My Mountain Man and I were having breakfast at our favorite little dive, Dove Creek Cafe in Roanoke, Sunday morning.
Well, uh, more like Sunday afternoon, but it was still breakfast. Or is that brunch? Lunch? Actually, more like “linner” or “lupper”, depending on what part of the country you’re from.
Anyhoo, we’re both gnawing away on our food as if we are ravenous hyenas and MM drops some eggs on himself and ultimately the floor. Nothing out of the ordinary. You see, for whatever reason, he has started putting his entire left forearm on the table in front of his plate as he eats with his right hand, elbow on the table, of course. If he moves his left forearm off the table, there is a gap a mile wide between the plate and his face. If he doesn’t move his left forearm, he is usually wiping food off of the appendage.
He ends up saying a few choice words.
I can’t keep my mouth shut.
On both counts.
Me: “If you will just put your arm down, sit up, and pull your plate closer to the edge of the table that won’t happen.”
MM: …*gives me “The Look” *…
Me: “I’m just trying to be helpful.”
MM: “There is a fine line between being helpful and being bossy.”
Me: “I don’t think so . . . ”
Helpful as Heloise,
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