Saturday, July 26, 2014


                                                BREAKFAST with Mr. Wonderful

     Having breakfast at the hotel with Mr. Wonderful is like watching a bad stand-up comedy routine. It takes me about two minutes max to get my food and put it on the table. I then go fill up my coffee cup, sit down and eat. Mr. W. is still over at the bar agonizing over his choices. He can be seen standing at each station for what seems like a long time to yours truly as he scrunches up his face in deep-choice-mode. Finally, he decides to go for the mini omelette fold-over that has been steaming in the silver vault for at least 24 hours. He gently places it on his paper plate as though he were delivering it on fine china at a gourmet restaurant. Putting it just the right spot on the plate, he continues to the toaster. He considers each of the bread choices and settles on the whole wheat. Down go the two pieces into the two-slot 1950s-version appliance. (Meanwhile, the soggy omelette is getting cold). He finds the butter and puts a dollop on each piece of toast, and brings the entire plate to the table. He sits down and takes a bite. I am finishing my meal by now trying to hold back the guffaws that are choking me as I try not to open my piehole. I turn to say something to him, and he’s gone. I look back at the breakfast bar, and there he is pouring his juice. He comes back to the table and takes a swig of his juice and a bit of his foldover. “This was obviously the wrong choice,” he confesses. I zip it and pretend not to hear him as I am engrossed in CNN’s discussion of the new $700 i-pod. I look over, and he has disappeared again. A few seconds later, he returns with another plate with a hard boiled egg rolling around on it. He begins to peel the egg. The shell comes off in 783-centimeter bits, and he is beginning to seethe. I am beside myself now because I know what’s coming next. This time, I had to take a photo of the peeling process. Fortunately, he is laughing too. I reach down to put my cell into my purse, and when I come up, he’s gone. Of course, he is. A few seconds later, he comes back with his water and his tea bag. The tea has to steep for a few, so by now, the toast is cold, the foldover is half-eaten, the egg is still half-peeled, and the Montel Williams show comes on. I groan quietly. “I think I’ll go up to the room. Are you coming?” I say. “I’ll be right up,” he says. 

     I have now completed my floor exercises, taken my shower, put on my clothes and make-up and done my hair. The door opens. “That breakfast was crap. Why did I choose that omelette thing, and why don’t they peel the damned eggs?” he whines.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I say clenching my teeth and forcing a smile. “I don’t get it either.”