We spent judgment day at my new favorite restaurant. The place is perfect really, within spitting distance of the house, great food, awesome margaritas. The only bad thing is that all of Houston seems to share my love for it. So there’s typically a nice little wait.
So the night the world was to end (and here I’m thinking how Harold Camping has lost all credibility), we’re sitting at the bar, killing our obligatory forty minutes by sipping margaritas (and please don’t tell my acupuncturist this since she’s suggested I abstain from alcohol during this phase of treatment.) But gee! We’re at my favorite Mexican restaurant! And I’ve abstained for weeks now. Well, okay, days. What could one little margarita hurt? Well, okay, two.
So we’re drinking our second margarita (except for Ronnie who’s working on his diet cherry coke) when I start thinking, surely, we’ve waited longer than forty minutes! I remember how one time the hostess forgot to light up our little flashy thing and we ended up at the bar way longer than we should have. By the time we got to our table, we’d forgotten what we were there for.
So I start wondering what time it is. And here I should probably share the fact that I’ve not worn a watch since I escaped the corporate world years ago. Basically, I never know what time it is. Which makes me either early or late for everything. Well, okay, mostly late.
Anyway, I’m rummaging in my Ameribag with all its hidden pockets, trying to find my phone since it now serves as my only connection to real time. Sometimes I use it for the date, too. Okay, sometimes even the day of the week. When I see my husband reach into his pocket for his cell phone, I know what he’s going to do; he’s going to call me so I can track down my own phone by the sound of its voice.
I have the most awesome ring tone! It’s the one Adam Sandler had on the movie Bedtime Story and it’s both obnoxiously annoying and hilarious at the same time! I Crack The Heck Up whenever someone calls me. My husband hates it though and I have to remind him that he’s the one who tracked it down and converted it from an MP3 file into a ringtone.
My son loves the thing too. And so, much to my husband's frustration, we both have the same ring tone! One day last week, I was sitting in the car and needed to get in touch with Ronnie. When I called him, I heard my own ringtone, muffled somewhere nearby. At first I didn't realize it was his phone, buried in the seat cushion. So I sat staring at my own phone wondering . . . how the heck is it doing that?!
So anyway, that’s what I’m listening for as I sit at the bar, holding my Ameribag up to my ear. I don’t think it’s such a silly thing to do. In fact, I think it’s pretty brilliant since the bar is noisy and, how else am I supposed to hear the thing if I don’t get close enough? But then I’ve had a couple margaritas, unlike the waitress who walks by, takes one look at me and cracks up . . .
But, hmmmm . . . now I’m wondering - maybe it was because she heard my awesomely annoying ring tone! !
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