Diner Downer

There’s nothing better than a waiter that is totally in tune with your dining needs. There is an art; a zen-like focus and timing when it comes to waiting tables. Now that we have been in our new house for two years, Ang and I have frequented the neighborhood establishments often enough to be on a first name basis with most of the wait staff. They have become our extended family. But just like with family there is always “the one” who goes against the herd; the one they keep in the basement when comp’ny comes. Such was the case with “Alicia.”

In Alicia’s defense, we were new to this particular restaurant so she didn’t know to be dripping with sweet, oozy, delight as she approached our table. She also didn’t know, that despite my racoon-like obsessiveness with clean hands, that we prefer to eat with silverware. Anyway, I’m not sure what octave she was speaking in when she asked what we would like to order but I remember seeing the water in my glass vibrate slightly. Honestly, she had a freakishly high pitched voice that made it impossible to understand what she was saying most of the time so I just nodded a lot. Which explains why I ended up with all you can eat fried pickles and a carafe of limeade.
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It’s The Filter

In the three years that Angela and I have been together, I have come close to complete heart failure no less than 7 or 8 times.

Angela is what I call a neurotic sleeper. All sounds, no matter how varied and distinct, are indications of an intruder coming into our house. The ice maker is someone breaking in through a window; the washer is someone kicking down the back door and the newest sound that signifies home invasion is the rattling noise made by the air filter when the A/C cuts off.

In Angela’s defense, the air filter does make quite a ruckus – its location in the ceiling right outside the bedroom makes it all the more alarming when your in a deep sleep. To her unconscious mind the air filter denotes danger. She immediately springs to her feet- her eyes not even open and in a voice that sounds like the moan of cat in heat, she yells “WhhAAAt isssss thaaat nOIsssse??!! “Jesus Angela! You are going to seriously give me a heart attack!” She just stands there looking apologetic while I check to make sure I haven’t soiled myself. “I’m SORRY, I just thought someone was in the house.” YES…I KNOW”, I said. “Now hand me my nitroglycerin and go back to sleep.”
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My Bloody Valentine

So it’s several days past Valentine’s day and a random, note-less mini heart cake shows up on my doorstep.

Angela says “Oooo who’s it from…never-mind, I’ll eat it! She probably thought it fell from Heaven. After trying to discover the secret sender with no luck, we finally just threw it away. I probably should have gone to greater lengths to actually have it destroyed lest Angela rummage it out of the trash like a raccoon.

Under normal circumstances, even “unannounced” chocolate is welcome and will usually send Angela squealing and skipping into the kitchen to fetch a fork, but the cynic in me thought differently. I assure you that to Angela, chocolate is of divine origin and therefore cannot be used for anything sinister – I’m confident that if she were to amble upon a parfait glass of chocolate mousse, sitting under an enormous metal cage with a trip wire, I would find her chocolate smeared face peering out from behind the bars.

Holidays are an emotional roller-coaster around our house. The excitement and anticipation of the probable pastry or 3-month supply of Godiva Goody-ness is too much to bear. To the serious chocoholic only the best will do and often times I will find the rejected carcasses of a less than desirable nut-filled truffle left to petrify in the molested Easter basket or Valentine tin from which it came.

Luckily, disaster was avoided and Angela did not fall prey to the siren song of the heart shaped ambrosia that beckoned to her from our front porch.