Diary of a Network Geek

Surprise!
I’m sure many of you are fully expecting me to say that my alleged date on Saturday was, in fact, a very elaborate April Fool’s Day joke. It was not. It was, in fact, not only quite real, but quite good.
Saturday afternoon, I got a haircut and the $100 detailing done on the car, which took longer than I’d thought it would, so I just barely had time to scoot home, wash up and change before going to church. I opted for a high level of casual in relaxed-fit Gap khakis with a white DKNY, long-sleeved shirt, lightly starched. After some debate and a check with Matt for spiritual guidance on my choice of shoes, I opted for black cowboy boots instead of the Cole Haans. My date is an inch, or so, taller than I am, so I figured the extra height couldn’t hurt. I cleansed my car of all heavy metal and replaced it with Sting, Bonnie Rait and some other mellow favorites. No Sade or Nina Simone, though, per the helpful suggestions or my gentle readers.
So, at church everyone was asking about my plans. In fact, I had a veritable legion of folks who seemed to know what I was up to that night. Matt checked me over to make sure I’d done okay, as did J.’s new girl L. The general consensus of opinion was a thumbs-up. I have no idea what went on during the service because, honestly, I was beside myself with nerves. First date in over ten years makes a guy a little nervous, you know?
So, with Sting’s Brand New Day in the CD player, I raced over to her place as soon as church was over. She lives over by Minute Maid Park, so there was a bit of traffic, due to the Astro’s exhibition game, but it wasn’t too bad. What was bad, however, were the directions that I got via Yahoo!Maps. They were fine right up to that one, illegal, left-turn onto Franklin. Thankfully, I’ve driven all over Chicago during construction season, so circling wide and around to get where I actually wanted to be was not a big stretch for me. Also, I called her to get pointed back in the right direction. I parked in a loading dock at her building, per her instructions, and met her out front as she was walking her dogs. The first thing that caught my attention was how blonde she was. I spotted that two blocks away. The other thing was how tall five-foot eleven was when you got up close. Yeah, she’s an inch taller than I am,when I stand up straight. Still, she was at least as good looking in person as she was in her pictures, so, all was well. (She said more or less the same about me, later, so, don’t think I was the only one worried about that!)
We took her dogs up to her apartment and I got the nickel tour. She runs her business out of her home, so she had an industrial oven, a bunch of baking racks, and assorted high-end cooking gear all over. Naturally, she had an enormous kitchen. She actually lives in a loft in a building that, except for the nice, wide halls, reminded me of places I’d been in Chicago. In fact, that was one of the reasons she like this building, because she used to live in Chicago and it sort of reminded her of there. So, yes, she lived in Chicago for nine years, working in catering, mainly, and she knew the edges of my old stomping grounds. In fact, she said that would be the only part of the country that she’d consider moving to again. Oh, did I mention that she took me by surprise with a kiss when I met her?
Anyway, after that it was off to La Vista, a little Italian place that she knew. It’s quaint and used to have a strictly BYOB policy, and they maintain that even though you can get wine there now. Apparently, it was run by a friend of hers from high school and was more wildly successful than he’d ever imagined it being. Who knew? But, here is where it got interesting. At this restaurant I noticed the difference between this one and everyone I’ve ever gone out with before. We ordered our dinners and I ordered a glass of iced tea. Well, our salads came, but my tea didn’t. I was willing to quietly ignore that, as long as it didn’t end up on the bill, but she caught our waiter and told him to get it for me. Honest to God, no one has ever been that attentive to me before, ever, much less on a first date. I thanked her, of course, then told her that I’d been willing to let it slide. And how thoughtful it was of her to catch that for me. Dinner was, of course, wonderful. Sadly, if we’d had dessert we’d be too late to catch a movie, so we skipped that and were off to the giant Edwards MarqE to catch a late show.
We got tickets to the 10:30PM showing of Ice Age: Meltdown, but we were cutting it close. The lines were too long at the candy stand, so, while she ran into the ladies room, I hit the quarter vending machines to feed her self-confessed sweet tooth. Generic Sweet Tarts and plain M&Ms for a buck’s not a bad deal at the theater, so I carefully filled my hand and waited for her by the door to the ladies room, feeling rather like a pervert. She came out and saw what I had in my hand and started giggling like a little girl. She grabbed my free hand and gobbled a couple of the candies while dragging me into the theater. She hesitantly lets me choose where to sit in the darkened movie house and I quickly point to two seats in the middle of the row in front of the main aisle. When she sighed with relief and called me a man after her own heart, I knew I’d done good. She hates climbing up to the higher reaches of seats as much as I do. Cool. I automatically lifted the middle arm between the two seats, because, well, just because. That, too, met with her instant approval. We dropped into our seats just as the last preview was ending and the main feature was starting. Perfect timing!
I won’t review the movie, but Ice Age Meltdown was hilarious. We laughed the whole way through. Great first date movie.
After that, it was back to her place for some mellow music, more talking and, well, stuff. It was at this point in the evening that I found out she was a published poet and a very accomplished photographer. Her black and white photos of Paris looked like they could have been hung in a gallery. I also got to know her geriatric basset hound and her two miniature Dachshunds. When I finally left, she sent me out into the world laden with her gourmet dog biscuits as a peace offering to my own dog. Also, she figured a bribe might get me back into the house.

She’s braving my house for pizza and a movie Tuesday night before heading out of town for a trade show. Next week, the Saturday before Easter, she’s going to come to Mercy Street with me. Apparently, she wants to meet the man who gave me spiritual advice about my shoes.
In short, I think I’ve got a winner. Now, if I can just get used to being fawned over for a change, and learn to take her compliments without a skeptical side-long glance, everything will work out just fine.

Whoops!
Okay folks, the little problem has been corrected. It seems that someone or something managed to inject a little extra PHP code into my WordPress plugins. I think they were trying to add links to websites to improve their Googlerank, but it just caused an error on the blog. Anyway, I think I got all the offending code.

My iPod arrived tonight. I’ll be loading it with music over the next several days.

As a total red herring, though, I have a date Saturday night with an actual woman. Not a girl, but a real, full-grown, self-supporting woman. She has her own business and her own very busy life. She used to live in Chicago, but she’s from here and moved back just two years ago. The pictures I’ve seen of her are, well, let’s just say she took my breath away. I’d imagine that she could pretty well have her pick of guys. In fact, she doesn’t need me at all.
But, tonight on the phone, she wouldn’t hang up until I promised to call her in the morning.

Oh, there’ll be time enough to sleep when I’m dead.
Up until 2:30AM on the phone with the fascinating woman from Match.com. She knows my part of Chicago. She loves dogs and what she does for a living. She has no time for bullshit. She’s in therapy, too. She spent seven unhappy years with an Australian she met in a bar in Chicago before she moved back to Houston a little over two years ago. Oh, and there’s more and more and more and more…
And, yes, I told her too much. She asked about the ex-wife, so I answered her truthfully and honestly. And spent half the night explaining and justifying my poor choices and why it’s okay now. The rest of the time, of course, I spent asking her the same thing. I mean, an Australian in a bar? What was she thinking?
It ended with her telling me, “It’s okay to call me again.”
“Is it? Is it okay if I call you?” I’m sure she could hear me laughing at her subtlety.
“Like tomorrow. Yeah, that would be good.”
“Would it?”
“Yeah, it would.”
“Well, I guess I’ll call tomorrow night then.”

I am not a patient man.
Well, at least I don’t think I am. I have friends who tell me differently, but I think they underestimate how cool I can keep my outer facade. I’m the kind of guy who stands in front of the microwave saying, “c’mon, c’mon, I don’t have all day!”
I think part of that issue is a result of what I do for a living. I’m always working on three things at once, if not more. I always have a line of people waiting to ask me a question or to ask me to do something for them. Even when I get home, I’m always providing computer support for someone, often my mother via phone to Chicago. Usually, I’m walking her through something while I eat dinner, or make it. And, of course, there’s the endless list of things to do, of things I’m responsible for and people I’m responsible to. Now, imagine when things aren’t going well…
But, none of that is a problem, really. I mean, I’m kind of used to it. That sort of pressure-cooker is where I live. In fact, I feel better since things have gotten busier for me at work. Except for one thing… I was talking to one of the bosses a couple of days ago about a problem with a laptop. He was telling me what he wanted, or how I should proceed, and I interrupted him at least twice to try and tell him I got it and get out to get it done.
First, that’s just plain rude of me, and I hate that. I hate being rude, especially unintentionally. It’s one thing to snub someone on purpose to send them a message, but, there’s nothing I hate worse about myself than being accidentally, carelessly rude.
Second, not a bright idea to interrupt a guy who can fire me on a whim, you know?

Here’s the deal on this, though. I was told for years that I interrupted someone, but, once I timed it and I actually waited over a minute for a response to a question I asked in the middle of a conversation. That’s a full sixty seconds, folks. Now, I’ll grant that maybe I was expecting too much, but, well, I think fast. It’s something that both comes naturally to me and that I’m required to do by my work. Fast thinking and fast decisions. So, I do try to wait and not steamroller over people, but… But, I’m impatient. I’ve got stuff to do! I only have so many hours of life on this planet and I have a lot to get done, so, I at least need to know that someone has heard me and needs more time to think. Heck, we can even come back to it later, days later. But, rest assured, I will bring it up again. Delay as an avoidance tactic doesn’t work well with me. I am tenacious.
But, I hate being percieved as rude, or short tempered, or, even, impatient. So, I’m working on it. As I’ve told people before, I have to know about a problem before I can fix it. At least this time, I see it for myself. Hopefully, I’m seeing it in the correct perspective this time around and giving it the attention it needs. So, I hope you all will have patience with my impatience. I’m trying as slowly as I can.

Advice from your Uncle Jim:
"Contrary to popular belief, UNIX is user friendly. It just happens to be selective about who it makes friends with."
   --Dave Parnas

As a fourth-generation Chicagoan, I celebrate this day a little differently.
You see, not only is this a day that greeting card companies crafted into a reason to waste money on cards, flowers and candy for someone who should love you without all that junk, but it was also a very important day in Chicago history. Today is the day when, in 1929, Al “Scarface” Capone gathered together seven of his closest friends and gunned them down. Yep, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Old Al was clever, too. Not only did he get seven of his arch rival’s men together, but he dressed his hired guns up as police officers so that if they were spotted any witnesses would assume everything was under control because the police were already there! Yes, sir, that Al sure was an innovator.
So, as you shell out your hard-earned cash for disposable junk that will most likely go to waste, remember how they used to celebrate St. Valentine’s Day on the South Side. Feels about the same, doesn’t it?
Something else to keep in mind this year, the saint for whom this day is named was a martyr. What does that mean to you and me? That means that Saint Valentine was beaten almost to death and then beheaded on this day. Later he went on to perform miracles and all that to become a saint, but, today is the day we celebrate the fact that a hired mob worked him over pretty well with clubs and then chopped his head right off. Sort of sounds like how love feels for some of us about this time of year, doesn’t it?

Hey, all joking and dark humor aside, I hope everyone has a nice day today, whether they have someone to share it with or not.

This is not what I intended to write.
Really, it’s not, though I’d imagine my ex-wife will think I planned it just for her. I didn’t, but, then, she always was a paranoid narcissist. And, I know I’ve been writing about her a lot lately, all I can say is that I hope it’s because I feel detached enough from her that I can let that part of my past go and out. Anyway, a recent post on another blog sort of hit me where I live, though not for the reasons one might think. You see, my ex-wife left me twice. The last time, thankfully, for good, but the first time was years ago, before she was my wife.
I was living in Chicago at the time, in a suburb named Mount Prospect. She and I had been involved, in the Bibilcal sense, for a little over a year. She’d left her second husband, though not divorced him, and was lonely. I had obligations to my Masonic Lodge that predated her by several years. In fact, I was in position for a fairly rare opportunity to lead the Lodge, as Master, for a year at a very young age. She, however, wanted me to drop everything and move down to Texas for her. Obviously, being who I am, I told her I couldn’t do that and, if what we had meant anything, she could wait another year. After all, I figured it would be for a lifetime once I got there. What happened next should have been a red flag to me.
She started getting extra friendly with a guy from work. She and her daughter went to the beach with him and his daughter. They ate lunch together and more. It didn’t take long for the bells and whistles to go off for me. I asked her to stop seeing him and she gave me the old line about needing to get out and have friends. Friends, sure, but this guy was after a whole lot more than that and I told her so. She told me that I was just being controlling and jealous. That escalated until, finally, I was given the boot because I just was holding on “too tightly” and being “too controlling and jealous”. Before we were done, I told her exactly what he was after and how he’d get it. I knew because, in college, I’d seen or tried to do the same thing.
Fast forward about six weeks. I’ve become the Master of my Lodge and I’m already swamped with work. Pile on all the changes that were going on at my job, which made me the head network and support “go to” guy and I hardly had time to eat, much less check phone messages or e-mail. One Saturday night, I go over to my parents to eat and do laundry, as I often did. Since I was single and had nothing better to do, I stayed later than I intended and was too tired to check e-mail when I got home. So, I let it go until the morning. I don’t know how many e-mails I had from my ex-wife, but, let’s just say, more than one. And, since this was back in the days when everyone still used modems, when I got done checking e-mail, I had phone messages waiting for me. Again, more than one. More than one tear-soaked, blubbering, snot-bubble-blowing, barely coherent phone message, begging me to take her back. Oh, the litany of how I’d been right and how she’d been wrong was long and flowery and moving. And, like the fool I was, I took her back.
Later, I found out she’d left this “prize” because he’d been with prostitutes, was a self-confessed pedophile and had allegedly forced himself on her sexually. I often wonder if she’d have come back to me if he’d been less messed up. Would it have been such a mistake on her part? Or, would I have been, as I am to her now, Satan incarnate. See, the irony is, not long after she was promising to love me forever and do anything to make the relationship work, she was also telling me that she wasn’t comfortable with seeing me right away, either. She was wrong, she claimed, but she had to put limits and restrictions on our relationship so that it was “safe” for her. Yeah, that was red flag number two.
But, no, I still turned a blind eye to that and we met in San Francisco during the Folsom Street Fair to “make up”. And, so we did. Now, flash forward to this time last year, when that all played out again, the only way it could have. Only this time, if she comes back, I’m calling the police to have her removed from my property.

I try not to think too much about what my life would be like if I’d only held firm back in the Summer of ’97 . But, I do still wonder sometimes. Would I be happier than I am? Would I be better off? Well, maybe I would and maybe not. I’d like to say that I’m older and wiser now, but, mainly, I’m just older and not wise at all. I get like that at this time of year. The new year is approaching and so is my birthday. I find myself looking at where I am and how I got here. It’s never where I thought I’d be and the path is never the one I would have chosen, but I keep plodding on.
What else is there to do?

There’s something missing from my blog.
I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately, which has led me to think a whole lot. Combine that with a little therapy and the time of year and, well, you end up with a very, very introspective Network Geek. So, while I’ve been introspecting and the other day, two things came to me about my blog and my life. There are two significant forces in my life that are missing here: the sound of my voice and cheerleaders. No, it’s not what you think. My interaction with cheerleaders has led to some of the most important realizations of my life. It’s still not what you think, but, that’s for another time.
Writers talk about finding their “voice” in their writing. Eventually, the writing books and pundits tell me, if you write enough, you will find your “voice”. But, that’s just not true. I’ve always had my voice, though it has changed over the years. It’s a voice I share with my older brother and my father. My mother used to say that when we were all in the same room talking she had a hard time telling us apart. In the end, she could only tell who was who based on how we used language. Over the years, that little family quirk led to some interesting conversations. Often times, I would answer the phone only to have someone address me by my father’s name and launch into conversation. “Oh, Bill, glad I caught you! Look, I have this problem and…” I learned some really interesting things about my father and the people he knew that way.
It wasn’t until I was in college that I really learned how to use that man’s voice. I was such child and, really, in so many ways I still am a little boy, but, somehow, I had the voice of a man fourty years my senior. In a lot of ways, it’s a good voice. Soothing, relaxing. Like the deep roar of the ocean heard from miles away, lulling the listener to a state of calm trust. It was in college that I learned to use that voice to relax people. Laying in a small, dorm bed, pressed up against someone so that she could feel the subsonic rumble in my chest like the purr of a big cat. Eventually, in the cold, dark hours, hypnotized by that soft, slow, reassuring voice the secrets would start to spill out. That voice was trustworthy, like the NSA. Information went in, but never came out. Safe, secure.
People seem to want to tell me everything when they hear me reassure them that it’s okay. That I want to listen, to hear. Even when I don’t say it, somehow, people hear that in my voice and volunteer so much of their lives. At my first real job after college, I remember sitting in an office on the night shift hearing all about the affair one of the Food and Beverage managers was having the the married man from another restaurant in the hotel. One or two simple, direct questions and the story just came flooding out, like I was a priest in a confessional.
Later, when I had to travel so much for my next job, I learned to bark like a drill sergeant. “Make a hole!” I’d bellow at the tourists who stopped at the end of the gangway, and they’d scatter, looking for the uniform. “Coming through! On your left!” And it was off in a hurry, always in a hurry those days, to get my luggage and meet up with the other consultant to scramble to the job site and get started. Or, it was a rush to get my luggage and get home, to laundry and my own comfortable bed. I’d learned to give orders to strangers and expect that they’d be obeyed without question, my voice deep and booming and endlessly confident. Then, I changed jobs again and I stopped shouting confidently at strangers.
But, I was an officer in my Masonic Lodge, so, now, the orders were to friends and Brothers. Tact was the thing, but the confidence had been weakened. Me? Give orders to men older than my father? Or, worse yet, give orders to my own father in Lodge? I was surprised that I was up to the task, but, my voice was there to support me. Even when I didn’t feel confident, my voice never wavered. I didn’t let any hint of the questions I felt creep into my voice. Strong and reserved and confident. My orders were carried out, for that year, and then I could step down.

Two women have fallen in love with my voice. At least, two that admitted it to me.
One night, my now ex-wife called me in my suburban Chicago apartment. But, she hung up when I answered. I called her back.
“Did you just call me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then why’d you hang up?”
“You didn’t sound like you.”
“Well, who did I sound like?”
Silence.
“Honey? Who did I sound like?”
“You’ll laugh.”
So, I laughed and said,”Probably. But, tell me anyway. Who did I sound like?”
“A…” She paused. “A large, black man.”
Of course, I laughed. A little, white guy like me, and she thought I sounded like Barry White on the phone. I couldn’t wait to tell my father who his future daughter-in-law thought we sounded like.
The other woman, well, she’s a different story all together. She’s never even met me, but she said she fell in love with that voice, that laugh. Even before she’d seen a picture of me. Then, it was those eyes. I have my father’s eyes, too. But, he and I both know that the eyes are nothing without the voice. It’s too bad I’ll never meet her.

I was almost a therapist once. I was accepted into the program, but bailed out. The reasons are many and complicated. The joke I’ve always told was that I got into computers instead, where I could fix the problems. Everyone always laughs, but, deep down, I know it’s true. I’d have had to fix my own problems before being any real use to anyone else. But, still, even today, when people hear my voice, it’s not long before they relax and tell me everything.
So, I listen to my father’s voice echo out of my mouth, reassuring them, and then, I just listen.

I love that movie.
I actually don’t care much for Rob Lowe or Demi Moore, but that movie, set in Chicago, always reminds me of what I’d hoped life would be like in my late twenties. Ah, well, maybe in my next life.

Anyway, dinner last night went well. My friend Steve’s timing was perfect and he got here just as I was sautéing the onions to go with my Chicken Masala. Here’s how the food preparation went, and notice that I don’t feel guilty at all for the cheating involved. First, I cut up the chicken and the onions and put them in separate bowls. Next, I set up the rice in the rice cooker, but didn’t start it. Per the instructions on the jar of India Chef brand biryani masala sauce, I sautéed the chicken in a little vegetable oil, then added the whole jar of sauce and put the lid on the pan. While that was cooking, I started the rice and chopped the cilantro. Then, I set the table with my every-day, white dishes and flatware, but the better, clear glasses. As a jokey flourish, I folded the white paper-towel “napkins” into squares and put them into the glasses. After a quick check on the chicken, which had already started to smell delicious, I made a pitcher of instant, peach-flavored ice tea and set up the music. (The music, incidentally, was, in play order, Level 42, Level Best, then a mix CD that Steve himself had made and given me the year before, followed by Roy Orbison, Super Hits, and finally ending with The Very Best of the Doors, because that’s about the best way to end anything, I think.) By this time, the chicken was done, so I put it into a casserole dish with the rice, again, per the instructions, and added some other spices and a few onions. That popped into the oven and I started the broccoli. After that, I started the onions with a little extra vegetable oil, some garam masala spices and a pat of butter. While that got going, I lit the candles on the mantle and the kitchen table, including all my Saint Jude santos candles, and started the music. Shortly into the second song on Level Best, Steve arrived with a blueberry pie. Yum!
I knew I’d done well when Steve’s first comment on entering the house was “Oh, what smells so good!?” After I’d reminded him I was doing Indian, and he made appropriate “yummy” sounds, he saw the table. Now, in all modesty, I didn’t really do much there, but when a gay guy tells you how nice your presentation at the table is, you know it’s been done just right. So, while I finished up the onions and took the chicken out of the oven, Steve checked some voice-mail he’d gotten on the way over. By the time he was done, I had all the food on the table and was ready to go. As I mentioned, perfect timing!

So, we had a lovely dinner, scintillating conversation, and a grand time spoiling Hilda. You see, Steve is not only a “dog-person”, but also a keeper in the bird section of the Houston Zoo. He’s eicked smart and knows more about animals than anyone I’ve ever known. Oh, the stories he tells about things that happen at the zoo! “When miniature ducks attack!” I made a pot of coffee to go with the pie, which was also breakfast this morning, and we talked all the way into the first CD of The Very Best of the Doors. It was a very good time.

Today, after cleaning up what was left from last night and starting laundry, I set up a chunk of catfish for tonight’s dinner and prepped the last of the uncooked chicken to do up at the same time. Then, I can microwave that later in the week for a quick dinner. The catfish was already spiced, but I added a slice of fresh orange to cut the “fishy” taste. The chicken got liberally dosed with nearly random spices and the rest of the orange. Actually, that’s often how I cook. No recipie at all, but simply spices that smell good together on meat, sometimes mixed with something fruity, like apple, or orange or other citrus. My ex-wife was always afraid that it wouldn’t turn out well, but I’ve never had anyone be dissapointed in what I made. So, that, with some of the left-over rice and veges will make a lovely dinner several times this week.
Hey, you know, I like this part of being single again! I love cooking like this. Sass, you’re right, I did win in the end!

That was what I woke up to this morning.
Apparently, the handle leaks on that toilet upstairs now. Yeah, everything else seems tight and non-leaky, but the water level rose to the point that it was streaming out the handle on the tank. Have I mentioned that I hate plumbing?
Oh, and the downstairs toilet has decided to act up, too. This time, though, it’s an easy to identify problem: the connection from the water to the tank. Normally, one would use a flexible hose, but not the guy who I got the house from, no sir! For him, it was ridgid pipe or nothing! So, all I have to do, in theory, is get the right size flex hose and replace that. In theory.
And, finally, I have a confession to make about why I get so much anxiety about this kind of thing when my Dad is coming to town. My family used to own a hardware store. Oh, Hoffman’s Hardware in Morgan Park (which is the South Side of Chicago, for those who are unaware) was nothing but a name on a building corner stone long before I was born, but I still feel like I should know how to do this stuff better than I do. Like somehow, magically, I should have been born with the knowlege and skills to do any home repair instantly, with no mistakes. Ignore the fact that my father almost never did these kinds of things in my presence. Usually, I was just in the way as a kid, so I made myself scarce. So, now I learn how to do it the hard way, just like everything else I’ve ever learned that was worthwhile knowing.
Eventually, I’ll post a picture of the pretty rust colored water stain on my ceiling. Damn hard Houston water.

I went to the Mucky Duck last night.
Seems like this place is one of the best kept, but well known, secrets of Houston. Now, I’ve never heard of ’em, but, then, I’m from Chicago and I was married to a reculse who never wanted to go out and do anything. Funny thing is, I mentioned that I was going to two very different people and they both knew the Mucky Duck quite well. In fact, the nice girl from church started telling me all about their Sunday Supper deal. I was quite surprised.
I was also pleasantly surprised by the performance. Last night, it was Radney Foster. He was already playing by the time we got there, since I was a bit late getting away from church. He was alone on stage with his amped acoustic guitar. Kind of a bluesy/country sound, that’s pretty well Americana folk these days. Sort of reminded me of Bonnie Raitt, actually. Same kind of sound. Every song was a story. We had a good table, just a two-seater near the bar, but it had a good angle on the stage and we weren’t jammed in on top of someone else’s table. But, there were plenty of folks around. Heck, I even got to give one pretty lady at the bar a smile and a wink on her way out, which got good eye contact and a grin in return. (Hey, it’s not digits, but it’s somethin’!)
Of course, since we were a few minutes late, it was hell getting the wait-staff to recognize us. I finally got a nice gal named Victoria, or Vicky, not sure now which it was. She was all apologies and said we weren’t in her section, so she didn’t know we weren’t being taken care of right. All I wanted was a slice of apple pie and a cappuccino. Alas, all I could get was black coffee, since the cappuccino machine was broken, but both the pie and coffee were good, so it was all right. Poor Vicky kept apologizing for neglecting us, but I told her I was used to women ignoring me after dinner, hell, I’ve been married! (And, I tipped her more than my little piece of pie and coffee cost for being a good sport about it. ‘Sides, she was cute!)
Anyway, this is definately a place I’ll be going back to, often, if I can manage it. Preferably, with a date. Maybe that nice girl from church is free…