A question of etiquette
The Waiter Rule is widely known. We're told it's a measure of character, and it's an easy sign to look for on a date.
What if your date calls the waitress "baby"?
When I worked at the state legislature, few of the representatives could remember my name, and so I answered almost exclusively to "honey," "sweetheart," and "darlin'." This has never bothered me, particularly not coming from older gents with accents out of the rural parishes.
But from a twenty-one year old? On a date?
*
In other news, I went for another motorcycle ride.
Pat and I crossed the narrow Huey P, and I watched the concrete barrier blur by two feet from my knee, saw a ribbon of sparkling gray river through the gap. The wind rushed by hard and fast, battering at my helmet and biting my bare knuckles. I could feel it through my whole body when the engine revved.
"You're not holding on very tight," Pat said at a red light in Elmwood.
"Go fast, and I'll hold on."
"All right."
We got on the Earhart Expressway, Pat looked over both shoulders for cops, and then vrooooom.
A HUNDRED AND TWELVE MILES AN HOUR.
Holy god yes please.
Coming up the driveway at home, Pat stopped, slid off the bike, and told me to slide forward. "Now put your hands on the - oh," he said, glancing down. "Your feet don't touch the ground."
I toed the concrete, one side at a time.
"I was going to let you drive up to the garage," he said, starting to smirk, "but your feet don't touch the ground."
Sigh.
A HUNDRED AND TWELVE MILES AN HOUR.
Poll Further questions
What if your date calls the waitress "baby"?
When I worked at the state legislature, few of the representatives could remember my name, and so I answered almost exclusively to "honey," "sweetheart," and "darlin'." This has never bothered me, particularly not coming from older gents with accents out of the rural parishes.
But from a twenty-one year old? On a date?
*
In other news, I went for another motorcycle ride.
Pat and I crossed the narrow Huey P, and I watched the concrete barrier blur by two feet from my knee, saw a ribbon of sparkling gray river through the gap. The wind rushed by hard and fast, battering at my helmet and biting my bare knuckles. I could feel it through my whole body when the engine revved.
"You're not holding on very tight," Pat said at a red light in Elmwood.
"Go fast, and I'll hold on."
"All right."
We got on the Earhart Expressway, Pat looked over both shoulders for cops, and then vrooooom.
A HUNDRED AND TWELVE MILES AN HOUR.
Holy god yes please.
Coming up the driveway at home, Pat stopped, slid off the bike, and told me to slide forward. "Now put your hands on the - oh," he said, glancing down. "Your feet don't touch the ground."
I toed the concrete, one side at a time.
"I was going to let you drive up to the garage," he said, starting to smirk, "but your feet don't touch the ground."
Sigh.
A HUNDRED AND TWELVE MILES AN HOUR.
Poll Further questions