- I am confident that over the past 48 hours my husband has either walked under a ladder, pissed off a black cat or danced on an ancient Indian burial ground. Really, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did all 3 simultaneously.
Yesterday we spent our 3rd weekend, yes 3rd, 2 hours away for ANOTHER f’ing soccer tournament. Not to veer from tradition, I found myself 1 of just 2 women among a combined total of 11 men/boys at Roosters. What is Roosters? The best way I can describe Roosters is the equivalent of that knock off cabbage patch kid you got in lieu of the real thing in the 80’s but Roosters is the knock off of BW3’s. Again, another restaurant I cannot stand. Both serve wings and indigestion.
As what looked to be a teenage prostitute approached our table to take our order, my husband announced,
“We are in a hurry and need our food as fast as we can get it.”
Hooker #1 looked at him like he had 2 heads.
We were 20 minutes away from another field therefore leaving another 20 minutes to order, have food prepared for 13 people and pay the tab. COM-PLETELY doable.
“She is totally going to spit in your food,” I said very matter of a fact to my husband. Growing up in the restaurant business this wasn’t my first rodeo. Once, a little ass hole couldn’t keep his shit together as he ordered and treated me like a slave. I then proceeded to drop every piece of meat that was on his antipasto salad not only on the floor, but gently pressed into it with my Nike tennis shoe. He ate the whole thing.
30 minutes later our food arrived. We gave the children and ourselves approximately 6 minutes to inhale our food.
20 minutes later we were back on the road when my husband’s stomach began to rumble.
“Hey, if you see a gas station can you please stop?”
C got food poisoning or what I like to call “waitress revenge.” I don’t want to know what she did to his food but we almost had a Bridesmaid incident as I drove like a bat out of hell trying to find a bathroom as rural Ohio does not offer much. I dropped him off at a UDF while I ran P to the soccer field. It’s safe to say he had an ass explosion.
PUT A RING ON IT
Because soccer practice and/or games 5 days a week aren’t enough, we decided to incorporate a game this evening for my youngest on the other side of the city.
My oldest, P and I arrived 15 minutes later to the soccer game. I grabbed my husband’s keys as he had the chairs in his SUV.
“Oh my God I lost my ring,” he said as he began to look around the field.
“I’m sorry, I’m not following.” I said, genuinely perplexed.
For the next 4 minutes we had our gaze directed to the ground. The game was about to start and we needed to break away from looking.
An hour later after the game, I shit you not and God bless these parents….it was like a Jon Benet Ramsey search. All the parents began at one end of the field searching for his ring. You can see them looking here…..
“Ah look at all the parents,” I said in a sing-song voice with my gaze down as I brushed the tall grass with my turquoise rain boots. “They don’t want to see you sleeping in the shed tonight.”
We didn’t find his ring. I am now grateful I got him gold and not platinum. We are going to call the park tomorrow to give them a heads up. So I have a VERY important question for you all. How long should I milk this? I’m open to suggestions!
P.S. my husband’s boss pretty much has a solution to everything and today was no different. He had a metal detector. My husband went over to the field with said detector and for an hour and a half ran a metal detector along the fields with no luck. So again I ask you, how long should I milk this?