Thereís a little noodle joint not to far away from where I live. Itís the kinda place Iíll pop in every once in awhile just to grad a quick bite when I donít feel like cooking (read: often).
So this place, there is nothing special about this place and when I go in I stand in line with the regular folk to order ďPad Tai, pleaseĒÖ
I order it just about every time.
And then, before I can stop I hear myself say to the girl behind the counter, ďCan you throw some chopsticks in the bag, too, please.Ē
Just about every time.
People, I donít even know how to use chopsticks. I donít.
Itís not that Iíve never tried. I have. But having been born with little patience enough for say, holding a steady job Ė I am sure as hell not gonna sit there for an extended amount of time, my jaws snapping at the food while it slips, slides and falls away from my mouth over and over again.
Iím just not. I get all irked and bothered and finally just pick up a fork like the unsophisticated, beer swilling, red meat eating American I am.
But, you know, if you really think about it - the not being able to use the chopsticks is not even the really bizarre part of the story.
The most bizarre part is that I am the one who initiates this whole throw some chopsticks in the bag fiasco.
Itís not like the aforementioned girl behind the counter asked ďwould you like chopsticks, or a fork?Ē
Oh, no, no, no. I go out of my way to specifically ask.
And now I have a drawer full of those little red and yellow paper packaged chopsticks. A drawer full.
But, I use them.
On occasion Ö
Ö. to scratch my back.
I know. It just gets worse and worse doesnít it?
Itís only a matter of time before Iím collected Sweet ní Low packets and Oyster crackers in my old-lady-cardigan sweaters.
throw some chopsticks in the bag, indeed.
psst! ann-frank's decoder ring says: be a lamb and sign up for my notification list, won't you? You know what a dreadfully lazy mofo I can be when it comes to updating ...