Recommended wine for today’s entry: Greystone Cellars chardonnay. This is the wine my friend and I had for the first time at dinner the other night. It was on special and we really liked it. Wine Enthusiast gave it a 90, and this review: “Suprisingly rich and complex for the price. Shows pineapple, pear and oaky vanilla flavors that are deep and long, and balanced with crisp acidity. Very drinkable and a great value. ” Looks like it retails for under $15 — definitely one to try!
Today’s entry comes from my friend Henrietta. Henrietta is not her real name, but since she wouldn’t allow me to identify her, I gave her an ugly pseudonym to punish her. For background, Henrietta is an attractive and petite 52-year-old, happily married woman.
And last Thursday, Henrietta had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But it was really funny if you weren’t Henrietta.
First she stopped at a small, local fruit market and deli, where she ordered lemon-pepper turkey from the deli counter. She couldn’t help notice that the young man who waited on her was nice looking, albeit much younger than she. He wore gloves while cutting and packaging her turkey, and when he handed her the plastic bag, he commented that most of the lemon pepper coating had stuck to his gloves. He made a comment about having most of the “good stuff” on his hands still.
Well, Henrietta opened her mouth and just before she replied, she realized that saying, “You should lick your fingers” might be a bit racy to say to the poor young buck.
So she didn’t. Instead, she got all spazzy and said, “I should lick your fingers.”
Then she grabbed her turkey, ran to the checkout counter and paid with … duh — cash. That was, oddly enough, my first question for her when I stopped laughing at the story. Because I have said horrifying things enough times that I am programmed to leave anything that can be used to identify me safely ensconced in my purse. Henrietta, having just propositioned the poor guy, was smart enough not to be traceable.
Flash forward to that same evening: Her husband, undoubtedly feeling that the turkey she offered for dinner was now, in some way, dirty, suggested that they go to a pizza place in the eclectic part of town. Henrietta agreed, and while her husband was ordering or parking the car or something, she befriended one of the eclectics. He was a bit hippiesh with a long ponytail and was the antithesis of Henrietta’s husband, who had on a polo shirt and khakis — and had a fleece pullover with his country club logo on it draped over his chair, in case the evening became cool.
Well, Mr. Eclectic chatted it up with Henrietta while her husband was away, because even hippies, who seem so laid back, are really just boy nymphomaniacs with longer tresses. He asked her if they were there for All-You-Can-Drink night and expounded on the featured beer, some odd import that he seemed to know a lot about. Henrietta was actually impressed with his beer knowledge, but informed him that no, if she were to participate in All-You-Can-Drink, she would need a driver to get her home.
Mr. Eclectic had Yellow Cab’s number programmed in his phone.
When her husband returned, she pointed out her new boyfriend, who was sitting at a table kitty-corner behind her husband. They ate their pizza; Mr. Eclectic got his money’s worth for All-You-Can-Drink night.
Pretty soon, Henrietta heard Mr. Eclectic hmmm….how do I say this so it’s not gross? Well, hell, it IS gross — he formulated and spit out a hocker. Then two. Then three. Henrietta thought that was gross.
But that was nothing.
Because then she heard the sound of water rushing, gushing even, and looked up just as Mr. Eclectic projectile vomited up, up through the air, arcing down and landing in and about the back of her husband’s chair and then splushed to a dramatic finish in a pool about his legs and feet.
Yeah, in retrospect, the hockers weren’t all that gross.
But wait! This guy was not some tacky loser. He didn’t puke and run, which I have to admit, I would have been inclined to do. Nope, not him, he approached Henrietta and husband, professing his remorse, repeating, “I’m not that guy. I don’t want you to think I’m that guy…” over and over and over. He offered to buy a new country club fleece.
No thanks, they replied. Just step away, please. Just stand back. (Of course they assumed there was more where that came from as he had four beer glasses sitting on his table.)
Then — and I think this is the denouement — then he said, “Don’t worry, man, it’s not that gross — I mean, it was just beer that went down the wrong way — see? It’s all liquid. Just beer. Look, there aren’t any chunks or anything.”
ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You projectile puked on my feet and ankles and NOW we are going to analyze it?
Well, because he wasn’t that guy, he did go in and get my friend a $10 gift card. And he got a bottle of water, which showed good judgment.
For a couple minutes. Because before they left, he four more beers lined up in front of him again.
I just hope he used Yellow Cab’s number.
I love when I hear that freakish things happen to other people — remember, I welcome your stories, either in the form of guest blogs or, if you are the shy type like Henrietta here (except when she’s offering to lick hot young strangers’ fingers…), I’ll relay the stories. Just email me at firstname.lastname@example.org!