Mr. Michael and the Cute Waitress

A beautiful elegant young woman in a very low cut black dress takes her seat in the theatre next to my husband. I had thought my black dress was sexy when I put it on. I even thought it on the drive to the theatre. I thought it right up until I saw her in her black dress. She did something for her dress or the dress did something for her. My black dress was going right back to the store. I’d send my body right along with it if I could. Why, Lord, why did this strange woman have to go and ruin my dress for me?

A millisecond after I decide to take the dress back to the swindlers that sold it to me, my dear husband asks me to trade seats with him.

He tells me later that the young lady’s perfume was choking him to death, and I briefly comment that she was as gorgeous as they come.

“Was she?”

He honestly hadn’t noticed.

How lucky is it to have a spouse who is allergic to hot chicks in black dresses? Pretty damn lucky, methinks. In fact, I reckon I won the “Husbands with Allergies Lotto.”

I’m getting to be a fan of his Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder as well. Let me explain.

There’s a new waitress at our favorite vegetarian restaurant. She is kinda dizzy, but she seems to be genuinely kind and super friendly. I actually liked her so much that I didn’t find it annoying when she tried to make small talk, which I usually HATE when I’m trying to have dinner with my family. Anyway, if she was super friendly, she was also super cute.

Did Michael like the cute waitress? NO. He hopes she gets fired. What, you may ask, were her fatal errors?

Well, when she re-filled our drinks, she mixed them up. It wasn’t such a big deal today, because he doesn’t mind drinking after me or Charlotte, but if he had been out with friends or co-workers, he might have gone unconscious over that little mishap.

Also – when it came time for him to sign the credit card receipt – she pulled an ink pen out from behind her ear and handed it to him.

I knew that would gross him out, so I made it a point to comment on it. His misery amuses me. A LOT. So I nonchalantly asked, “Did you pull that pen from behind your ear?” She said, “Yes. Earlier today, I had one behind both ears and in both back pockets.”

“Ah, you were prepared.”

I laughed inwardly at Michael who cringed inwardly then promptly outwardly excused himself to use the restroom.

In the car on the way home, he actually said, “I had to wash my hands before I used the restroom. The pen behind the ear really grossed me out.”

Blink. Blink.  Blink.

“Let me get this straight. You had to wash your hands before touching your penis, so that her behind-the-ear germs wouldn’t get all over it?”

“Yeah. She was a gross fuck.”

“So, how do you stand me? I do gross stuff all the time.”

“You’re a gross fuck too, but you’re MY gross fuck.”

How sweet is that?! I tell ya, it’s enough to make me wanna stop clipping my toenails on the sofa.

Comments 2

  • What a lovely, funny post. Oh to be someone’s own gross fuck. Well one thing — he is really in love with you.

  • Stumbled onto your blog. Freakin’ hilarious! We have similar thoughts. Like your adventures with your husband, I can relate.


    keep writing

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