This Could Turn Into A Habit

 I confess that I mostly took today off too.  See, I woke up dreaming about Downton Abbey since I'd watched an afternoon's worth of episodes yesterday, so once I finished my morning chores I did it again.  It's very restful sinking into Edwardian England and immersing myself in the ups and downs of the Crawley family.

I went to the birdseed store and the grocery for my bi-weekly shop, came home, put the groceries away, washed up, had lunch, and zoned in front of the TV.  And I don't feel guilty about it.

I rescued a rose this morning.  When I went out for the paper I noticed one had opened.  I checked and there were no Japanese beetles on it so I snipped it and brought it inside to enjoy.  It smells amazing. Thanks, Dad!

My coleus is going crazy this year.  It's usually thick and kind of mounded in the pots.  This year the plants have bigger leaves and they're tall and leggy.  Even though I've been pinching off the tops to try to make the plants branch out it doesn't seem to work this year.  I love the colors of the leaves.  The pink and burgundy and green shouldn't look good together but it does.

 

 

19 August--Barbara Malcolm, Better Than Mom's. 

As with most Sunday’s when the number of customers was too great for one waitress to handle, Brady was out in the dining room helping to make sure no one was without a full cup for long and answering questions and taking compliments.  His expression was grim as he surveyed the line up of black leather clad men at his counter. 

When he and Fay met at the coffee pot he quietly said, “Do you want me to wait on them?” 

Fay shook her head.  “No, I am fine with them.  If I need help, I will holler.” 

Brady must have told Naomi about the invasion of the bikers because she poked her head out the door, gave them the once over and retreated, clicking her tongue over the silliness of the middle-aged man.

Once Fay had served coffee down the row of them, she left them with the menu hoping that would keep them occupied while she dealt with the sudden line of people at the cash register.  The bikers’ arrival had signaled the end of brunch for the regulars. 

As Fay walked behind the counter’s stools to get to the cash register, she was surprised to feel a pinch, right on her bottom.  She whirled around to look at the eight men but saw only their backs.  They seemed to be occupied with discussing what to order, none of them looked as if they knew she was there.  She unconsciously rubbed the spot that had been pinched and continued on, listening for snickers from the bikers, to ring up the customers and punch the Frequent Diners cards of those in the know. 

Once everyone had paid, toddled back to leave a tip or pressed it into her hand with a smile, she made her way back past the bikers so she could take their orders.  She refilled coffee mugs and went to make a fresh pot because a few of them were still examining the menu. 

She was trying to carefully tear open the foil packet of coffee grounds, “who seals these damned things?” when she heard the scrape of heavy boots on the floor behind her and the sound of breathing very close by. 

“Hey, sweetheart, can you take our orders now?” 

She jumped when he reached toward her, took the packet of coffee out of her hands, tore it open, and handed it back.  It said Mud Face on his jacket. 

“There you are, little lady,” he said, leaning forward to squint at her nametag, “uh, Fay.  Them things are always a pain to open.”

 He pulled a multi-tool from a holster on his belt that looked as if it could make repairs on the space shuttle and brandished it in her face.  “You need to get one of these little beauties.  It has a screwdriver, pliers, three sizes of wrenches and an adjustable one, and a serrated blade that will cut pretty near anything.”  He waved it even closer to her as if to emphasize how much she needed one, then slipped it back into the holster.  

“Okay,” she said, “I will put that on my list for Santa.  And I will be right over to take your orders as soon as I get this coffee going.” 

“Thanks, Fay,” he said and bopped her bottom as he turned to go back to his stool.

She whirled right back ready to give him what for, but his back was to her, his fists were raised, pumping the air as if he had won something, and he was, well, crowing.  She reached out and gave him a good shove right between the shoulder blades that made him stumble and made his buddies burst out laughing. 

“Asshole,” she muttered, pouring out the old coffee before pushing the button to make fresh. “I thought everybody had taken training not to do that sort of thing.  Guess Mud Face needs remedial training.”  She made sure to paste a friendly smile on her face before she straightened up and went over to take their orders.

Fay shook her head at their foolishness too as she walked over, pulling her order pad from her apron pocket.  “What will you have, boys?” she asked, stopping in the center of the row of them, ready to turn toward who ever ordered first.  “Anybody having the buffet brunch can just give me their drink order and then go right ahead and serve themselves.” 

No one responded.  She shrugged and got ready to take eight orders.  “Separate checks?” she asked. 

The one with Fearless Leader on his jacket said, “Naw, it is my turn to buy.” 

That remark kicked off a round of arguing from the ranks. 

“You bought last time,” Mud Face said. 

“No, I did not, you moron, you did,” said Fearless Leader. 

“Oh, yeah.” 

“I thought it was my turn,” said the one called Road Rash. 

Black Lightning slapped him on the arm. “You paid when we were in Lucky’s out on highway seventeen.” 

“Oh yeah,” Road Rash said, rubbing his arm. 

Fay waited while they hashed out who was paying today and whose turn it was next.

Fearless Leader settled the matter.  “I am paying today; Splat pays next time.  Everybody say it.” 

Seven voices mumbled, “Splat pays next time.” 

Dear God, Fay thought, what a bunch of idiots.  I wonder how they manage to ride without killing themselves.  Their orders were run of the mill for men their age without wives to disapprove--fried eggs, sausage, bacon, AND ham, white toast with real butter. 

“Hey, isn’t this the place that is supposed to have delicious biscuits?” asked the one called Mom’s Revenge. 

Eight pairs of eyes looked at Fay with varying degrees of hope and desire.  “Our cook makes pretty good biscuits, yes.” 

“But did she just start making them here in, oh, say the last month?” asked Mud Face. 

“That is about right,” Fay agreed. 

They all decided to forego toast in favor of a couple of Naomi’s biscuits each.  When they were finally finished debating how crisp they wanted their hash browns, Fay went to the pass through and clipped the crossed out and scribbled over order to the carousel. 

“Naomi, your biscuits are getting famous.”  She turned to find Brady at the other end of the diner schmoozing a couple of middle-aged women.  She yelled, “Order up.” 

Today's toss was fishing poles, a bunch of them.  I didn't put them into the car yet, I'll do that when I'm ready to donate them so I don't poke myself with them when I drive around.  Not that I drive around much these days.

--Barbara