My new life

OK, so I know I teased all ya'll about having a comprehensive idol blog and have failed miserably at keeping up with it, but don't hate me. I have a new life as the owner of a diner here in East Nasty, and this bitch keeps me busy 18/7 (the other 6 hours are spent sleeping and/or drinking copious amounts of alcohol in order to prevent the insanity from kicking in all at once). Anyway, tonight was just one of those nights. One where we continually asked each other if it is perhaps a full moon. And since LAST friday was Friday the 13th, I knew that wasn't it. Let me begin with Table 1.
Table 1 is the very first table you encounter upon entering, right next to ye old front door. Also known as the Simon & Garfunkel table. (If you've been to my place, then you know why that is.) I'm in the window expoing for the rush when one of my servers comes up and says "the lady at 1 is puking....what should I do?" My first instinct is to cringe, wrinkle my nose, and reply "ooh. gross." Then I remember I actually own this place and am probably expected to do something about it. As luck would have it, the very next tray of food slated to leave the kitchen is for Table 2, so I can run their food while simultaneously taking a sneak-peak at 1, if for no other reason than to ogle the gross pukey lady. I thought maybe she was starting to feel sick and would any second make a beeline for the bathroom. Nope. She sat right where she was vomited into her napkin and approximately 27 other towels my server brought her. For maybe 10 minutes. Then she and her companion hung out for a while longer with the pile of vomit-filled rags sitting on the table. No offer to dispose of them or ritually burn them in the parking lot or anything. Then they paid the tab and left. Three guesses what lucky person got to bus Table 1. At this point I am seriously reconsidering my decision to own a place rather than slave away for the man.
Fast forward about 30 minutes. Dinner rush is in full swing, apps are flying out the window, new tables are sitting only seconds after they have been bussed from the previous folks, we are busy. Somewhat in the weeds, if you will. Another server comes up and says, "Umm. I've had a couple of people tell me there is a problem with the women's bathroom. I think someone put oranges in the toilet." I'm thinking, "is this a euphemism for something and I'm just not hip to the lingo?" I certainly have never heard that phrase before. Drop the cosby kids off at the pool, choke the brown snake, take the browns to the super bowl, yes. Oranges...not so much. Of course, I remove my apron and go investigate. Sure enough, deep in the toilet, is what appears to be a whole orange covered with tissue. WTF? So, I make the server retrieve the litter scoop we use for cleaning our outside ashcans and fish that puppy out. I mean, I already did my part by cleaning up 82 vomit rags earlier. It is someone else's turn. Besides, I sign their paychecks, right? (Oh, yeah. I would have hated me, too.) Anyway, turns out it is a pair of orange panties, wadded up almost flushed. Come on, ladies. There is a garbage can in there.
Well, those are the two cappers for the night. All in all, it was just one of those filled with odd requests, odder people, and strange occurences, all of which I'm sure will be rehashed with increasing hilarity over a few cocktails and cigarettes. And we'll do it all again tomorrow.
holla.