My sister has been here, at the beach, with me. Three other family members were going to come with her, but for various reasons, they did not. While I miss each one who did not come, 2 people in a 2 bedroom, 2 bath condo is far more peaceful than five in that same space. People tell us we look and sound alike. Apparently, we have similar mannerisms as well. It must be true, for both of us have been randomly asked on more than one occasion if we were related to the other. As I have said before, it is a strong and shallow gene pool in our family with small variations in appearance.
While we may look and act alike, we are very different in many ways. She is a night owl. I am not. I mean, not by the broadest definition could I be considered a night owl. She likes to sleep late. I cannot sleep late even if I tried. She loves CSI, I am more a Hallmark girl. She enjoys murder mysteries. I love good Southern, slice-of-life lit. She loves college and pro football and knows who won the Heisman when and who is a "good guy" and who has a tendency to be a jerk. I know the officials' names and whether they are flag happy or not and if they give weak or strong signals. She speaks and loves on every dog she passes. I nod and say, "hey, Buddy." She's for Alabama tonight; I am for Georgia.
There is one thing, however, for which we are both known. I mean, we are legends in our own time for inappropriate and inopportune laughter. This sort of laughter does not happen in a vacuum, and about the first time we got out amongst the public, it struck. We were going to the Farmers' Market yesterday, but could not find a place to park. We found ourselves at a restaurant that my son really likes called Rosie's. I remembered that it is not Mr. L's favorite and when Doree inquired why, I remarked that I wasn't sure. It came back to me later.
As we walk into the restaurant there are three men to whom we speak and wish a nice day. Inside the door is a hostess stand but no hostess. On the floor is a small sign that instructs "wait to be seated." Eventually, our hostess walks up and grabs two menus as Doree and I greet her and ask how she is doing. "Wonderful," she snarls. I do mean snarls. She leads us to our table, slaps the menus down and walks off. As we sit, waiting for her to take our orders, a song comes on. That is one of the best things about the restaurants and shops on Sanibel; they cater to us older folk and play the best music. I comment when the song comes on that I love it. Doree asks who it is singing. I listen for a moment and say, "oh, you know...it's a family of them that sings...they're from Louisiana...he has that big blob thing on his forehead." She replies, "oh, yeah! It's Robbie something. His last name starts with a D." I look at her puzzled for that name does not sound right. I whip out my phone, Google "Louisiana singer with growth on head" while she is going, "Robbie, D...Dungsten...hmmmm Robbie D..." I smile at her and say, "Aaron Neville." We giggle, and about that time our frowning, ungracious, possibly troubled hostess/waitress comes to take our orders. I inquire as to what scones they have. She glances across the restaurant and gruffly barks, "he doesn't have any!" That little hysterical bubble of laughter bursts forth as I say, "okay, then, I will have bacon and a pancake." By this point Doree is explaining to her that we are not laughing at her, which is not entirely true on my part. Doree continues to explain and explain and explain as I am becoming concerned that I might have an aneurysm trying not to laugh.
When she walks away, there is wheezing and giggling and heads laid on the table. The other patrons, of which there are few, are understandably staring at us. Finally, our food arrives. Let me just say it is rather difficult to eat a pancake with no utensils, especially when it resembles shoe leather. We are both scared to ask for any, but Doree soldiers through. I then ask for some butter, all the while apologizing for bothering our waitress. The butter, apparently, has just come from the freezer so my cold pancake and Doree's cold toast will not melt it. I hold mine between my hands to soften it up, while Doree shreds her toast trying to spread it. We eat, wait another 20-25 minutes after finishing to get our bill. Doree, who tends to get things done, asks the other waitress on duty if we could get our ticket. Eventually, it makes its way to our table, we put the money in the little folder thing which includes a really large tip and we leave. No time to wait for change. Doree is leaving on Tuesday.
Now, I remember why this is not Mr. L's favorite. Same waitress. Same poor service. Maybe you had to be there, but if laughter is the best medicine, Dor' and I should be well for quite some time.
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