The morning started out so nicely – we went to Cracker Barrel for breakfast. They serve grits and finding grits in Ohio is difficult. But I didn’t want grits – no, I wanted something that took me back to my childhood. Back to having breakfast with my friend whose mom was Italian and would always take sourdough or french bread, cut out the middle, and fry eggs in the opening. It was so wonderful and exotic to me and I couldn’t get that meal at my house. All my family wanted to make was Kellogg’s Corn Flakes (oh gag forever). And you wonder why I turned out this way…
So there we were, Devoted Spouse and I, and I saw it on the menu – “Eggs in a Basket” – What a wonderfully descriptive name, even though it’s not a basket, it’s a piece of bread, but I’ll cut them a little slack – it was what I had to have. I was happy. I closed the menu. The nice waitress walked over to take my order and I looked at her blankly – I couldn’t remember what it was called. I had just shut the menu but I couldn’t remember the name of the stupid dish. So I looked up at her and said, I don’t remember, it’s the eggs and bread thing. She gave me a stare I’ll never forget — it’s the stare that tells you someone feels sorry for you but doesn’t want you to know just how flippin’ stupid you truly are. I opened the menu and pointed and said – See? eggs and bread — “Eggs in a Basket”. She shook her head as she left and I wanted to walk behind her and rip off her apron and beat her with it.
This is a new record of forgetting something – it only took me about 20 seconds to completely go blank. What’s funny here is we were surrounded by old people; really, really old people. None of them seemed to have trouble remembering what they wanted to order; just me. I’m a pasty-faced, middle-aged, chemically helped-along redhead who burns in the sun and can’t remember anything anymore. I was surrounded by old women who all had white hair and were about my size but they had dark tanned leathery faces and wore golf shirts and shorts. So I’m thinking maybe the secret to remembering things is I have to get old and take up golf and let my skin turn to leather and go to Cracker Barrel every Friday morning with all my old leathery faced girlfriends. That or carry more sticky notes. Maybe we should stick to Bob Evans for breakfast.
There is a distinct possibility this song was written just for me.