A Real Gift

Lately, I've been opening the restaurant with a girl named Zipper. Zipper is an interesting bird. She openly professes (with pride) that she is a redneck, orders my co-workers around like she is our boss, screams at us if we don't wash our hands after sneaking a nibble of some pastry and generally scares the crap out of me. In an effort to lessen her wrath I have been trying to befriend her. The other day, while I was taking orders from her, I mentioned how I had planned a special weekend to celebrate my husband's birthday. She then informed me that the following week she would be celebrating her 5th year anniversary with her boyfriend and she TOO had planned a special night. Innocently, I asked, "Oh, will you two be going to dinner together?" And she replied, "No, I'm taking him to a strip joint."

There are few times in my life when I have found myself speechless...There was the time my finger became dislocated and all I could do was stare at it and mouth inaudible sounds. There was the time my teacher caught me cheating in 9th grade trigonometry, and in front of the whole class, asked why I had done it and all I could do was give my best Helen Keller impression. Then there was the time when a bald guy, wearing a woven belt and corduroy shorts asked me if I felt the chemistry between us and I just looked at him completely dumbfounded. And now, I can add this experience.

Finally, I was able to snap out of my coma state and a flood of questions came gushing out like, "What are YOU going to do there? Do you talk to the girls? Are you going to use your tip money to tip them? Can you request songs when you go there? Really a strip joint - were all the Popeye Restaurants full that night? Are you insane? Is this a tradition? Are you going to yell at me?" Unfortunately, she answered all my questions and now I'm plagued with all sorts of images.

A strip joint? Man, I'm a bad wife. All I got my husband was a pair of golf shoes, a dinner out and a massage (No Happy Ending).