We went to the Getty Art Museum north of Los Angeles on the day of the huge rainstorm. We sat restaurant, eating our sweet potato fries, and watching the water.
My husband John bloviated about natural disasters, rambling on about weather. We told the waiter Henri that we would like the braised rabbit and deep fried fuliguline to be served now.
My son-in-law Richard perused the wine list and selected a nice Sonoma Valley merlot. “It will cut through the gaminess of the rabbit like a hot blade,” Richard explained in his refined English accent. We nodded in understanding.
John’s napkin fell unnoticed to the floor. I watched that napkin, almost shaking with my compulsive nature to pick it up and strangle him with it. He finds this compulsive habit annoying.
The wine came, and Richard did the oenophile thing. He nodded his approval. Henri came with the heavy tray of our order and prepared to place the steaming plates on the table. That was when he stepped on that damn napkin and slipped, falling to the carpet with the entire order.
It is my nature and an essential character trait to help and be compassionate. So I leaped from my seat, and began mopping up the floor with my own napkin. I picked up every last morsel; call it a quirk, but once I start something, I have to finish it.
With a new order on the way, my daughter Mary commented on a William Hopper piece in the gallery. Visiting an art gallery is my idea of heaven, and we began talking about the different paintings. She noticed I was squirming uncomfortably. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. Looking around, I whispered back, “ Hemorrhoids!” I answered. There, she knew my secret.
I may have revealed something about me that isn’t true; can you guess what it is?