You better work

Yesterday, I was called in to work early; seems things got really busy as one of the employees had a run in with a big wig. Literally, a plus size client in a wig tripped and fell on my short, petite coworker, K. The client was okay, as K had broken the client's fall. Luckily, the wig, though disheveled, was still in one piece and a quick comb through ensured that it was still fashionable and returned to it's rightful place, perched upon the pleasantly plump client's head.

Unfortunately, K's right hand was sprained (or so the ER doctor diagnosed). Now, poor K has to learn how to use her left hand when she goes home and reaches for the little man in the boat for some Southern Comfort and tender loving. K and her vertically challenged husband live on a sailboat, and they enjoy drinking Southern Comfort--and hot monkey love on the deck, or so K told us one morning.

The boss had taken over some of K's responsibilities, and she quickly (and happily) turned them over to me as soon as I clocked in to work. No problem, I luv overtime :) Things were quite chaotic for the first few hours, but calmed down by lunch time. During our lunch break, another coworker, P, was telling us about her recent adventures on vacation in Paris--where Euro Disney is located.

P ranted and raved about the dining, the shopping, and the sight seeing; oddly, she didn't go to Disneyland Paris, but she met many Europeans and enjoyed their offerings. While she didn't ride the roller coaster at Euro Disney, she did brag about getting a mouthful and being stuffed daily with good looking European treats, be they French, Belgian, Danish, or even Polish origins. P loves her breakfast and snacks. The rest of the gang made plans to go out for dinner and drinks after work. Since P started earlier, she clocked out and said she would meet us there.

So fast forward to dinner, and we got a table by the window, with a lovely view of the bay (and the parking lot). We had not been there for a few minutes, when we heard gasps and my waitress's eyes were drawn to the parking lot. We all turned and looked. Strutting out of her tank size SUV, with dark shades and stiletto heels, was P, decked out in what I would later learn was a Jean Paul Gaultier original, yellow dress. The rest of the evening was littered with compliments on P's dress, on how fabulous she looked. When P was in the restroom, the ladies would start bitching about how that tramp P manage to be so skinny while stuffing her face full of food. Conspiracy theories abound, from P having a tape worm or anorexia; my favorite being that P was a crack whore.

Later on, we decided to go dancing; now, I'm not on top of fashion, and I don't know the difference between gold and canary and champagne--colors, not objects. To me, P was wearing a yellow dress, one that had a hood. And being tall and slim with the hood on her head, she looked like a gigantic Chiquita banana...a sexy, chic banana. Perhaps it was the alcohol in me, but when I was walking behind P towards the club, my first thought was, I hope we don't get attacked by a roaming troop of hungry baboons. Because if we did, I would've left the others to fend for themselves while I ran away, screaming like a Japanese teenage girl at a Justin Timberlake concert.