VENT: belch, breathe, discharge, eject, emanate, emit, expel, explode
I need to VENT.
Not as in: The dryer VENT is so full of lint we could make a quilt.
But as in: If I don't VENT, I may explode.
Here is Hanstory #1: (There will be many.)
My husband has many talents. One of them being the manner in which he can antagonize a waitress. I've tried to figure out his thought process while he's determining what to order and have come to the conclusion, "There Isn't One." Keep in mind this is a man whose favorite meal is fried Spam and creamed corn. So, why is it so difficult for him to make a choice from a menu?
There have been occasions when I felt my life was in danger sitting at the same table with him, looking into the eyes of an exasperated waitress, who is within easy reach of the knives on our table.
After much interrogation, with questions ranging from types of salad dressings to where and when was the halibut "captured" . . . and how. . . to the color of the sauce on the pasta (and being reminded once AGAIN that, "Yes, the marinara is the red one."), he takes a breath to continue. The waitress takes advantage of this opportunity and interjects, "Sir, I'm only here to take your drink order." She casts a look of utter despair my way, and I quickly ask for a glass of wine - any wine - whatever bottle the bartender can reach first. And, would she bring it NOW?
He begins to peruse a list of no less than 20 micro-brews, not to mention any number of the bottled variety. Thank goodness he is seated with his back to a chalkboard filled with the names of the daily concoctions or we could be here for breakfast.
"Ma'am, just go ahead and bring two glasses of that wine while you're at it, please."
She gives me a sly smile of relief, quick wink and is off and running before he realizes she has left the premises. His questions continue in her absence.
When she returns with two glasses of Beringer Zinfandel (yes, I am a cheap date), I gulp several swallows of the peach-colored "wine," stand up, and excuse myself to the ladies' room in order to escape the next barrage of questions about the beer.
"what color" "how dark" "how light" "ale" "stout" "lager" "wheat" "bottled" "brewed" "cost" "size" "which one tastes more like Shiner Bock?" You get the point !
(When someone asks me what kind of beer I like, my answer is, "COLD." )
By the time I return to the table, he is finally ordering.
He says: "I'll have an Alaskan Amber."
She says: "Sir, we don't serve Alaskan Amber."
He says: "Well, what kind of place is this anyway."
It's always a new experience when dining with him, but some things never change. The manner in which he taste-tests his food or drink by a little smacking of the lips, looking up to the right, then up to the left, tilting his head ear-to-shoulder to one side, then ear-to-shoulder to the other. Very much like an authentic food critic. Not a yes, not a no, just a back-and-forth motion. He crinkles his nose and says, "It's. . . ok." E-V-E-R-Y-S-I-N-G-L-E-T-I-M-E
It is my policy to always order after he does and to also order an entree that is totally different from him. Waitresses do have that special opportunity to seek revenge and spit on your food. I don't want her to confuse who ordered what.
By the time our waitress manages to answer all his questions, listens to all his suggestions about preparation, and document his order, most of the wait staff has meandered by our table just for a look/see . . . then sigh with relief that we weren't seated at any of their tables. I know that by now we are the talk of the kitchen and all of the tables around us.
Now, seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, the waitress tries to smile (it resembles a snarl), looks at me, and with a quiver in her voice asks, "And what will you be having tonight, ma'am?"
With no hesitation, I reply, "I'll have the fried Spam and cream corn, please."
Stay tuned for: "How much do I leave for a tip?"
TODAY'S OBJECTIVE: Just VENT . . .