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Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Free-Range Sherpas - I Would Expect Nothing Less

*** continued from previous post ***


In the end - and this had nothing to do with the fact that your mom was chewing on her lower lip so hard that blood was squirting willy-nilly about the room - I choose the path that will, in most situations, deflect animosity. SDH. Self Deprecating Humor. It's the magic wand of social interaction. It's the salve of awkward situations. The 'special sauce' on the burger of cringe that smothers everything and makes you forget that what you're eating is 90% cardboard.

"Idiots on the motorcycle is more like it," I said, bobbing my head. I looked from one Canadastanie to the other giving each of them the grin of the dangerously stupid.

No response. Alpha Canuck narrowed his eyes. I could see the wheels turning. 'What is your game, stupid American? How dare you challenge my expectations?'

Martha, much to the consternation of the rest of the table, giggled. I immediately felt a twinge of fondness for this lady.

Leeza chose that moment, bless her free-spirited soul, to arrive with our coffee and tea. "Here you go folks. I hope you like the tea. It's one of our special blends."

"Thank you," Mom said for the both of us. I was afraid to break eye contact with the alpha male lest he take advantage of the situation and go for my throat with his foon. Or spork. Or runcible spoon. Whatever.

"Be right back with some wonderful oatmeal. And I do mean wonderful! It's handpicked pesticide-free organic oats lightly soaked in spring water gathered from the local mountain peaks above the 3 kilometer mark by imported Sherpas using thatch-baskets woven by First Nation people. It is grand cereal if I do say so." Leeza turned to walk away then stopped abruptly, turned to us with a narrowed brow and added, "Free-range Sherpas, of course."

Well of course they were. I would expect nothing less. I hadn't tasted it yet, but somehow I felt intimidated by a mound of steaming, gummy lumps. Oat anxiety. Although, if you were to look that up in the DSM, (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders - no, you don't need to know how I know that.), my apprehension may have more to do with white-haired men in buckle shoes, lace, and 17th century hats.

Gah! I just gave myself the creeps! Curse you Quaker Oats!

*** the journey continues ***

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