August 31st, 2008

My wife decided that we were to go out for Mexican food. There's a quaint family run Mexican eatery just up the hill a bit from our home that was picked for the occasion. It's a quiet little place that serves some serious Mexican food and doesn't skimp on the servings at a very reasonable price.

My wife and I both ordered the same dish, a beef enchilada meal with beans and rice. There had been a family of five that had entered shortly after we got there. The father was carrying a girl that looked to be about 5 or 6. I was thinking she was just waking up from a nap. She was very relaxed, slumped over the Father's shoulders. They walked past me and entered in to the deeper parts of the building. We were closer to the front entrance and I was facing out on a lovely expanse of jet black Asphalt, white lines and some great beat up cars. Plus the occasional child stopping to gawk at the crazy white people (us) eating in a Mexican restaurant, peering through their little hands cupped against the plate glass window as they walked past the facility. So cute. Get a move on already. Eww, don't pick your ...

Well the food finally showed up and it was amazing. A large, hot, oval plate of deliciousness that was smelling fantastic. The beef was seared, tender and full of flavor wrapped in fresh tortillas with a mild, very flavorful sauce, red rose in color that stood out well from the china white plate it sat on.
Enchilada dinner.


Anyway, I decided for some strange reason to pepper the conversation with a lovely little story about a post I had read at a fellow Entrecarders blog, Monkey Fables And Tales, This post regaled how he had bought a dozen flowers, daffodils to be exact, from a nearby store manager, after her breasts had talked him into buying the flowers.

Yes, her breasts. I was wondering why it was that I began this sorted tale, but once I got started, it was kind of like a train wreck. I just kept on going and explaining about how he had referred to her breasts as a bakery item, uhm, muffins to be exact, and how I tried, barely, to keep from laughing, again, for I though it quite humorous the first time I read it. I mean I was rollin', guffawing and snorting loudly as he explained in some sorted detail about how her clothing accentuated her, uhm, female attributes and ... well, you had to be there.

So, I am trying to make it interesting for my wife, and she is looking at me with with an amused look on her face, placating me as she is apt to do when I am talking about some thing foolish and dangerous and might just get me into a world of trouble if I cross some imaginary line.

I love living on the edge.

Part 1 of 2

August 29th. 2008

A young Korean Child signing Hey Jude.


Now that he is in the 6th grade, He is the laughing stock oh his school because he is in a diaper. Couldn't they have at least put clothes on the poor kid.


The Real Deal and just for the heck of it - it's Friday and John McCain has a lady VP.

August 27th, 2008

I have to make this on the sly. I don't want my wife to find this as I work on it. I was kind of told unofficially that I wasn't to use her conversations on the Internet anymore since I posted about her furry dream a while back. Actually she spelled it out to me in no uncertain manner, But I choose to remember it as a soso chewing out

Just a few Minutes ago: Sound of a phone is ringing.

My wife: "Is that you son?"

Son, Layed out on the couch, watching TV under the swampcooler. "What?"

Wife: "Is that your Phone ringing?"

Son: "That's on the TV."

Wife: "It sounded like it was in the living room."

Me: "Where do you think we have the TV at?" (It's in the Living Room.)

Wife: "But It sounded like the phone was ringing right there, not on the TV."




Me: "Oh, I remember when My wife was sane."

Wife: "It didn't sound like it was on the TV."

Son: "It didn't even sound like my phone."

Me: "Actually, we moved the TV into the Bedroom."

Wife: "Oh, Shut Up."

August 26th, 2008

I had mentioned before about my previous cooking profession, 95% of the time as a dinner cook (flipping eggs in an egg pan was not my forte, a very popular way of cooking breakfast eggs in most restaurants). The ying to my cooking's yang, if you will, would be the food server. The one who would basically let me know what it was that I was to be doing, and to whom my finished cooked product would go to.

Most Waitresses are very hard working and very good at what they do. They have to be to make sure they get good tips from their customers. Most waitresses are forced to wear some kind of uniform decided by the owner or the manager of the eating establishment. Most waitresses don't deal with Bar patrons as well.

This one Kitchen I worked at was very different from the norm. And no one informed me about her.

I was cooking as usual one night when a lovely voice came at me from another window from one where most of my food was delivered to. It was about my second night in the Kitchen, and it then that I discovered that I was not only cooking for a Coffee shop attached to a bowling alley and a Formal restaurant, but also a small Bar.

I looked around and found where the voice was coming from:

"Can I have an order of French fries." I found the 3 Foot wide window that was probably as High also. The window had a ledge on it about 2 feet wide. There was two forearms crossed on the ledge. The sleeves of this red top stopped at just above the elbows. There was no head visible. But was extremely visible was a huge pair of breasts barely contained in the briefest of a red sweater. There was the window, there was forearms, and their was cleavage. The cleavage was ordering french fries.

I said "Excuse me", trying to make some sense of this surreal encounter with these breasts. I had no idea where this window led to and no idea we served a bar from this window. Communication was not a big deal at this kitchen.

"I need some french fries for the bar." the breasts said. I said "Ok" and turned to start cooking up a batch. Theses breast moved a few times, but they mainly just stayed there the whole time, leaning on the forearms and the shelf or small counter. I got busy cooking other items and finally took the french fries out of the deep frier. I put them on a plate and took them to the window. There was no place to put them, for these breasts were taking up most of the counter.

I said, "Excuse me." again and the breasts moved away from the counter. I placed the Plate of fries on the counter and the hands attached to the forearms took the plate. The window smelled strongly of cigarettes and some kind of great smelling perfume. I poked my head through the window and saw the rear view of the lady with the red sweater walking away and then turning. There was a door some ten feet from the window with the ledge that I eventually was able to go through and found the bar in the back. But just then, a food order came in and I had to retreat back to the Kitchen.

The Next Day, I found the chef, and asked her about the Bar Waitress.

"Is she for real?"

The chef said, a woman as well, "I have known her for years and she has always dressed like that."

And for the next few months I worked there, that is what she always wore, Tight, very low cut tops to more than show off her God Given Attributes. I am sure she made lots of tips.