. I collect their money and usher them off into the night. They leave holding hands and practically skipping out of the door. All that is missing is a field of daisies and a Michael Bolton song playing in the background.

As Austin and I clean up for the night, I start to think that maybe I am being too harsh. I do actually like the new girl. She tolerates X, which makes her a stronger woman than myself and X does have some redeeming qualities. I make a vow to myself not to think such mean things about X and new girl anymore.

My thought is interrupted by my cell phone vibrating on the bar. I flip it open and there is a text message from X: 'Thanks for everything. By the way, it would have been so hot if we had hooked up in the bathroom tonight."

Really though?!

So much for happy thoughts.