welcome to the peep show.

I'm not sure there's anything funnier than the desperation experienced whilst feverishly trying to breach a language barrier.

Sense the sarcasm within my angst.

This morning we had an emergency at Sandbar. There was a fire. At least what we thought was a fire. I go to clock in at 8:43 for my 8:45am opening shift and mere seconds after I've stepped upon company time, smoke begins billowing out of the bar room ceiling. My manager Darren scampers over to the heating and cooling unit to switch off the heater, because something just isn't right here.

The heater is off but the smoke still billows mercilessly.

Darren is now scampering to the back of the building with thumbs tapping urgent text messages to our general manager Aron. Darren and Aron, frat brothers in college, turned restaurant and night club managers. What a pair.

After perusing the roof, Darren decides he needs a fire extinguisher. Here's where the comic relief enters the frenzied scene.

Our housekeeper/margarita mixer/handyman Herman, pronounced Air-mawn, speaks little English. And none of us white folk know how to ask where the fire extinguisher is. So Heather, one of our blonde beautiful servers makes a valiant attempt and acts out using one. Hysterical.

Her acting was successful, the extinguisher was found, the fire, that wasn't really a fire, was extinguished, and although I've contracted the black lung Pop, the whole debacle was pretty funny.

The whole kitchen crew is Mexican at Sandbar, rightfully so, considering we're a Mexican food restaurant. It would be pretty silly to have Welsh cloggers or Italian pizza flingers fiddling away back there. This wealth of spanish speaking employees provides for great entertainment when trying to communicate about food orders and such. I like to heckle them whenever I wind up in the walk-in cooler gathering tiskets and taskets for my green and yellow basket.

I once made the unfortunate mistake of telling one of the other bartenders about how I'd like to work in the kitchen at some point, just because I have so much fun haggling them back there. He then went on to tell me some of things the kitchen guys say about us girls. Naive little me. Since then I still heckle them, but no longer entertain the idea of subbing as a cook. They all know my name though. And every time I head into the kitchen to grab something for the bar, they all call out my name. I feel like a celebrity, or a piece of prized meat.

I laugh it off and scamper out as quickly as possible. Actually I don't scamper, I slide around amidst the slimy food residue, predominantly composed of bean lard and shredded chicken oil, desperately trying not to land on my ass in front of all these Spanish speaking fiends. I've been successful thus far.

I'm now home for Easter, sitting in my living room with the ambient sounds of Hannibal Lecter in the background, explaining why he has superglued a naked man to a chair. I am disturbed.

And moving on. Easter. With my family. So happy. Etching another notch in the tree of success for having blogged another consecutive day. Aside from this movie on the tv, life is good.

I want to sign off with something clever about the silence of the lambs...but I suppose that's sacrilegious..

..considering tomorrow is Easter and we are celebrating the resurrection of Jesus.

Instead I'll leave you with this...because it's totally not blasphemous at all...

...just a little immature and inappropriate.

Good night faithful readers.