Eggs, Breakers Café: Déja Vu

Yesterday, hubby and self once again partook of breakfast at Breakers Café. This was shortly after self had been forced to leave trusty Mercutio (Ah yes, self’s Altima does in fact have a name) at King’s 76 on Woodside Road. Restaurant was full, but we were able to snag seats at a table right by the kitchen. (And, for the first time, self noticed that there was a portrait of the café owners at the bottom right corner of the wall mural).

Once again, hubby and self requested coffee. Once again, self asked for “the two egg breakfast.” And once again, self did want to say “coddled” eggs, has been wanting to say this ever since getting back from Virginia, but has only managed to insert the term into one of her post-VCCA conversations, which happened to be at this same restaurant, several weeks ago.

Since self already tried asking for “coddled eggs” here, she knows that all she will get in answer from the waitress will be a blank stare. So she tries to come up with another way of describing her order, and the waitress is waiting, waiting, with pencil and pad poised, and self tells herself to think, think, think. The presence of the waitress must be putting undue stress on her for her memory bank is coming up empty, completely empty.

Finally, self decides to try asking for “soft-boiled eggs.”

Again, there is the blank stare. In fact, self thinks this was the exact same waitress who stared so inimitably when self requested “coddled eggs” several weeks ago. What are the odds, dear blog reader?

And again, waitress has to ask: “You mean poached eggs?”

And once again, self nods miserably.

And hubby and self then proceed to eat humongous plates of hash browns, eggs, and linguica (even though self has already had a pre-breakfast breakfast of banana nut muffin and Aged Sumatran coffee).

Upon departing the premises, self and hubby pass the bird cage. The bird inside is whistling. Sometimes it says things like, “Hello beautiful!” But now it is merely whistling.

Herewith, a lame rendition of the whistling: la la la la la la la la

Self turns to hubby, indicates the bird and says, “That bird can talk.”

Oh? hubby says (without speaking — this response self inferred from the raised right eyebrow)

And why is that parrot choosing to be so mum this morning, self wonders? Or perhaps it’s just being mellow — mellow as in, don’t expect me to perform for you every day, you idiot. Which, come to think of it, is probably what Dearest Mum felt when Dearest Lola would trot her out to all her friends in Iloilo and request that Dearest Mum play a Mozart concerto.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

With Thanks for All Good Things, Part Deux

Self would like to begin this post by listing all the things for which she should be grateful. Such as:

    the fact that she has a roof over her head. Admittedly, this is a rather strange thing to be grateful for, for who in self’s acquaintance does not have a roof over his/ her head? Nobody.
    the fact that she is not George Clooney — which means all her ribs are still intact
    the fact that she is not Britney Spears — who is accident-prone these days, and also, even though self is a few pounds over her desired weight, she does not have to worry about exposing her jiggly belly to the entire world, as Britney had to do for MTV Video Awards
    the fact that she is not O. J. Simpson. Or, for that matter, Floyd Landis
    the fact that hubby is a hypochondriac, which means that he pays close attention to his own health, and if he feels the slightest bit ill, self can trust him to take himself off to the nearest emergency room without self having to lift a finger, and so self is spared the guilt of having failed to notice this or that symptom of, let’s say, pneumonia, and she doesn’t have to behave like those characters on All My Children or General Hospital who are always saying, “Oh my God, I didn’t know he/ she was dying of cancer–!!” This is indeed a matter deserving of no small thanks.

So, today, after Call # 1 from Tita E, self decided that she would drive to Hillsborough and pick up packet sent by Dearest Mum, at the first opportunity. That way, self would still have most of the weekend in which to relax and prepare for Monday class(es).

But first there was the matter of the strange noise that had started coming from her engine yesterday. Self did not quite trust that her car could safely be hauled off to Hillsborough. Perhaps she’d better have it looked at before making the trip. So, self decided to call her trusty neighborhood service station.

Hubby, overhearing self’s conversation with mechanic, said helpfully: “It’s probably just a branch caught in the undercarriage.” (Which has happened to self before, dear blog reader. Last week, in fact, while self was on Stanford campus meeting a friend, a passer-by began yelling at self. And self stared at her with mouth open like a complete idiot and did nothing. So woman walked right up to self’s car, reached underneath and pulled out — oh my God, the most humongous tree branch self had ever seen. To think self had been dragging this thing around for who knows how long–!!)

Anyhoo, self’s response to hubby was to go ha ha ha, and to say yes, it probably was just a tree branch or something of that sort, and with that self took herself off to service station. Amazingly, on the way to service station, noise seemed to have disappeared. So self started feeling most silly. And when she arrived at service station and started describing weird noise to an attendant who looked about the age of her son, she felt even sillier. Then self handed over keys to attendant, who went to her car and started it, and suddenly the whole car started to shimmy and vibrate in the most weird way, as if it was getting revved up for an explosion, and self thought to herself: This is not good. Which turned out to be the very same thought voiced by attendant.

Next thing you know, a group of mechanics was clustered around self’s car. They peered into the bowels of the engine, and self saw one of them checking the oil (which self had forgotten to do for something like, oh, the past year). Then, head mechanic approached self and told her she must not drive the car under any circumstances, she might be putting herself in extreme danger.

“So you heard the noise?” self asked. “It might just be something loose –“

“We think it’s the engine block,” mechanic said.

And self is smart enough to know that, oh oh, this is really not good.

Anyhoo, there now rose in self’s mind, unbidden, the memories of all the misfortunes that had befallen self over the past week, to wit:

    forgetting her electric toothbrush in Marriott in Sherman Oaks (She called the hotel as soon as she discovered her toothbrush was missing, but of course they claimed to have no knowledge of it)
    having to make appointments with dentist and periodontist who cluck their tongues over sad state of self’s dentition, then turn around and charge her thousands of dollars (insurance only pays 50% for crowns, and you can forget implants, even though self thinks she would look really good with a couple of those)

Read the rest of this entry »

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 649 other followers