first thought - I hate you blog spot. you lost my entire blog as I was closing up what was indeed my finest written product ever.
now onto the Big Show!
I dedicate the title to Preston in his moments of being forever shocked, intimidated and fearful of what he will learn next ...in his pursuit of yet another filthy word he's not aware of. Preston I'm positive you will have to look up in the Urban Dictionary what "felching" is.
Imagine if you will a rustic Italian kitchen.
Satillo tile floor and the walls a mud-trowel knockdown finished. There are hand-painted dishes hung on the walls along with black/white prints of Spanish/Italian scenes scattered here and there about the room. The kitchen is a-flurry with sound, the clangs of pots & pans as well as the sizzling of food cooking a medley to my ears as well as a song to my palate. I begin to salivate the minute the aromas of parmesan, oregano and garlic waft into my big schnoz.
We are seated along the backside of the half-wall that connects to the bar, this wall is maybe 48" tall therefore you get the opportunity view all of the goings on of the party on the other side. We usually opt to be on that side because less little humans are seated there.
Anyone that knows me knows of my loathing of children, they not only are not to be heard at dinner but not seen. Do NOT take your child to an adult restaurant and do not sit them in the bar section because I am going to go out of my way to offend you even further. I will find in my arsenal the most disgusting jokes and dirty words to say aloud. I might even expose myself!
The booth is quiet enough, I can see the bartender concocting his drinks and the flashing of the games on the 2 screens hung up above the mirrored beverage area. Light reflecting and creating prisms of color, quite pretty really and I'm momentarily distracted from the conversation until our waitress arrives with the menus.
Now the choice to come have dinner was simply because I am in no position or desire to cook. Today I've gone to my milk-toast excuse of a doctor to find out what is wrong with this throat of mine which has been scratchy for days.
When I awoke this morning it was miserably scratchy and when I tried to swallow or talk it felt like a rusty awl was ripped across my larynx. When I went ahead to take a peep inside I saw a cottage cheese factory and that's when I figured I'd give up the ghost and go in to see him (doctor). I knew it was strep-throat but would have to degrade myself just to get confirmation and a big shot in the ass.
We've decided to order a bottle of wine which I've no real intention of drinking because my head is pounding like 12 drummers drumming, but the man will imbibe for sure. He certainly deserves a drink since he puts up with psycho girl.
The wine arrives as well as a pair of mini-appetizers that we dive into with relish, neither of us have had much to eat that day. I'm not sure if I can even swallow anything but have decided to take a swallow of water with each bite and turn it into a gooey mess, masticate it like a mother bird would do and then finally let it slide down my raw miserable throat.
The salads arrive, which is ridiculous...miss waitress is doing a piss-poor job so far. I think she went to the Sear's waitress school in addition to being extremely annoying. She has been fantastic about coming back to ask us how everything tastes but each time when we let her know we'd like to have our salads she's gone off and returned with..Oh gosh I'm sorry let me go get those for you.
Regardless of all of this, the food is going in and there's no real injury yet ....until...
4 lovelies walk in and head directly for the bar. Now let me tell you, these are a pretty decent looking group except for Trucker-Bob (wearing one of those flipping Trucker hats and Wrangler jeans).
The bar is empty..completely but they head right for the high top 4 right next to, on the opposite side of our booth. Of ALL of the damn seats in the house why is it that we are the candle for the moths?
We're here now, our table cleared and sipping our chardonnay waiting patiently for the entree to arrive and we notice...we notice...
What the fuck..
What the fuck...
holy shit! someone smells like shit. not just shit but maybe cat shit? manure? B.O? no, its even worse! its like an over ripe colostomy bag. it's like rotting potatoes, its like...well as if someone's gone to town and got their salad tossed.
There's been some felching going on and I think Trucker Bob is still wearing it on his face.
Now I'm really sickened and it takes a LOT to gross ME out. I'm rapidly losing any desire to have my dinner and here comes the server. He's brought his delivery table, dropped it down and put the serving tray on it and started to place the food on the table when he wrinkles his nose
...I look to him and say conspiratorially, "Dude! do you smell that cat shit icky smell?"
He's like..OMG yes!
"Thank God, we can't believe it but that guy" where I then shrug over at the 4-somesome, "came in and ever since he's been here yapping his mouth has been making us nauseous since"
I seriously don't think I'll be able to eat at this point and that's when this very nice young man, who I think is just as shocked as we are, offers to move us to another table!
Hubby and I got up so fast I was almost certain we'd knock over our bottle of wine, overturn the whole table in our urgency to get away from the reprehensible smell.
Several minutes into a few bites of our pasta I really can't tolerate another bite, my olfactory senses are just so severely damaged I must push away my plate and request a To-Go box. This is bad because I love my food, and going out is quite honestly a treat. I'm the cook, I have been given compliments far and wide for my culinary talents but right now I'd rather stuff a pair of olives into my nostrils just to get any smell in there that's better than the putrid stench that's still wafting about the room.
Now I have one more reason to just get carry-out. Please people. Take a bath and brush your teeth there's nothing worse than having to smell what you had for your last snack.
