Something Close to Perfect
After the meeting, we picked up "Father" and drove to a place called The Farm. It's . . . well, it's a farm. The first thing you do when you get there is to buy a couple of bottles of whole milk to feed to the baby goats (kids, right?). We knew to get there early, because by 11 a.m. the goats are all lurching around, each with a distended belly stretched tight as a drum, while young visitors continue to poke them with rubber nipples. We also bought some corn to feed to the older animals. I know that the farm has a lot of baby animals on the premises and part of me wonders what happens to them when they become adults. I mean, there ARE adults on the farm but I imagine that they can't keep every animal that's born there. But, I probably don't want to know. It's one of those "don't ask, don't tell" sort of things.
We spent a couple of hours on the farm, feeding animals and wandering around on the nearby trails. The kid had a lot of fun. She got to see chicks hatching, to watch a goat being milked, and to hug an unwilling barn kitten.
After a thorough hand-washing, we headed to a nearby restaurant for lunch. The hostess instructed us to select any table we wanted, so we grabbed a booth in the corner. A few moments later, the God's-gift-to-culture family sat at the table next to ours. Lunch kinda went downhill from there.
The family consisted of an elderly couple, another couple roughly our age, and the younger couple's son. The son appeared to be seven or so, and frankly, he was the most likable person in the bunch. The elderly woman commenced shooting us dirty looks as soon as she sat down. (And remember, they chose their table, too!) We reminded A to use her inside voice, but she was still giggling and attempting to juggle sugar packets and whatnot. I mean, she was trying to behave, but she's three and . . . giggling and touching stuff are in her contract.
We couldn't help but overhear the dad blathering on and on about opera and also how some of the local museums had NOT lived up to his expectations. He was using words like "discourse" and "dichotomy." My favorite part was when his food arrived.
"I said I didn't want any peppers on this!"
The server: "Oh, I'm sorry, does it have peppers on it?"
Pompous ass: "Yes, there are green peppers right here. Don't you SEE them? I can see them."
He sent his dish back to the kitchen so that the cook could spit in it, or whatever happens to food when someone like Mr. Pepper-hater sends it back.
Oh well, at least it gave us something to talk about on the way home. My guy may not say much (when we drove to Myrtle Beach for our honeymoon, he went an entire state without uttering a single word), but suddenly I realize that maybe I didn't get such a bad deal after all.
As I type this, several hours after arriving back home, the kid is so tired that she, in all likelihood, is hallucinating. She is driving us around the bend and has served several time-out sentences this afternoon. But, she perseveres, because it's in the contract and all.
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