Sunday, May 3, 2015

     Ever notice the group of curmudgeons in the corner of the fast food place where you pick up your morning cup-a-joe?  A group of old men with no butts, one hand waving in the air at another,each one holding the morning’s editorial, one spouting, “Can you believe what this guy says about our country?” You quietly get your coffee, head to your car thinking, “Oh, Lord, please don’t let me end up becoming one of those?” And then you are one?

     Tonight, Mr. Wonderful and I walked into our kitchen at 10:06 p.m. laughing at the folly of our dinner with our friends. “Can you believe the two of them? They are hilarious? Do you think it’s a schtick?” I ask. Mr. W.says, “It was fun.” “I’m not saying it wasn’t fun; it was just funny,” I reply. I often get annoyed when he thinks the same things I do, but he acts like he’s more tolerant and more understanding than yours truly, when we both know that’s bull shit.

     Anyway, it started with the air conditioning issue at the restaurant. It was so cold, my nubs had nubs My friend complained to the waitress immediately. The waitress left quickly but did nothing about it. Whenshe came back to recite the specials, my friend said, “I’ve already asked you to turn up the air.” The waitress admitted, sheepishly, that she had forgotten. You don’t want to forget these things with my friend. After she donned her  little shrug and hugged herself numerous times, she began to fuss. The waitress returned, and seeing my friend’s face, knew immediately that she was going to have to take action, or her tip would be right up there with the price of an egg McMuffin.

     I took action immediately ordering a giant Cosmo. No goose bumps for the Queen; she knows what measures to take. Mr. Wonderful did not endorse this beverage choice. 

     As the evening continued, we covered more topics than Mozart had notes. We seemed to jump from one subject to another--from Bernie Sanders to Eric Clapton, from Alzeimers to the real estate market, from pension funds to the Derby, from grand-children to sex after 70. Oh, my. Good thing I was drinking. By the time we had finished our main dishes, my friend was huddling under her part of the tablecloth, her brow furrowed, her hands clenched and buried under her tush, pleading for the waitress to please take her husband off her hands. Oh, my. It was a comedy with only four characters, but we each played a role adding to the merriment.


     We all talked, often at the same time. Occasionally someone listened. Stand-ups need to send a fly on the wall to restaurants. There’s enough material in people’s dinner conversations to write a year’s worth of monologues.