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Let me tell you a little story. It’s a true story.

Some time back I began receiving random text messages from a guy who had, apparently, programmed my phone number into his phone under another person’s name. I did not know this guy. I only know his name because he would sign each of his messages with his full name.

To protect the innocent, we’ll call him Gary Meeper.

Gary apparently thought I was his boss. His boss’s name was Mrs. Pillow, and I know this because he would address the beginning of every text message to “Mrs. Pillow”.

Her name has not been changed because it’s too fantastic.

Every now and then Gary would text me, always at 6:00 in the morning. And he would give Mrs. Pillow some sorry excuse as to why he was running late or why he wouldn’t be coming into work that day:

“Mrs. Pillow, I will be an hour late because my alarm clock didn’t go off this morning. -Gary Meeper”

“Mrs. Pillow, I will be two hours late because the power went off in my apartment. -Gary Meeper”

Gary didn’t often get to work on time.

“Mrs. Pillow, I won’t be coming in today because I have been up all night with a migraine. -Gary Meeper”

Let us acknowledge for a moment the ironic fact that he was, quite often, texting a “pillow” from his bed.

I received a lot of these messages. At first I thought, ah, poor bloke, he just punched in the wrong number. I’m sure it was a mistake.

Then they continued to come.

So I patiently explained to Gary that he had the wrong number, and that I was not Mrs. Pillow, and “would he kindly update his contact in his phone?”

A week later.

“Mrs. Pillow, I won’t be able to come in today because there is ice in my driveway and I can’t get out. -Gary Meeper”

I texted back. Told him I was still not the infamous Mrs. Pillow and that he had the wrong number. I did this several times.

So several weeks later when I received this 6:00am text: “Mrs. Pillow, I’m going to be 15 minutes late for the team meeting today because of traffic. -Gary Meeper”, I did what any sane person would do.

I asked him to bring donuts.

Several days later he sent notice to the effect of: “Mrs. Pillow, I’m running 30 minutes late because there was a delay at the school. -Gary Meeper”

So I told him to stop at Starbucks and get me venti half-calf vanilla latte.

Gary Meeper actually texted me one snowy evening, apparently to alert everyone on his team that their shift had been cancelled the next day due to inclement weather.

I told him the reports were incorrect and to “please come in anyways.”

So finally when Gary Meeper texted me a few weeks later and said:

“Mrs. Pillow, I’m running two hours late today due to an alarm clock malfunction.”

I decided enough was enough.

So I fired him.

I said, “Please don’t bother coming in today. We have decided to eliminate your position.”

And that was the last I heard from Gary Meeper.

I suppose after 11 years of living in Nashville it’s about time I participated in the Country Music Marathon.

No, I did not run it.

But I had two rockin’ friends that DID run it and ran it in style. Congrats to Josh and Dave (first marathon props!!) for taking on the hills of Music City! And to everyone else who braved the pavement, you’re awesome.

Me? I worked the water table. Steph, Jess, Kristen and a handful of others from Grace Community manned the Servpro Hydration Station at mile 3. Mile 3 is far enough in to a marathon where people are starting to get thirsty, but not so far in that those who ultimately don’t make it have given up yet. Plus it’s also close enough to the start line that people are still pretty well grouped together and come at you en masse – 35,000 people en masse. Basically this means in the course of a 30 minute period you witness the entire range of human emotions, from energized enthusiasm to homicidal desperation.

It was our job to serve all these people – both the enthused and the desperate – water and Cytomax, a drink commonly known amongst seasoned runners as foul-tasting rip-off Gatorade. This was a difficult job.

Things started off with a bang. The Kenyans blew by us, sprinting through the water station hardly batting an eye. The rest of the leaders followed closely behind, and we got into the rhythm of grabbing handfuls of Cytomax cups from our beautifully stacked hydration table. Let’s pause a moment and recognize the architectural wonder that was our hydration table. They said it couldn’t be done, but we successfully stacked tiny cups of Cytomax four levels high on a folding table, giving us about 750 pre-filled cups at the start of the race. Pretty sure everyone else topped out at three levels.

Things started to get interesting about 20 minutes in when it was clear our slow pace at resupplying the table was drastically under-performing our ability to quickly give out Cytomax cups. As we cleared the last layer of pre-filled cups we decided to cut our losses and redirect energy towards re-filling.

As a side note, runners of Nashville, I’m not sure if you knew this or not, but Cytomax is created by mixing measured portions of Cytomax powder in giant coolers of water. The water is sourced via garden hose from nearby fire hydrants. The resulting Cytomax solution is dumped into a 45 gallon garbage barrel lined with two heavy-duty black garbage bags and secured with a hefty portion of duct tape. I cannot comment as to whether this is a sterile process or not.

At 40 minutes into the race we were at a complete loss. A long-lost lecture in macroeconomics came to mind, recalling that some professor somewhere told us that supply equals demand. Except this was false, as our supply had reached zero and demand had skyrocketed through the roof. I’m sure the professor had addressed this situation as well, but it was simply impossible to keep up.

The efforts of our team changed dramatically at that point. At the beginning of the race we had three people giving out Cytomax and one person refilling. A little later we switched to two people refilling and two handing out cups. But now we had three people refilling and one person frantically waving their arms in front of our table yelling, “We’re empty! We’re empty! Keep going up! Keep going up!”

“Keep going up” is the last thing a homicidal desperate person wants to hear after they’ve run a mile uphill and can see that the incline only continues in front of them for the foreseeable future.

We all took turns at delivering the depressing news to the runners, but Steph’s performance was the most interesting. It went something like this:

“We’re empty! We’re empty! Keep going up!”

The runners keep coming at her.

“We don’t have anything! We’re completely out! Keep moving!

They keep coming. At this point she tries to have a logical discussion.

“I PROMISE they have more up ahead of you!! Don’t stop. Our cups are empty!”

They keep coming.

“DON’T TOUCH THE TABLE!!!!!! THERE’S NOTHING IN THERE STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!!!!!”

We call this an exercise in futility. This continued for about an hour and a half. She may have been hitting runners, I’m not sure.

And they never did listen. They would grab empty cups off our table and then give us a scowling, disgusted look as they threw the cup at the curb. We had considered shouting demeaning insults at them. Things like, “Well if you had run a little faster you wouldn’t be in this predicament would you?” Or, “Maybe you should have thought about the fact you were thirsty before you took off sprinting down the street!”  But let’s face it, they were the ones actually out there running the race, and that’s something in itself.

At one point a wide-eyed middle-aged lady came up to us speaking in a panicked British accent, “Can you tell me where the bathrooms are?” And I think Steph responded, “They’re just up the hill a little bit, about half a block more.” And she said, “I can’t wait that long.” And Steph said, “You’re almost there – it’s literally just a few feet more.” And she said, “I can’t do it. I have already got the poop in my pants.” And, well, the conversation went downhill from there. What do you do with that? I’m sorry ma’am but all we’ve got here are empty cups and a fire hydrant. We can hose you down if you want.

Thankfully, the crazed and peculiar encounters were the minority. We had a blast, and all in all successfully served at least 80 gallons of Cytomax and water to runners on Saturday. And most everyone was very grateful for the volunteers and it was a lot of fun cheering everyone along. So, with the exception of the few of you that scowled and threw empty cups in our faces, congrats to everyone who ran the race!

Steph and I just got done gorging ourselves at Outback like it was the last full meal we’d ever eat as a childless couple. No, the baby’s not coming tomorrow, but we’re trying to make the most of every evening we have from here until kickoff.

But it reminded me of the fact that I actually applied for a job at this particular Outback my first couple months out of college. I was desperate and in dire need of money. And since they say everyone in the music industry gets their start working at a restaurant, I figured why not give it a shot? So I filled out my application (man it was spectacular) and I went in for my meeting with the manager.

He glanced at my app and we made pleasant conversation for about 37 seconds, after which he told me  that I – a double-major, recent graduate with honors from business school – was unqualified for a position at Outback Steakhouse.

…. sigh…

It’s alright. I’d rather eat their steak than serve their steak.

I was listening to Dave Ramsey the other day on the radio. I don’t want to poke fun of people’s financial situation, but this conversation actually happened on the air:

Dave: Hey, Frank from Alabama, welcome to the Dave Ramsey show!

Frank: Hey Dave, thanks for taking my call. I’m 65 years old and my wife and I have been in dire financial trouble for years. I’ve got a job, but it’s just not bringing in enough money.

Dave: Alright.

Frank: I’m legally blind, and I’m also disabled. I’m self employed and run my own business.

Dave: What is it that you do?

Frank: I’m a security guard.

Highlight of my St. Patrick’s Day? Definitely driving to work this morning, looping around the Music Row roundabout, and looking up to see that the infamous statues had donned KILTS!!

Jury is still out on whether or not this was simply a St. Patty’s Day prank, or if someone is trying to make a statement against unclothed bronze people.

Picture thanks to Morgan Levy / Nashvillest. More available here.