My wife and I were driving around the big city on a Sunday morning. It was almost lunchtime. We had skipped breakfast.
“I could go for some kibble,” I said.
“Actually,” she replied. “Me, too.”
I was a little surprised but excited, too. We were going to eat out. But where? We took out our daggers and prodded each other, as we are often wont to do.
“Wherever you want,” I said.
“No,” she replied menacingly. “Wherever you want.”
Clink. Clink. Clink. The cold steel of our daggers danced their elegant dance.
“Let’s go to the bar you wanted to try. The one with the fried chicken.”
“The hell you say!” I turned the car around. “We’re going to that coffee shop you mentioned the other day.”
“All they got is coffee and baked goods.”
“Excellent,” I emoted, channeling Commander Kruge, the asshole Klingon from Star Trek III: The Search For Spock. “Perfect. Then that’s the way it shall be.”
We weren’t exactly in the best place after I parked the car and we walked into the coffee shop. I had
won lost and gotten my way.
As we approached the counter we reached an unspoken agreement to do that thing we sometimes do. Perhaps you know of it? It’s where you conversate in such a way as to put your squabbles on display to some innocent passerby, as if it is entertaining or something. In this case the hapless victim was our barista.
My wife started by ordering something like a coffee drink, only subjected to some sort of miniaturization process. I bet it was the kind of thing that Myron Reducto would order. She told the barista the drink was for “here.”
When it was my turn, I ordered a medium vanilla latte. That’s when the barista decided to get cute.
“Is that for here or to go?”
Hello? Hello? Anybody home? Huh? Think, McFly. Think! I gotta have time to get them retyped. Do you realize what would happen if I hand in my reports in your handwriting? I’ll get fired. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would ya? Would ya?
My wife just ordered her coffee for “here.” Why the hell would I want mine to go? What the hell kind of a stunt are you trying to pull, anyway? Are you a wise guy?
I finally un-flummoxed my tongue and sagely demanded, “Here. I want it for here.”
I wasn’t the only one talking, though. My wife chirped in, on top of me, and said, “To go. He’ll take it to go.”
The barista didn’t miss a beat. It was almost like they had practiced this. They were in sync. Apparently they were both founding members of the We Hate Tom Club. He reached up and pulled a lousy “to go” cup from the stack and plopped it down on the counter in front of me.
It’s not easy being me.
I sulked and appeared to enjoy my coffee as I tried to calculate the distance on foot to the land of fried chicken…
Even a nice meal out can be a battlefield. On the bright side, while you killed a tiny tree by using that paper cup, a chicken somewhere still has its breasts.
You have the ability to look on the bright side and the bad side at the same time. Is that what multitasking is like?
I don’t see the glass as half full or as half empty, but then, I’m often the one holding the bottle.
Secondary pincer movement. You were outflanked.
GOTH = Group Of Tom Haters — start your own branch!
I call dibs on President of the local chapter. Working on the secret handshake, apron, and a method of keeping alligators under the dais.
You have a couple of readers who share a strange sense of humor. Count me in.
I’ve always wanted to be a Goth Princess. Or a Goth Jester. Depends on the day.
Great post for those who never get their way when out with their significant others. Not that I’d know anything about that.
The wife has been pulling this sacrificial routine lately. You know, pretending that choices are her own when really all she’s trying to do is what she thinks I want. Last night at happy hour we decided to choose two items each that we both could share. One of her choices was chicken wings, I kid you not! She claimed she wanted them but I know better. So infuriating! And this was after she said, “Hey, that Korean BBQ place looks good. Let’s go there.”
Sounds like love. You are one lucky GOTH King. *grin*