The week has been filled with hundreds of decisions that need resolve. Shall I report Sean Connery for stalking me or just let him off the hook again. If having cellulite indicates great sensuality, how will I manage to stay chaste just for today? I am weary of it all.
As an early riser my body awakens much later than I do. Must I choose to honor it or let it lay there like lump of lox? Shall I start with coffee or a protein drink? Vanilla or chocolate; with a bagel or baklava?
Is it the gym, a jog or belly dancing? Actually when I am jogging and jiggling I am belly dancing in a way. Then the calls come.
How's my plumbing? (Was that my Gynecologist?)
Would I sign a petition against healthy foods in the kid’s cafeteria because of loss of revenue? I call the last caller an “idiot!”
I should have had the coffee before responding. Another call: Would I take a survey regarding the service man assigned to repair my refrigerator who was two weeks late, and oops, arrived without the part ordered 18 months ago before the cream turned sour to match my disposition?
Then more calls, plus a text asking about the quality of the that same serviceman.
I rarely speak to a live survey taker so all my cursing goes to waste. Throughout the day there are so many decisions at work as well. Forty-two emails, each needing an answer. And still another from Publisher’s Clearing House asking for the thousand time what I would do with the money if I did win?
I always need to wash my mouth out with soap after I respond.
There are columns to write and book editing and personal matters to determine just the right way to handle the issues. I do not want to answer the simplest question now. I need a respite.
So at the end of the day I decided not to have to decide to defrost or not defrost for dinner. Instead I went to my favorite cafe to simply relax and be served, since I knew exactly what I wanted.
WAITRESS ARRIVED
ME: I’ll have a small steak.
SHE: Soup or Salad?
ME: Salad.
SHE: Thousand Island, Italian or Ranch?
ME: Ranch.
SHE: Baked potato, French Fries or mashed?
ME: Baked.
SHE: Sour cream with chives, sour cream without chives, chives with bacon, bacon bits… ?
ME: Anything, all of them…
SHE: (under her breath, “Animal!”) How’d you like your steak: rare, medium, or well-done?
ME: Charred on the inside, rare on the outside. Who cares anymore?
SHE: Don’t get hostile, lady. Just doing my job. About the bread: Garlic, French, or Parker rolls?
ME: Please, I beg you. Don’t bring bread because you’ll ask about me butter or olive oil?
I am now crying.
She seems genuinely sympathetic and fans me with the menu.
She leaves, I gain control, and when she returns with the food, I just pick at it while fantasizing I am a prisoner allowed only bread and water — a decision made by the warden.
I ask for my check.
SHE: Oh no! Dessert comes with the meal.
She goes through 28 types of pie.
ME: I don’t want any, thank you!
SHE: Are you kidding! You cannot leave until you make “all gone.”
I pick one. When she turns her back, I put the pie in my pocket and ask once more for the bill.
SHE: Will you be paying with Master Charge, Visa, American Express or Jack in the Box?
ME: I’ll just pay cash and…
SHE: We no longer take cash, as it is considered archaic. We do however take Bitcoin, gold…
I turn my purse upside down, dump my credit cards on the table, and run out screaming: “You decide. You decide!” as Rhubarb drips down my dress.
So now I’d like to do a survey, friends. Do you think I should hand-wash the dress, bring it to the cleaners or simply light it on fire? Please, you decide.
Thank you!
THE END
