Coffeehouse Chronicles …Holy Crocs and Sainthood: A Vegas Tale

The Commish & Mrs. Commish, and Pastor Brian, who has been our family pastor for 40 plus years... and he's officiated many of our weddings

Hey Chroniclers!

We’re in Vegas! The HB’s oldest brother, the Commish, is celebrating 50 years of marriage to his bride. Holy Toledo! FIFTY YEARS! Married to the Commish. I hear Mrs. Commish is up for sainthood. Most of us showed up to the party just to catch a glimpse of the first American Pope. Sadly, we were disappointed; apparently, he had other things on his plate. We were told they do all that stuff online now anyway. Mrs. Commish should be getting her sainthood certificate in the mail shortly, laminated and suitable for framing.

Our three & their spouses.

The HB was slightly disappointed when she walked into the ballroom and slowly realized that everyone there was saying nice things about the Commish and Mrs. Commish—not lauding praises on her—because, of course, she was born… and you know—Barista-palooza. The HB firmly believes it’s her month, all month. And who, I ask you, is gonna dispute that? Certainly not me. I know who makes all the employment decisions in this coffee shop. It’s been stressed to me on several occasions that I am an at-will employee and that my position here is tenuous at best. I’m really hoping my contract gets renewed when the contract talks come up. I don’t want to find a pink slip next to my coffee mug.

10 of our nieces and nephews plus our three. There are ten more that were out of state and couldn't be there

I’m always excited to see my extended family. Many of my nieces and nephews are growing up and moving on with their lives. It’s rewarding to see them prosper and start their own families. We also got to see some old friends we don’t see as often anymore. We shared a table with Saunta and Anthony, and when Saunta realized she was about to break bread with Commander McCroc, she was beyond excited! McCroc is still getting used to his newfound fame, but he graciously autographed her napkin when asked. He even added “Keep it Croc-ky!” because branding matters.

Cmdr McCroc & I doing what we enjoy most.

Yep, Cmdr. McCroc and Mrs. Scrubbles were invited to the soirée, too. Once we’d arrived, McCroc and I had plenty of time to enjoy a stick in the bar because Mrs. Scrubbles spent the first 13 hours after they’d arrived making sure their room was disinfected and wiped down sufficiently and properly. I’m pretty sure she used enough sanitizer to qualify as a hazmat technician.

Meanwhile, on the way back up to the room, McCroc eyed some pretty pink Crocs that he thought would enhance his collection. Unfortunately, the four-year-old wearing them was holding hands with her bodyguard dad, who, in my opinion, looked a whole lot like Dave Bautista, in size, stature, and demeanor. Come to think of it, his tattoos were similar also. Discretion being the better part of valor, this probably prevented a Croc heist in the elevator. This did not deter McCroc from sliding his foot next to the little girl’s just to compare foot size. His, of course, were smaller than hers. He has surprisingly dainty feet for an adult male.

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but aside from coffee, The HB likes to sample smashed grapes on occasion. Not a big deal, but Mrs. Scrubbles was trying to keep up with my cute little wino while they were at the slot machines. The HB really kept the cocktail waitress on her toes. Whenever her glass was getting close to empty, she would clink it on the corner of the machine. Not hard, but just loud enough for it to sound like a bell, signaling that she was ready for another glass of wine.

“Clink!”

The server would scurry from around the corner, as if on cue:

“Another one, Miss?”

“Why yes, I don’t mind if I do,” The HB said, cocking her head toward Mrs. Scrubbles, who was staring intently at the video slot machine in front of her, trying to make heads or tails out of the spinning wheels, flashing lights, and the cacophony of bells and sounds emanating from it.

“Oh yes, I’ll have another too, thank you,” Mrs. Scrubbles said without taking her eyes off the screen, mesmerized. I think she was trying to decode the Da Vinci Code hidden in those reels.

This went on for several rounds.

“Clink!”

“Me too.”

“Clink!”

“Me too, thank you.”

“Clink!”

“I’ll have another.”

At some point, I think The HB was just trying to see if she could get Mrs. Scrubbles really wasted. To her credit, Mrs. Scrubbles ran with the big dogs that night. And by big dogs, I mean the ones who howl at the moon after their fifth glass of Pinot Noir.

The Cmdr. and I looked at each other worriedly and discreetly shared, “Hey, this is all fun and games until tomorrow morning at breakfast.” But to our very pleasant surprise, both of our little daffodils were fresh as daisies the next morning. Personally, based on what we witnessed the other night, the Cmdr. and I think that both our wives were party girls in college, and what we saw was just the tip of the iceberg. Somewhere, there’s a yearbook photo of them holding a keg tap like a trophy.

Who knew?

Hey! You know what to do: Drink ’em if ya got ’em!

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