I haven’t updated the blog for a while for several reasons. First among them is that the wee man caught Pneumonia and we’ve been dealing with getting him better while not sleeping through any of it.
This is the topic that my story for today centers around.
Like I said, the wee man has been pretty sick and not sleeping any at night. Because of this, the wife hasn’t been sleeping any at night either. She’s pretty much been up around the clock trying to pacify him at night, while trying to get things accomplished around the house during the day. To say the least, I would be a Zombie if I were her.
I had to get out at lunch the other day and pick something up, so I thought the least I could do was bring home lunch for everyone and try to watch the kid for a few minutes while she sat in peace to eat it.
I picked up what I needed, grabbed a few burgers for the wife and me and headed home.
For those of you who don’t know her, H can not stand condiments. They make her nauseated to be around them. I have adjusted and typically order all of our sandwiches plain, just to make sure there isn’t a problem. On this day, however, Sonic had a super duper nasty burger with everything but the kitchen sink on it … well, if you know me, you know I just HAD to try it.
I got home and unloaded the car, and in the process, got a little dirty. I ran in the house, put the food down, put the kid in the high chair and started divvying up the food so that H didn’t get the wrong sandwich.
The wee man was still in his feel bad mood, so he was very winey. He wouldn’t hold his bottle, he wanted some food, just generally in a bad place. I was determined to make H sit down and eat and I would take care of the kid and myself. I ran around the kitchen, grabbed my burger and something for him, washed my hands really quick from the nastiness that I had gotten into, and ran back to the high chair to try and placate the weeman.
H was sitting next to the high chair at the table trying to stay awake while she ate her sandwich. I was holding a bottle up for the kid in one hand while I was munching away at my burger in the other. To say I was determined to make this work just doesn’t describe it. You know when you get in those go go go moods and just want to take care of the dozen things that keep popping up which are obstacles to your goal, well that’s where I was.
Kid screaming – no sit down honey, I got it – grab the bottle – tear off some burger for him – take a bite – wipe off the kids mouth – remove the bottle – pick up this – what time is it – got 5 more minutes – tear off more burger – grab the bottle …. You get the picture.
A few minutes into this fast paced routine, I noticed a glob of mayonnaise that must have gotten on my palm between the hustle and bustle, and the last thing I needed was my poor wife getting sick because I had mayonnaise rub off on her or something. I did what any guy would do in that situation, just licked it off as fast as I can and kept on going.
Well … it wasn’t mayonnaise. Yes, in my haste, I just lapped up a HUGE ol’ glob of … handsoap.
I know the tales of little kids having their mouth washed out with a bar of soap, and I can assure you that in this day and age, liquid handsoap is a MUCH more efficient method of getting the entire mouth coated extremely quickly and efficiently. No longer do you need to stick the bar of soap into a foul mouthed kids pie hole and have them rake it off their tongue, the liquid variety immediately melds with your bodies own natural saliva and finds its way instantly to every nook and cranny of your mouth. And if you get the moisturizing kind that my wife likes to buy me, not only are you clean on the inside, there’s a velvety smooth layer of goodness that lasts and lasts.
Yes, I am sure that for something or other, I deserved to have my mouth washed out with soap. I just hope that I remember what it is so that I can learn my lesson.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
An Interesting Dinner
Some time ago, my wife and I were looking around a small town trying to find a place to eat. We were in the “old downtown” of a little town, which was probably the “new downtown” as well and had limited choices.
We decided to try a little restaurant that sounded Italian, partly because Italian sounded good, and partly because it was the only place we could find.
We walked in and the place absolutely dead. We should have walked out, but we attributed it to something irrelevant and probably leaned a little too heavy on our optimistic side (what, I don’t sound chipper and upbeat?)
We sat down and I think our waitress was as surprised to see us as we were for sitting down and staying. She came over to take our drink order and get our family history back to the 18th Century. She was, to say, a little talkative.
As she left, H and I started looking around the place, something just didn’t fit. The pictures on the walls we something more akin to your Great Aunt Esther’s living room more than they were a restaurant. The layout was quite unusual also. It seemed we were sitting in a lobby or something, there were rooms divided in the back (that we could see) an out of place staircase to something on the second floor, nothing seemed to say “WELCOME! SIT, EAT, DRINK, BE PART OF OUR FAMILY!” At least that’s how I imagine Italians talk.
Chatty Kathy returned with our drinks and a couple of rocks painted to look like bread. She kept on talking as we paged through our rather formal menus. It wasn’t the content that was formal, but rather the binders. Not your typical restaurant covers, more hard backed portfolios meant for something besides menus.
We ordered something we thought would be safe t eat, and Verbal Veronica retired to the kitchen area to place our order. H and I laughed about the surroundings, noticing more odd things; the ceiling fans seemed more industrial, old fluorescent lighting had the bulbs removed and track lighting put up beside it, the chairs seemed to be a little rugged for a restaurant.
Our order came out reasonably quickly and we dug in. The food wasn’t very good, but we ate it anyway as it was late and we were hungry. About halfway through the meal, Talkative Tracy came back to our table to check on us and just shoot the breeze. I was halfway ignoring her, a trick I often do in order to feign interest in the conversation until I have a good excuse to leave. I caught about every third word, “Slow, Weather, Yesterday …” that was until I happened to hear a full sentence all too clearly, “It’s hard to believe this place actually was the morgue.”
What the?!
She didn’t just say that did she? And now she just walked away. H, did I just hear what I thought I heard?
H had stopped eating with the fork halfway out of her mouth. Her eyes as big as watermelons, not knowing whether or not to swallow the food she had just placed in her mouth.
I looked around for a camera. This had to be Candid Camera. I’m sure Allen Funt was just around the corner somewhere snickering. I took a quick inventory of my surroundings. There was no camera, no one was coming out telling me this was just a joke. Lippy Linda was now in the back re-filling the ice tea pitchers for all the customers that weren’t coming in tonight. This was real, and it wasn’t real funny.
H was still frozen in place, I don’t think she blinked for five minutes. Now that I looked around, it all seemed to make sense. Some idiot had bought the old town morgue and decided, “You know, I bet that I can re-use most of the same equipment they have in there to make me a restaurant.” The industrial fans, the fluorescent lighting, the creepy pictures on the wall (OK, I still can’t exactly explain that, but I’m including it anyway).
My meal was over. It was probably psychosomatic, but I swear I could now taste the formaldehyde.
I immediately asked for the check, and as we rushed out the door and around the corner to our car, we noticed a side entrance they were using for deliveries. It was easy to mistake it for a loading dock, but how many restaurants do you know that have a loading dock? It was the Ambulance / Hearse unloading area!
To say the least, we have never had quite an experience like that before, and I don’t think we plan another trip. I’ll be happy to pass along the address though.
We decided to try a little restaurant that sounded Italian, partly because Italian sounded good, and partly because it was the only place we could find.
We walked in and the place absolutely dead. We should have walked out, but we attributed it to something irrelevant and probably leaned a little too heavy on our optimistic side (what, I don’t sound chipper and upbeat?)
We sat down and I think our waitress was as surprised to see us as we were for sitting down and staying. She came over to take our drink order and get our family history back to the 18th Century. She was, to say, a little talkative.
As she left, H and I started looking around the place, something just didn’t fit. The pictures on the walls we something more akin to your Great Aunt Esther’s living room more than they were a restaurant. The layout was quite unusual also. It seemed we were sitting in a lobby or something, there were rooms divided in the back (that we could see) an out of place staircase to something on the second floor, nothing seemed to say “WELCOME! SIT, EAT, DRINK, BE PART OF OUR FAMILY!” At least that’s how I imagine Italians talk.
Chatty Kathy returned with our drinks and a couple of rocks painted to look like bread. She kept on talking as we paged through our rather formal menus. It wasn’t the content that was formal, but rather the binders. Not your typical restaurant covers, more hard backed portfolios meant for something besides menus.
We ordered something we thought would be safe t eat, and Verbal Veronica retired to the kitchen area to place our order. H and I laughed about the surroundings, noticing more odd things; the ceiling fans seemed more industrial, old fluorescent lighting had the bulbs removed and track lighting put up beside it, the chairs seemed to be a little rugged for a restaurant.
Our order came out reasonably quickly and we dug in. The food wasn’t very good, but we ate it anyway as it was late and we were hungry. About halfway through the meal, Talkative Tracy came back to our table to check on us and just shoot the breeze. I was halfway ignoring her, a trick I often do in order to feign interest in the conversation until I have a good excuse to leave. I caught about every third word, “Slow, Weather, Yesterday …” that was until I happened to hear a full sentence all too clearly, “It’s hard to believe this place actually was the morgue.”
What the?!
She didn’t just say that did she? And now she just walked away. H, did I just hear what I thought I heard?
H had stopped eating with the fork halfway out of her mouth. Her eyes as big as watermelons, not knowing whether or not to swallow the food she had just placed in her mouth.
I looked around for a camera. This had to be Candid Camera. I’m sure Allen Funt was just around the corner somewhere snickering. I took a quick inventory of my surroundings. There was no camera, no one was coming out telling me this was just a joke. Lippy Linda was now in the back re-filling the ice tea pitchers for all the customers that weren’t coming in tonight. This was real, and it wasn’t real funny.
H was still frozen in place, I don’t think she blinked for five minutes. Now that I looked around, it all seemed to make sense. Some idiot had bought the old town morgue and decided, “You know, I bet that I can re-use most of the same equipment they have in there to make me a restaurant.” The industrial fans, the fluorescent lighting, the creepy pictures on the wall (OK, I still can’t exactly explain that, but I’m including it anyway).
My meal was over. It was probably psychosomatic, but I swear I could now taste the formaldehyde.
I immediately asked for the check, and as we rushed out the door and around the corner to our car, we noticed a side entrance they were using for deliveries. It was easy to mistake it for a loading dock, but how many restaurants do you know that have a loading dock? It was the Ambulance / Hearse unloading area!
To say the least, we have never had quite an experience like that before, and I don’t think we plan another trip. I’ll be happy to pass along the address though.
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