From San Pellegrino to the Pickin' Parlor
So on Friday night, TG and I went out on a date to celebrate the thirty-first anniversary of our wedding, which was actually June sixteenth.
It was sort of a two-chapter date just like it was a two-chapter anniversary.
Chapter One involved a dinner reservation at a restaurant where we last ate on our thirtieth anniversary, a year and two days ago.
A tad pricey but the experience is worth it to mark special occasions, we think.
First thing after they seat you, which takes place with great decorum, one of your waiters (there ends up being several and clearly they are schooled in The Fine Art Of Swarming) zeroes in on your beverage order.
Please Leave Us Cold
At this particular place I always fall for the suggestion of Pellegrino. I do like me a glass of ice-cold Pellegrino now and then.
The little guy cruising around with the tray of San Pellegrino and Panna Mineral Water walks slowly, hunched over slightly, as though he's carrying a load of Heavy Water up the Rhine for some diabolic warmongering purpose.
But he expertly fills my glass with Pellegrino and leaves the bottle. Good man.
TG requests an Arnold Palmer -- his hooch of choice in recent days -- and the waiter does not flinch as he sees the size of his gratuity diminish with the stark absence of an alcohol order.
We do not imbibe! Sorry, Charlie.
The ArPa materializes on our table within moments and there don't appear to be any hard feelings. Soon TG is sipping away with a contented sigh.
Then he remembers he left my anniversary card in the car, which got valet parked.
He jumps up and hustles out before I can make a scene.
Did You Check The Fridge?
Across the room a man WEARING A BASEBALL CAP indoors at a fancy-schmancy restaurant has been seated and progressed to the drink-ordering stage. He asks for lemonade loudly enough that I can eavesdrop without so much as trying.
He is told by the waiter that they don't have lemonade.
I look down at TG's glass. Then what exactly IS that pale yellow substance mingling with his sweet tea?
TG's back by then and I tell him what the waiter told the etiquette-challenged diner five tables away. TG sips his Arnold Palmer.
"They do too have lemonade," he says.
Well Done, Good And Faithful Servant
I take a few pictures like a tourist (For you! All for you!) and we order our dinner. The restaurant is filling up.
Presently we are dining on crisp salads and fork-tender filets and sauteed mushrooms and sweet potato casserole and soft-baked bread with real butter.
When it's time for dessert I dither over whether to order my usual -- creme brulee -- or to branch out. I end up going for the caramelized banana cream pie -- with French press coffee.
The banana cream pie is a tart shell with CREAMY stuff inside and imbricated banana discs on top which have been blow-torched to a crunchy brown. Pretty good but not as good as creme brulee with fresh berries in season.
The coffee is spectacular.
Richard, our main waiter, tells us he and his wife celebrated their third anniversary this week, the day before ours. We've been married ten times longer.
He seems like a nice guy. I hope they make it.
Moving Right Along
For Chapter Two we hail our chariot from the valet boys and head across the river into West Columbia, the border of which is now marked, I notice, with a sign featuring a cascading fountain.
Which is interesting since West Columbia is not exactly Beverly Hills. But whatever.
Next stop, Bill's Pickin' Parlor.
This is where bluegrass musicians jam every Friday night in a locale so dilapidated, it makes the Grand Ole Opry look like the Taj Mahal on top of Buckingham Palace joined at the hip with Versailles.
It has seen better days, but none more devoted to pickin' and singin'.
Bill Wells, the boss man, presides over jam night at the pickin' parlor as he has for a quarter century, tapping his foot on the sidelines as musicians traipse onto the stage and render tunes like Lily's White Lies with total bluegrass abandon.
We greet some old friends and make a few new ones. I want to go home but not before a stop at the concession stand.
I know! I know! I have enjoyed a seven-dollar bottle of Pellegrino, a thirty-five dollar steak, a nine-dollar dessert, and a five-dollar pot of coffee. What more could I possibly want? Or fit in?
Well, since you're so all-fired inquisitive, I'll tell you: a dollar-fifty bottle of Blenheim HOT Ginger Ale.
It Don't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Sting
TG forks over the two bucks and I wait for my Blenheim's and fifty cents change. The girl goes to knock the cap off the bottle but I tell her not to; I want to savor it in the privacy of my home.
Later, in my favorite chair, having changed into something comfortable, I sip the most daring drink I'm likely to hazard in the foreseeable future.
This ginger ale goes down -- as the name says -- HOT. I think they fix it as normal, then give it a triple-shot of citric acid. The result would remove tooth enamel if not gum tissue.
Your tongue might even lose some volume if you got sassy and held onto a mouthful a beat too long.
So you face your fears and swallow.
Let The Flames Begin
And it's like you ingested thirty-eleven lit matches that are scorching a trail from your throat to the floor of your belly, where they ignite a little eternal torch.
Arson of the innards. Yum.
Repeat till you feel the need to suck on the business end of a fire extinguisher.
If they dumped a few million gallons of Blenheim's into the Gulf of Mexico, that oil would burn off quicker'n a firefly's wink. Obama's presidency could possibly be saved.
It might even solve our illegal alien problem. You never know.
The Brenda Photo Challenge
Prolific blogger and photographer Donna Staas, author and keeper of Made in Heaven -- as well as of several other fine sites -- sponsors and promotes The Brenda Photo Challenge.
This involves a weekly thematic posting of original photos.
You're Getting Sleepy
The theme for this week is Bedtime.
Here are my entries ... two faces with which you may be familiar, all ready for sleep.
First, Allissa:
And, of course, Javier ... a/k/a Sir Snoozeth:
For good measure, how 'bout another Javier?
Baby girls and puppy dogs get all soft and warm and droopy when they're tired. Come to think of it, so do I.
It's adorable. The kids and critters, that is.
Wake Up!
Like to join in the fun? We wish you would. Click on over to The Brenda Photo Challenge and sign on the linky line.
Scoot! While you're thinking about it.
Happy weekend!
SkyWatch
Thanks to my new blogging buddy, Donna Staas, a stellar blogger and remarkably talented photographer, I discovered something.
To wit:
There's a blog called SkyWatch Friday.
You can see sky pictures taken by shutterbugs all around the world!
I like what they're doing over there, so consider this my first contribution.
The below pic is "clickable" to slightly embiggen, if you're into that sort of thing.
If you didn't fall for the link above, click here to visit SkyWatch Friday ... or if you'd rather, click the pretty picture below!
Maybe you should enter your own sky picture. Just a thought.
And don't think you have to ooooh and aaaaah over my picture. I'm a rank amateur.
Simply gaze and enjoy.
As you were.
Poorly peddled petals
So you already know it was my anniversary on Wednesday.
What you didn't know is, for the first June 16th since 1978 -- before we began dating -- TG and I did not see one another.
He's been working out of town and won't be home until Friday.
I've got expedited transcripts so it was a working day for me too.
Early in the afternoon I was in my office in the downstairs rear of the house, wearing headphones, transcribing South Carolina Bubbatalk, when the call came in on my cell.
It was a florist, and he had a delivery for me. TG had told them they needed to call first; I'd never hear the doorbell through the headphones and Bubbaspeak.
The deliveryman said he'd be on my front porch in thirty minutes. I thanked him and ran to make myself presentable for viewing -- however briefly -- by a human being.
(Javier doesn't count because, as long as there's kibble in his dish and someplace to flop down and sleep, he could care less if I wear my nightgown all day.)
Happy Half-Hours Waiting For Flowers
I did a few things in the kitchen and had progressed to sweeping the front walk when the perky white-and-green floral delivery van arrived.
Since I was already in the yard, I met the deliveryman at the car, still holding onto my broom.
Which, no matter what you hear, I do not ride.
I hopped from foot to foot in an ecstasy of anticipation while he opened the doors and walked around the van, checking all the cards.
He came back around to the side where I was standing. He was empty-handed.
"I must've forgotten your flowers," he said.
I stared. Forgotten? My flowers? He called a half hour ago to say he was bringing them right over!
"Will you be home all day?" he asked.
I said I would. (What if I'd said I wouldn't?)
He said he'd be back later. (What else could he say?)
Bloom And Doom
I got back inside before I started crying.
I know! I know it was foolish! Such a small, insignificant thing!
But my TG wasn't here and then there were going to be flowers and my girlish heart was all aflutter and then there were no flowers, and everybody else's had to get delivered before I could have mine.
By the way … the florist's shop is a scant mile from my house. It would have taken the deliveryman in his perky green-and-white PT Cruiser under ten minutes to retrieve my flowers.
But that wasn't important. Not to him. My flowers could wait. I could wait. It would be my thirty-first wedding anniversary all day and he had to consider the whims of other stems.
I sent the florist an email. I said I wasn't exactly complaining but just wanted to point out that flowers are both highly symbolic and very expensive, and every flower order should be handled with the utmost sensitivity and discretion.
The florist did not favor me with a response.
Blossoms Playing Possum
The flowers arrived just after four o'clock. It was a truly beautiful arrangement but you won't believe … there were three fake gardenias amongst the white hydrangeas, red roses, and eucalyptus.
TG requested gardenias be added to my bouquet but there weren't any, so the florist offered to substitute pretend ones, which in my opinion he should never have done because they looked ridiculous.
I took them out.
Gardenias are like love. Faux? No. Give me the real thing or nothing.
The roses were a little worse for wear too, since they'd spent all day in the cooler, pining for me. A shrivel here, a split petal there.
Do you know what it costs to send flowers these days?
That time when I contacted the florist, I used the phone. And I did complain.
All I got was excuses. They were busy. The roses were fine. The phony gardenias weren't their fault. I was being unreasonable.
People who push petals for a living should be more than order-takers. They should understand that to a flower -- or a lady waiting for flowers -- three hours is a long time.
And fake flowers don't belong in a bouquet of fresh ones.
Flowers are emotionally charged markers of uber-sentimental occasions.
Treat them like ticking time bombs.