Other People Do This, Right?
Some of you may have seen the video I posted on Facebook last week of my cat having a personal relationship with a stuffed, singing chicken. While that’s funny in itself, to me at least, the more interesting part was how we acquired said chicken.
Me. “Please go to the store. The spaghetti sauce needs to simmer for four hours and since we’ve spent the past seven hours watching curling, we are now officially behind and I’ll be serving dinner at 9:30.”
Tony. “Okay. Make me a list.”
I give him a list that reads something along the lines of french bread, extra virgin olive oil, tomato paste, beer. I start what I can of the sauce and hop in the shower. Upon exiting the bathroom, I hear a strange noise and laughter and walk into my kitchen to find this. Please take a moment to view.
I would like to point out that A) this is extremely creepy to walk out of the shower to when you thought you were alone and B) nowhere on my list were the words, “Dancing Poultry that Ramon Will Try to Mate With.” Who the hell finds this at the grocery store? And then decides, “Genius! That’s what we’ve been missing!” Anyone?
Yesterday morning, I was tired. For some reason this week, I don’t want to go to sleep when I need to and instead have been staying up way later than my 9:30 bedtime. Looks like tonight will be another one of those nights as it’s already nearly ten. So when the alarm goes off at 4:45, I’m desperately trying to think of any possible reason I could contrive to go back to sleep. (You know those mornings. The ones where a $300 car repair bill because your transmission exploded and the car won’t start is far preferable to actually going to work.) Coming up empty, I coerce Tony into showering first, doing that math that can only be done early in the morning (“If I get in the shower at 5:15 and am out by 5:18, I can be dressed by 5:21, makeup on by 5:24, lunch made by 5:28 – I’m out the door at 5:30! Yes! Zzzzzzzzz.”) At 5:40, I walk out to the car to realize it fucking snowed AGAIN and it’s super heavy and wet and of course I parked on the street last night so Tony didn’t start my car when he left. At 5:45, I’m swearing, soaking wet, freezing, and late. Yeah, that extra 15 minutes of lying on the couch waiting for the alarm to go off was TOTALLY worth it.
But I don’t realize my real problem until I got to work and started to settle in for the day. Apparently I’m a bit of a creature of habit and shouldn’t really change up my routine. Because in doing so, I forgot to brush my teeth.
I’m sorry, don’t I have a four year college education? Aren’t I 31 years old? I feel like a blip in my morning routine, a mere switch in shower time, should not have impacted my day in such a yucky manner. Why can’t I function like a normal adult? Who FORGETS TO BRUSH THEIR TEETH?
So today, Tony had a good day. He got to climb a big tree and didn’t fall down, the sun was shining, and he has new chainsaw pants. It doesn’t take much to make us happy. He mentioned earlier in the day we should go out to eat and finally try the Tilted Kilt by the mall. We’ve been discussing this ever since the day it opened when we drove by and there was about 30 college aged waitresses in Britney-style Catholic schoolgirl uniforms outside waving at everyone. Needless to say, he was intrigued.
Now, I have no problem with pretty girls serving me food. I am not so self conscious or territorial that I mind being around ladies who have bodies of Playboy centerfolds. I love me some Hooters and have in fact been there on Christmas Eve twice and the day after my wedding. If I had the body for it, you can bet your ass I would’ve been wearing orange hot pants and a tank top instead of my oh so flattering bow tie and vest at Pappaducks during my illustrious waitressing career. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say. But even I wasn’t prepared for the amount of flesh and BOOBS at this place. These girls literally wear plaid bras, skirts that start below the hipbones and end about an inch below the crotch, and knee socks. And when I say plaid bras, I am not speaking of the Cross Your Heart 18 hour coverage variety that most of us with a cup size over C tend to require – I’m talking about a push up cut so low I’m still kind of surprised I didn’t see anyone’s nipple.
This is fine. Our waitress is nice, the atmosphere (if you can handle the boobs) is great; big TV’s, big bar, music. The ratio of women to men aside from the waitresses is approximately 90:10, but I’m okay with that. We order a couple of beers and a calamari appetizer which is awesome, so, yay. The food’s good. Rachel comes and takes our order, sitting right down at the table like we’re best friends (guys love this, for some reason) and I order a cheeseburger and ask for onions on it and Rachel upsells me on some garlic/parmesan fries. While we wait for the food, we enjoy our beer and Tony’s head swivels around like Linda Blair’s, kind of like it did that time we went to the bar with the 14 TV’s on opening day of football. When a 6 foot waitress walks by with a tattoo that climbs up her back, I think he might fall out of his chair. For whatever reason, he christens her ”Clarabelle” and we enjoy making up stories about her until the food comes.
I should have realized when they asked, “Who had the onion burger?” that I’d made a mistake, but nope, not yet. All I notice is that they forgot the cheese. I reluctantly send it back (as a former waitress, I am loathe to send anything back, even when it’s totally justified.) She brings my burger back about five minutes later, with cheese and literally covered in onions. I dig in, still not realizing my faux pas. We eat our dinner, enjoying the evening. It’s only after I’m done that I realize, hmm. You have walked into a place wall to wall with college aged, half clothed supermodels in your cotton ribbed TURTLENECK and little makeup and then ordered onions, garlic, and parmesan, which could be considered the worst combination ever if you’re planning on being within ten feet of anyone in the near future. So now not only can I not rest my chin on my boobs, but I stink.
Now, we all know Tony’s awesome and such, so this is really more funny than self depreciating. But still, any female on the universe, no matter how secure, would think twice about this one. I had told my sister we were going there, and the following text conversation ensued.
Me. “At Tilted Kilt. Holy boobs, batman.”
Carly. “You’re hilarious!”
Me. “As if that wasn’t enough of a self esteem hit, I ordered garlic parmesan fries and extra onions.”
Carly. “Way to go. You always know how to make yourself feel comfortable. Flash your tatas!”
Me. “That may possibly be the only thing that could make me more awkward here.”
I did not, in fact, “flash my tatas,” for anyone wondering.
So how was your week?