I’m way overdue for a brain dump.
Meat Halo left Austin for school in the Big Apple a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t want to mess my big girl pants in the midst of our big league, Hollywood goodbye that morning, so I opted for an organic vanilla milk for my breakfast beverage instead of a coffee. My dad and I share many traits, some of which I wish I could politely return like my penchant for the band, Rush, laughing really hard at my own jokes, and stress related bowel issues.
There’s a laughable trend lately where my goodbyes take place at none other than the “TGI Fridays of Southern Italian Food”, Buca Di Beppo. I had my leaving Charlotte dinner there, too. It’s large party friendly is mainly why, but also because it’s the only Italian restaurant in town(s) where you can order an oversize mixing bowl full of tiramisu.
I sat next to Meat Halo’s mother at one end of the table, opposite of his siblings on the other, and scooped favorites onto my plate from what seemed like an endless parade of bowls. That many bowls made me slightly tense. Let the record show that I’m diagnosing myself right here and now with a mild case of Irritable Bowl Syndrome.
At some point I was awakened from my food coma by a heated argument regarding one of those pesky amendments. Luckily, Meat Halo’s mom had a pocket constitution, SURPRISE, not in her pocket. That’s not important, and neither are the amendments (in the context of this tale)! As she slowly leaned to the side to retrieve said item from her bag we were not only met with evidence to support and possibly settle the argument, but also with a copy of the not so widely regarded… pocket constitootin’.
*insert “FWERP” followed by silence*
It was the kind of flatus that one of my favorite non-fiction works, Farts: A Spotter’s Guide, refers to as “The Long Goodbye”. The button for this one in particular on the battery-powered fart machine attached to my copy is no longer operational because I’ve pushed it one too many times. I mean because of the batteries blah and how they don’t blah blah hold a charge like they used to blah.
My Vulcan mind melding techniques must be super rusty lately because Meat Halo didn’t receive the one I sent him in which I compressed a very long explanation of why it would be less awkward to ignore the fart than it would be to address the fart and run away from it. Before I knew it he’d grabbed the purse from the back of my chair, threw it over his own shoulder, and shot out his hand into mine. It was just on the cusp of Terminator’s “Come with me if you want to live!”
Wait, what?! Are we dining on a land mine? Is this an authentic, Sicilian, flammable gingham tablecloth?
I’m pretty much the world’s worst actress, and my improvisational solo piece titled: I Didn’t Hear a Goddamn Thing and All I Smell Is Penne Arrabbiata turned out to be a bona fide flop.
I followed him into the hallway where he continued to wear my purse and I muffled laughter and attempted to focus on the situation at hand instead of my fellow restaurant patrons just behind him gathered round a table where Pope Benedict XVI’s head spun around in the center of a lazy susan packed with spaghetti and meatballs.
We hugged it out, returned to the table quietly and calmly, never to speak of it again (until I asked permission to tell a small chunk of the internet).