Do you ever feel like you have a thousand things to do? OK, I exaggerate; more like two thousand.
I got up on a recent Saturday morning with the best of intentions. “Things will get done today,” the annoying little conscience guy in my head was telling me (Whenever I think of my conscience I’m reminded of Tom Hulse, aka Pinto, in “Animal House,” and his two voices of reason)
I also have two consciences. One is the little guy I already mentioned; I’ll call him Wimpy. The other I’ll refer to as, for lack of a better name, Kathy.
“I think WE need to wash the windows today,” Kathy Conscience was suggesting to me as we drove to Cracker Barrel. Whenever it’s suggested that “WE” do something around the house, I almost have a gag reflex.
“I bet WE can find something to clean them at Home Depot,” she excitedly continued.
“Uh huh,” I replied, wondering why she never suggested WE watch college football all day.
“You’re such a good husband,” Wimpy said.
At CB, Kathy ordered the egg sandwich. She loves the egg sandwich and, for a conscience, was pretty hungry that morning.
A little history on the egg sandwich - Kathy first ordered it years ago and now it’s what she always gets. In our early days eating at Cracker Barrel she never had to tell the waitress anything other than “Egg sandwich.”
Then about six months ago one of the waitresses asked her what kind of bread she wanted it on. Suspicious, she said, “Sourdough, like the menu says.”
Since that time it seems they always ask her to make choices about how she wants it prepared, to which she always replies with a bit more agitation than the time before, “I want it just like the menu reads.”
It seems the more questions they ask, the less they get it right.
So last Saturday, when she ordered it and the waitress said, “What kind of bread?” I cringed.
After the waitress left I said, “Why don’t you just tell them how you want it since you know they’re going to ask anyway?”
A perfectly harmless question, right?
Wrong. I immediately picked up on this because rather than looking into her green eyes, I was suddenly staring at a furniture ad on the back page of the newspaper.
“You’re not such a good husband,” I heard Wimpy say.
Our waitress came back with a plate full of biscuits, which I hadn’t ordered.
“Not a good start,” Wimpy said.
I asked the waitress what they were and she replied, “Those are biscuits.” We were lucky to have gotten a waitress who had another job as a comedian.
“I don’t think I ordered them.”
She said, “I know, we just want you to have them.”
This seemed like a trick to me, and I looked at Kathy for support, but I was still staring at the newspaper. I looked back at my waitress who said through a sarcastic smirk, “Don’t worry, they’re free.”
Across the table, the newspaper giggled.
At last our real order came. I had asked for pancakes from the Kid’s Menu, because I can’t ever eat a full order, but I also asked for the full order of three sausage patties to go with it. Instead she brought me one sausage patty and two tough pancakes. “Thank goodness for free biscuits,” Wimpy said.
Across from me the newspaper was gone and Kathy was saying, “Mmmmmm, this sandwich is great.”
“I’m glad,” I said, as I picked up my knife to cut the pancakes.
“Waffle House is better,” said Wimpy.