Last night, Paul and I went on another outing. The original plan was to go to Nebraska Furniture Mart and help Paul buy a computer because his current computer runs on Windows 98, and is roughly comparable to what I used to use in the 3rd grade. At any rate, they had a killer sale on one particular computer that I thought would fit his needs perfectly (email and light web browsing...no downloading, no midget porn).
Halfway there from my house, he calls my cell (halfway from his house) to tell me that he called NFM and they were out of the computer, and they didn't do rainchecks. Bastards. They probably only had 4 sale computers to start with. That's how they get you. You go in to buy one thing, they tell you they are out of the one thing, tell you that the one thing really was a piece of crap anyway, then tell you that for $1000 more, you could have this much better thing.
Whatever, Nebraska Furniture Mart salespeople! I'm onto your little game. I don't even care if the salesguy looked like Al Roker (pre-gastric bypass).
So, instead of going to NFM, it was decided to just go have dinner. Where to go? This question that can be the source of contention to any relationship: family, friends, outings. It is probably one of the most repeated conversations we have whenever we go out to eat.
Paul: Where do you want to go?
Me: I don't care. Is there a particular place you have in mind?
Paul: No, I don't care. You pick.
Me: I picked last time. You pick.
Paul: I don't want to pick.
Me: I defer to you to make an executive decision.
Me: Fine. We'll go to (insert name of restaurant).
Paul: (heavy sigh)
Me: You don't want to go there?
Paul: Well...I did eat there the other day.
Me: Then where would you like to go.
Paul: I don't care.
This conversation runs itself into the ground and I finally decide on Cheeseburger in Paradise. It's the closest I can get to the Caribbean until next February, plus I've never been there before.
So, we go there and get a booth. The overall appearance the restaurant was pretty handy...like a big surf shack. The bar log of the restaurant was bigger than the menu, and they make fun little fruit critters to adorn your drink. I settle on a very delicious Peach Mango Mohito, but it didn't come with a fruit critter. I should have asked for one. Paul doesn't partake of the adult beverages as he is on call that night until 10pm, but he eyes my drink for the remainder of the evening.
Meanwhile, a family with a small child is leaving. Upset about something, the child throws her big sippy cup on the ground (concrete). It pops open, sloshing it's entire contents of chocolate milk onto the the occupants of the two tables that were in the direct line of fire. Paul and I immediately discussed how we were never taken anywhere public as children, and probably for the very reason we just witnessed. We also get on the subject of vacations and how similiar our childhood experiences are. For financially low-profile families such as ours, vacation usually amounted to a road trip that landed you at some aunt and uncle's house for a week. He was lucky, his relatives had a swimming pool. My relatives had a farm, and a big horse tank we had to scrub out before we could use it to swim in.
Ever notice how when you are in the company of others like you, you get into these discussions about who was more poor and destitute? No? Well, hooray for you. You can skip this paragraph. Paul and I get into the "my family was poorer than yours" contest. I win because my dad took the money I saved for pom-pon camp and bought beer. I was the only girl on the squad with a part-time job who had to finance summer camp.
We ordered our food. He ordered some strange-looking chicken sandwich. I ordered the signature Cheeseburger in Paradise while the song is playing in my head. (If you are a Caribbean hound, it's mandatory you know Jimmy Buffet...so shut it.)
The food, while good, wasn't what I would call the best I have ever had. However, during dinner, I managed to drop a small piece of beef down my shirt. I peeked down the front and saw it sitting there, nestled between my boobs...which gives an entirely new meaning to Cheeseburger in Paradise. Paul laughs and almost snorts water out of his nose. I'm annoyed because this always seems to happen to me.
I have a bra that is structured in such a manner that I cannot merely stick my fingers in and pluck it out lest I come off looking like I am about ready to pull a rabbit out of my cleavage.
It would have been too simple to make a run to the bathroom to fish out the R-rated beef, so I just sit in the booth and try to shift things around in hopes it falls out of the bottom of the bra and down my shirt. No such luck. This is a special bra that won't allow it to happen, plus the beef seems to have grown comfortable in it's new environment.
So, for the remainder of dinner, and a dessert of chocolate nachos that smell and taste like Krispy Kreme donuts, I sit with beef in my bosom. Paul wants to know what I am going to do about the burger (because he appears too interested in the well-being of it), and I just tell him I'm saving it for later. It wasn't until I get up to leave, that I am able to successfully shift the meat out without drawing attention to myself.