Rub-a-dub

It was Friday, and the phone service for which we had waited so long to have hooked up at the house conked out after a week. No dial tone. The repair line I reaached on my cell phone kept throwing me into endless loops of self-tests and options that didn't apply. The voice recognition system did not understand my Baltimore accent and would ask the same questions over and over. After an hour and a half, betting that emotionally intelligent software was incorporated in this "customer service" line from hell, I began screaming profanities at it. Finally, a human answered and gave me more information and a different explanation of the problem. By this time my blood sugar had bottomed out, I had a whanging headache and my self esteem was down around my ankles like a pair of underpants whose elastic had given up. I couldn't stop sniffling and crying all day even after devouring a giant serving of tandoori pasta. Even chocolate and fourteen hours of sleep did little to repair my delicate sensibilities by the next day, yesterday. Last night after working a shift at Molly's in place of the AWOL barkeep, Hubby took me out to a place called Rub. And lo! I was made whole again.