Meat is bananas

My partner is insane.  Last night we were doing rack of lamb and veal cutlets.  The sauces for each dish require veal stock, the rack of lamb actually needing a demiglace so you have to reduce the stock.  So we're busy as hell and she's a mumbler, I don't do well with low grade human white noise speak up if you want to be heard, and every time I deduce what she's saying, she's always asking me where the beef juice is.  Beef juice, beef juice, then she trots off to wash dishes, then comes back and hints for a cigarette.
There's a restaurant term called in the weeds, defined as the state when not only is one fucked, one knows one is fucked, prays for an extra minute to get caught up, but that minute never comes.  And A, who henceforth shall be known as beef juice, creates this feeling wherever she goes.
Our food actually ended up okay.  The veal was not sweet like chef's was, but it was okay.  And he said we nailed the rack of lamb.  Thoroughly enjoyed making that lamb.  Frenching it, searing, breading.  Its just a cool shape and satisfying to cook, feels creative.  If only beef juice didn't drive me crazy in the process.  I work hard at staying organized before, during, after cooking.  Beef juice works hard at taking a giant poop on my mise en place and mumbling all night.  Very ready to switch partners.