July 9, 2009

too much drama

“Hey, you gonna eat that?” I ask this question often when we go out to eat. I work hard, and I love treating her right, but I don’t have the money all the time. My budget only stretches so far, and maintaining her shopping addiction is hard on me. In fact, we just finished helping her get her fix, and she was “famished” at nearly maxing out my sixth credit card.
“Maybe I vill.”
“You’ve been staring at it for ten minutes. If you’re not hungry, let me eat it.”
“If you’re hungry, why don’t you try ordering a vull meal for once?”
She has me there, in a sense. I never order a full meal. I usually go for the appetizers or the kid’s menu, because I KNOW she never finishes her meal. If I’m paying for something, I’m not going to let her push it aside. I think I gained this habit early in the relationship, but it’s been so long I lose track of when particular idiosyncrasies raised their heads.
“Didn’t you learn the value of food where you’re from? I remember seeing pictures of your people standing hours for a loaf of bread. Whatever, fuck it.”
“NYET, vuck you.”
She stood up, and gave me the ice queen look, and turned and left. Over her shoulder, she yelled at me, “You know where to vind me.”
I swear, I love her, and I never did well in the dating game, and we’ve been together for a while now, but…
But this is the last mail order bride I ever get. Maybe I should go to The Gap and get her back, tell her I’m sorry. Before that, I need to pay the check.

“Oh my god, did you see that?” I’ve heard of scenes like that in the movies, and some from more experienced co-workers, but that was the first walk-out I had seen in my three long weeks waiting tables. My amazement was mostly to myself, so before I took Moore, Seymour E.’s card back to him, I had to tell someone, so I ventured towards the kitchen to tell Maurice, the cook, and the guy who got me the job here.
I repeated the question when I got to him.
“Dude, I don’t see anything, I’m stuck in the kitchen all the time. I don’t have to deal with customers. It also helps in avoiding the wait staff. Its an ideal position for a rather antisocial guy like me.”
“Come on Maurice, you don’t have to be such an ass. Plus, there was a hot chick involved”
“OK, what did I miss? And be quick, I have orders.”
“She got into a fight with this guy, who was like twenty years older than her. He was lucky to even have here.”
“So, she got up and left.”
“She had a tight ass”
“Dude, get back to work.”
I swear, I can’t tell a story to save my mortal soul. I’m starting to hate this job.