“You’ve got a chip on your chest,” Dearly Beloved informed me.
Not a grudge. . . a potato chip. The salt and vinegar variety (which goes surprisingly well with Cabernet, to my way of thinking) and I’m not surprised at his pronouncement. If I’m eating anything these days, inevitably I’m going to be wearing part of it on my shirt, absorbing the rest into my hips.
What gives? I understand the hips part, but where is it written that the dribbles come along with the Medicare cards? DB doesn’t seem to have this problem. My mother did. She finally got so tired of having to Spray n Wash her tops that in her last years she covered herself so thoroughly she could have had a full panel of dental x-rays before or after any meal. I’m not talking a cloth dinner napkin here.
My mother-in-law, when she was still doing her own laundry, kept a jar of Q-tips to dab Clorox on the stains on her tops. It’s not just a genetic thing from my family.
Although I usually have to borrow a pen to write a check, I am never without Tide To Go and Goo Gone pens in my handbag. Sometimes I try to color coordinate my entree with my outfit. I don’t like to leave a restaurant looking like I’ve been in a food fight.
Once I was flying to New York City and uncapped a pen to address an envelope. The ink blot which hit my new white sweater would have impressed a psychiatrist. I was dumbfounded. I mean, are people supposed to know this stuff? Don’t uncap a pen on a plane. I wrote the company and asked had my education been incomplete. They sent me a case of ballpoint pens for plane writing.
But food? No pressurized cabin to blame that on. . . well, except the time I opened a small salad dressing packet on a lunch flight. I didn’t complain, so don’t blame me for the dearth of food on planes these days. Perhaps the guy in the seat next to me who took a direct hit….
While I may be guilty of eating too fast, I’m not using a shovel here. My mouth is definitely large enough. My hands aren’t shaking. Believe me, my bosom is not so ample that it should impede my intake of food. Does lack of estrogen create a food magnet in one’s chest?
It does discourage in-between-meals eating. When my kids were small they couldn’t fool me about snitching chocolate chip cookies because there was always tale-tale evidence in the corners of their cute little mouths. I’d have to change tops several times a day before I could even bother to pretend I’m on a diet.
Perhaps that figures into our inclination to eat a local restaurants. Eating joints, to be more specific. Last week we went to one of our favorites, the Comet Grill. Now if you look at that website you’ll think I’m not cool enough to go there. The secret is, we go at lunch. The neon sign counting down the days until the next St. Patrick’s Day still glows. There are probably a couple of guys who haven’t left those bar stools since the last time we were there, but for the most part, the lunch crowd is quiet and eclectic and the food is really good. (I’m talking fish and chips, pimiento cheese sandwiches, or burgers and fries here.)
North Carolina will probably be the last state to ban smoking in public places, so often there are smokers there. Not us. (Yes, I’d probably set myself on fire.) The owner was sitting on the corner barstool. Smoking.
“Tommy!” Dearly Beloved called to him politely, pointing to the fan directly above us. “Would you turn this ceiling fan on?”
Tommy stood up, grinned, and upended his bar stool, lion-tamer style, walked over and gave the fan a big whack with the stool legs. Sure enough, the blades began turning.
“Just needs help gettin’ started,” he explained.
I wore my ketchup stain out proudly.