FML, on the way back up!

Written using prompts from the Writer’s Toolbox created by Jamie Callan (Thanks Christine! Prompts in bold)

On Tuesday, Margaret told me she liked the little oranges with the seeds better than the ones I bought. I hated her for that. That might sound a little harsh, so let me back up a little. This weekend, the polar vortex dropped down. If you were unlucky enough to be outside, your feet might still be stuck to the sidewalk today. It probably didn’t catch too many people by surprise though, since they have been talking about the cold Armageddon all week. So I made sure to get all of my errands run well before the weekend, including a full grocery run. Anyway, on Monday, Margaret insisted on having a “proper brunch” on Tuesday in honor of her toy poodle’s half birthday. There is no such thing as a proper brunch, to Margaret, without mimosas made with hand squeezed orange juice, served up to about 25 of “Frenchie’s” friends, and their boozy owners.

And because this job pays $1,500 a month plus room and board, and my boss lives in her own champagne bubble, I can’t really say no. Apparently however, Instacart can, and will, say no when the temperature dips below -20. So I had to run to the store, which was running shorter hours and looked like something out of the zombie apocalypse. No joke I nearly lost a tooth in the soup aisle, as some maniac was swinging his elbows around trying to claim a whole section of cans.

Needless to say, I got the last oranges I could get my hands on. Now, if I knew about this whole party in advance, I would have made sure we were stocked, but I got what I could.

She may be young, but she’s not stupid! So she had to know what was going on outside, if she spent even a minute on the internet, which is where she lives most days. But when it comes to self reflection, or planning, she simply doesn’t do it. When Tuesday rolled around, I had the whole spread laid out, shrimp cocktail, full Bloody Mary bar, 3 kinds of quiche, scones, and of course, fresh squeezed mimosa’s. The first guest showed up at 6 AM. That’s not brunch, damnit! The last guest arrived at 2pm and complained that the quiche wasn’t fresh from the oven. So when Margaret dropped her little gem about seeded oranges, I already had murder on my mind. And that more or less clinched it.

Of course, I’m not a murderer. Normally.

So maybe the last mimosa had a few valiums crushed in there. She’d sleep it all off, and I’d have the afternoon to curl up by the fire with a book like any self respecting person does during a polar vortex.

But I forgot about one thing: the inspector. The inspector is a friend of the family, who takes it upon himself to inspect the kitchen like this house is a Michelin starred restaurant or something. Also, I don’t know his name because everyone, including the inspector, just refers to him as “the inspector”. Pro tip, if you plan on spiking someone’s mimosa with valium, don’t leave the prescription bottle in the kitchen next to the champagne and oj. Pro tip #2, when you are trying to knock out a 103 pound girl who is already loaded up with champagne, a little valium goes a long way. I didn’t realize quite how long.

He rang the bell and made a b-line to the kitchen, where his eyes locked on the valium. “Probably shouldn’t be mixing that with alcohol. Where is Margaret?”

“She insisted. Ever try saying no to her? Yeah she loves that. Margaret is upstairs sleeping it off.”

“I’m going to check on her, if you don’t mind.”

When he got upstairs, I heard a little shriek. At first I thought maybe he stepped on Frenchie. But, it turns out, the shriek came from the inspector. There was Margaret, completely unresponsive, vomit crusting the corners of her mouth. Just the thing you want to see as you try to remember the CPR training you had when you were a lifeguard sophomore year.

I have to admit, a part of me, maybe a large part, wanted nothing to do with giving mouth to mouth to this vomit and alcohol soaked rag. But another part of me kept thinking, “No way am I going to jail over this bitch”, and that’s exactly what will happen if she kicks it.

So I started in. They tell you to do the chest pumps to the Bee Gees “Staying Alive”. I guess I was kind of singing it under my breath.

“That’s not funny,” the inspector exclaimed!

“It’s not meant to be, just trying to have a consistent rhythm.” He paced the room, now shaking his head.

“Is there anything else you can do” he pleaded?

“I’d call the paramedics, but my hands are full at the moment,” I said sarcastically.

“Oh right, sorry I’ll call right now,” he said and left the room. Not sure why he needed the privacy, but glad he was gone. This shit is not working, so in my frustration I started pounding on her chest. It was a little cathartic, and to my surprise she bolted up, covering me in recycled champagne and OJ. Yuck! I mean, hooray, I’m not a murderer.

When she finally came to, Margaret was beside herself. “How could this happen? I was careful this time” the pile of bottles in the kitchen trash not exactly providing her an alibi. “I mean, I knew I was going to be drinking, so I only took two valium this morning.”

“I don’t know” I lied.

“You know what I bet it was, those goddamn seedless oranges. I bet it threw the whole PH off or something. I ought to fire you for that Brittany. I’m not sure if that was a threat or a thank you for giving her her life back (right after I took it).

So in the end, covered in vomit, berated, and still working for this psycho. Just like any other day. How was your day?

Share this: