Tonight’s been one of those, “well, it seemed like a good idea at the time” kind of nights. I was scheduled to travel back to Thailand on November 29, but have since been grounded in Stillwater due to political unrest in Bangkok. The People’s Alliance for Democracy blockaded both the international and domestic airports, preventing all flights from leaving or entering Thailand. After several phone calls with Northwest Airlines, I’ve finally rebooked my flight for December 29. I’m planning on a road trip next week, but in the meantime, I’ve been catching up on my readings, and taking care of little odds and ends career-wise.
So after walking the dogs, and spending yet another day reading my daily blogs on all things foreign policy, I decided to take myself out to Chili’s, for a nice night to myself. Dad had plans to go out with his friends, so I thought, heck, I’d treat myself. After throwing on my best sweater and jeans (not really), I drove the five minutes to Chili’s where I was greeted by three semi-teenage they-only-let-me-work-the-doors types. The encounter was a little more awkward than I let on. Though I was ‘greeted’ by no less than three people, it was only after I opened the door myself that they said hello. They remained near the door as I walked into the restaurant. Puzzled as to whether I also needed to seat myself, I turned around to the doorway and asked if they could seat me. Once the restaurant folk realized I was rolling solo, I was taken to the kitchen area. Aw, how cliché. I don’t have cholera, I assure you. But at least I know this tradition is universal throughout the globe. I’m always stuck near the kitchen in Thailand. I remember one time in particular when the wait staff wanted me to eat out in the parking lot, using a potted plant as my table. Classic. Craig cracked up when I relayed the details. At least when he visited, I could exploit the fact that people thought we were ‘together’ for better seating. I know he’d laugh at this occasion as well. He’d get a kick at how a) I do this often; b) it rarely phases me; and c) sitting women near the kitchen still continues (right ladies?).
After a quiet night watching BIG XII football at Chili’s, I decided to buy a bottle of Malbec wine, something I haven’t done in a while. Once I arrived home, I crammed the bottle opener into the cork and twisted.... twisted…and twisted. Who on earth invented that stupid corkscrew thing that uses merely leverage to uncork the cork? Not only is it prone to pinching the old thumb, it rarely works. So after ripping half the cork from the bottle, I realized that I had but one choice: ram the rest of it into the wine. Yes. Perfect. Solo kitchen dining followed by tree-bark wine. Pouring one teaspoon of the stuff into a cup revealed that along with the wine, I’d be drinking a whole chunk of tree along, unless, of course, I used a sifter. Yes. Saturday night. Sifting cork from a bottle of wine. Perfect. So I grabbed my best Nalgene bottle, and poured the entire bottle of 2005 Malbec into a fluorescent pink Nalgene, complete with BPA and whatever other chemicals left over from the hardened plastic. And nothing says I’m trying to hide something than pouring wine into a Nalgene bottle. Though there’s still quite a bit of cork left in the wine, it’ll do; I’m too lazy and too proud to whip out the paper towel. Aw the glories of living in Stillwater for the holidays. God bless the Bangkok protests.
Oh, and as I typed this blog, I somehow ripped off the { button (opposite of this button, since I can no longer use it). I don’t know how the hell I did it, but par for the course. Yeah.
On nights like tonight, I miss Craig the most. He would have laughed at my effort to shed cork from wine. He would have lamented the continued discrimination of hard-earning, dollar-paying women whose only flaw is that they frequent restaurant enterprises alone. Most of all, he would have enjoyed rubbing it my face. Miss you, Craigy. -- J
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