Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Now that my friend is single, people from all over (the Who Dat Nation, woot, woot) are trying to set her up. So, of course, I tried my hand at it as well. My husband knew a single (divorced) guy. Really good guy. Nice guy. Working guy. Has a job guy. Owns his home guy. Kids are grown guy.
Read: Old guy.
Okay, so he's not that old. Honestly, he's only ten years older than she is. Good looking. Drives a truck. Did I say he has a job? Well, he has a job.
She agrees, but only if we double.
I'm so excited! We get to out...I mean...she's going out with this guy! How cool is that?
She cancels. She's in a bad mood (understandable) and doesn't want to make a bad mood impression on the guy (totally understandable) or have her mood affect her impression of him (UNDERSTOOD!!!). I get that.
I, on the other hand, am crestfallen. What? No eating crawfish night for me?
Someone left my cake out in the rain fer sure.
But I forgot to tell you, my husband, he's so beast (that's middle school talk for he's really cool). He's savage (that's the word that will replace beast soon).
We went out anyway.
It was great. It was wonderful. The waitress can bite my ever living expanding ass, too.
Yes, I know I am blowing it out of proportion, but I MUST tell my tale. We went to the local popular seafood joint. I've been dying to pinch tails and suck heads for the longest time now, and tonight was the night! Beast ordered a catfish po-boy, and I...I ordered two pounds of delectable boiled crawfish. So yummy, so yummy. Since we are on a budget, and those little critters are expensive this time of the year, I kept it down to two (we ALL know that any decent Cajun woman can down at least 5 to 10 pounds of those suckers). My darling beast of a man told me to get another pound if I wanted, but I said, "Let me wait til I have these done, and we will see."
In the meantime, our lovely Rita, I mean the waitress has yet to stop by our table to check on our feasting status (I will add that she has visited several tables before to refresh drinks, check on happiness level, and the usual good Samaritan working for the tip behavior). Finally, by holding up an empty glass full of melting ice, my husband halted our waitress long enough to get a fresh coke. And then she was gone, in two seconds flat. Well, perhaps three, I don't do math. Did not pass our way for quite some time afterwards. And by the time she returned, and before I could open my mouth to ask for a third pound of the now elusive crawfish, she plopped our check on the table. I imagine our faces were showing a bit of puzzlement when she asked, "Oh, did you want some dessert?"
Did we look like bad tippers?
Did we look poor?
Were we so ugly that she couldn't stand the sight of us long enough to ask about our well being?
Did my husband leave her a tip?
Yes, he's beast like that.
Will we be back?
Yes. We will, the crawfish is good.
Am I as pissed as I was last night?
Nah. I'm over it. We went to a video poker place, drank beer, and smoked.
It was great.