[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hen we first got married, Fridays represented our date night, the highlight of our week. One evening, after work, Jamie asked me,“Honey britches, where do you want to eat tonight?”
I answered, “I don’t know peach blossom.”
“I want steak,” Jamie said, adjusting the strap on her shoes.
When we arrived at the steakhouse, Jamie had changed her mind. So, we tried Chinese. But she’d changed her mind again. “I’m not in the mood for Asian tonight, sugar binky.” By the sixth restaurant, Jamie’s blood sugar had already sunk to a dangerous low. She assumed a pissy, matter-of-fact voice. “I want seafood, that’s what I want.”
We loaded into the car and headed for seafood. While waiting for a table at the crab shack, the flower of my existence said, “I don’t want to eat here. Their fish smells fishy.” I kindly pointed out that fish, by it’s very nature, is fishy – as opposed to say, chickeny. Jamie popped me in the mouth like a toddler who’d just sassed his mother.
We tried the pizza joint. But Jamie decided she hated, olive oil, bread, cheese, and the state of Florida. We tried the Mediterranean restaurant. Jamie wasn’t about to eat a shish-ka-nothing. We tried Mexican, Thai, sushi, Hungarian, and even infallible Barbecue. Nothing suited her. By two in the morning, I had a black eye, my new nickname was Greasy Prick, and we still hadn’t settled on a place.
“You know,” Jamie finally said. “Just go wherever you want, $#*!-for-brains. I’m not even hungry.”
So, I did what I felt right.
I bought a gallon of ice cream and a six-pack.