Chapter Eighty-two: Ma’am and the gobble, gobble…

Thanksgiving is upon us. People frantically traveling to join their family so they can sit at the table in elastic waist pants, overeat and argue. Yeah! Its a fun day for all! We are supposed to give thanks by going around the table saying what we are thankful for. It represents a part of American history just like when the Pilgrims and Indians sat down and had a joint dinner to show friendship,  and we all know how great that dinner turned out!  Foreshadowing? What goes hand in hand along with cranberry sauce, the secret stuffing recipe, blame, biscuits, accusations, yams, political disagreements,  and a side of gravy! All of the ingredients for a perfect  Thanksgiving meal.

The news shows the two turkeys who are pardoned by the President given some ridiculous names like  Bonnie and Clyde, and put up in a five-star hotel, the likes of which most of us have never seen! They are filmed strutting around the hotel suite crapping on 800 thread count Egyptian sheets, feathers flying, ignoring the gourmet Belgium chocolate on the pillow, and pricey robe. All wasted on these two gobbling imbeciles. The newscasters in the room with them smile like idiots into the cameras,  as these two pardoned dim wits inadvertently trash the hotel suite. Bonnie and Clyde are then sent to a so-called “Turkey spa/resort.” where they live out the remainder of their days in bliss, never knowing how close they were to being stuffed and the centerpiece of a bickering family’s table.

Plus,  these turkeys and their gobble neck aren’t shamed for it! Unlike us middle-aged women who may see a faint resemblance to the Thanksgiving day bird when they look in the mirror. But, we aren’t sent to a five-star hotel and pardoned from life. There is no bliss spa waiting on the horizon! We are not jumping into a Norman Rockwell painting! We are more likely jumping into  The Scream by Edvard Munch. Turkey neck and all!

Happy Thanksgiving! Gobble, gobble…

Chapter Eighty-One: Ma’am and the hairy Frenchman…

I am famished! I head to a cute little bistro that opened up around the corner from our home. Sitting outside, I  order a glass of wine. The bistro advertises a sandwich called “The Frenchman.” It has brie in it, upon seeing this I am sold!  The waiter is cheery and happy to be of service! After ordering, I  pull out my phone. I have been visiting this website that is supposed to be: “On the go meditation.” It tells you to close your eyes in step one.

The problem is, if I do this, I cannot read step 2! I peek at step 2, and it tells me to lay on my left side. My ass can barely fit on the tiny wooden bistro chair. I am wondering how I am supposed to do this? I decide to lean-to my left as far over as I can. Unfortunately, I am not that coordinated. I fall over into the lap of the man seated at the table next to me. With my face in his crotch, I say sorry!

His female lunch date glares at me. The man stares at my glass of wine that I BARELY took a sip out of! “No! I am not drunk!” I exclaim. “Plus,(I add out loud) I don’t crotch plant on the first date!” (It sounded funnier in my head!) They both get up and move. The waiter, who was my BFF a few minutes ago when I ordered the Frenchman, and made a big production in my ordering skills, as though  I had just done something incredible, like curing PBS,(Petite Bladder Syndrom) is now rude. He mutters how middle-aged women shouldn’t be hitting on younger men, especially when they are with a date! He continues with his unsolicited advice by pointing out that I am old enough to be the crotch planting victim’s mother!  I am outraged by this accusation! How dare he refer to me as middle-aged?!

I inform Mr. Know it all, whose tip has now gone from twenty percent to ZERO, that I was meditating and fell over! He looks at me with such disdain. He slams the Frenchman down in front of me. If I wasn’t starving, I would walk out. But, the Frenchman is beckoning me! Biting into the Frenchman with such anticipation! OMG! I am in heaven! I close my eyes and chew savoring this moment!

I am about to swallow when I feel a clump of something that shouldn’t be there. It is stringy! I gag and out of my mouth pops the Frenchman! Attached is a wad of hair! I am about to vomit! I am flailing and trying not to choke! Slowly and painfully, the haughty waiter approaches and asks if there is a problem? I point to my Chewbacca Frenchman. The waiter picks it up with the bread tongs which he carries around like a soldier carrying his sword. He examines the Frenchman as though  he is a scientist in a lab, saying: “Must be yours!”

Incredulously  I look at him. “Are you kidding me!?” The hair on my Frenchman is red and curly like a leprechaun had a baby with Ronald McDonald! I demand to inspect the chef’s head of hair. Mr. Haughty  Tongs sniffs and says”Not possible!” I tell him that I will have nothing to do with the Frenchman and demand a solution. He suggests that I leave! I cannot believe this!  Aghast I sit there! I am starving and furious! I am also in no mood to argue over a hairy Frenchman with an arrogant haughty tonged buffoon. I jump up running out yelling; “I will NEVER have another hairy  Frenchman!”