Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Therapy With a Side Of Pico
I had lunch yesterday with a friend I hadn't seen in a while. It went like this:
We see each other and there are hugs and kisses and "I've missed you!"s
We sit down and start catching up.
The waiter comes. We haven't opened our menus, but order drinks.
We resume talking.
He comes with the drinks. We still haven't opened our menus.
(Do you see where this is going?)
He goes away.
He comes back but we are laughing so hard we can't talk.
We wave our arms. "No, no we can order."
My friend to me: "What are you having?"
Me" "I'm not sure."
The waiter shifts his weight...
I then order my "go to" choice when I don't know what to order, chicken fajitas. (This isn't always appreciated at a Thai restaurant.)
He goes away.
We discuss: My daughter's wedding, chickens, our children, everyone's job situation, my blogs, how hilarious Modern Family is, her work, retirement, love, life, how much we've changed over the years of our friendship, and our trip to Italy.
We both agree those were probably the happiest 9 days of our lives (we always wonder if being sans husbands and children had anything to do with it). But rolling around on the floor of a villa overlooking Rome and laughing so hard you can't get up isn't easily surpassed by anything. Though having every single person who loves you and your child in the same room (and knowing you can cancel the insurance) at your daughter's wedding comes close.
At some point during all that, the food arrived and now sat getting cold because given the choice between talking and eating we'll choose talking. We do manage to finish our meal. The waiter comes back to ask if everything is okay and we are laughing hysterically.
He passes by a few minutes later with a tray of food for the booth next to us and we are crying and my friend is passing me a tissue.
I'm fairly sure our waiter thought we were a meeting of the Women's Bipolar Lunch Club.
She's under a lot of stress, has had to deal with lots of health problems the last couple of years (ever since that gypsy in Florence put a curse on her), and now her doctor has told her she needs a knee replacement. Then she says something to me that makes us laugh UNTIL we cry.
"I had to borrow my mother's walker."
I am doubled over with laughter and trying not to spit out my water when the waiter returns.
I check my watch. We have been in this booth for 3 hours.
Oh no. I had promised my daughter I would eat, pay, leave after a record 4 hour dinner last year.
But honestly, where else am I going to get therapy this cheaply...
and with a side of extra pico de gallo.