Here’s my sign

I realize that most of you won't be able to read it because only people with whom I REALLY have no desire to converse can see it.  I'm pretty sure that, in big, bright, flashing letters it says:

PLEASE TALK TO ME! I DON'T CARE IF YOU SMELL OR WE DON'T SPEAK THE SAME LANGUAGE, SPEAK TO ME ANYWAYS. OH YEAH, IF I MAKE LIKE I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, KEEP TALKING!

Right, so I went to get some french fries and happened to be in the line of the cashier who must have been haveily medicated as he was moving at the speed of, well, slow.  In front of me is a short, hairy, slightly smelly man.  Now, when I say short, I mean shorter than me.  I'm 5'2"  Get the picture?  Let me paint more.  Button down shirt, open at least three buttons exposing his gold necklaces making love to his gray chest hair.  Throwing up yet?

He's staring at me and starts to speak to me in Spanish which I politely ignore.  Lucky for me, he's bilingual!  Here's what he's staring at:

 

He then proceeds to start talking about my necklace and how it's so delicate and blabitty, blabitty, blah.  I'm sorry, I just want to get my fries and leave.  But, slow boy cashier has NOT picked up the pace.  I have given either one word answers to his incessant questioning or ignored it completely, but does that stop him?  Uh, hell no.

His next line is that I look like an artist.  No, wait, an actress.  I've seen her, yes, she is very funny.  I look just like her!  Did I justify this with a response?  No.  But I do know about whom he was speaking because I've heard it before.  Let's take a poll.  Do you think I resemble this person (outside of skin color and hair)?

 

MeWhoopi

Riiiiight.  Oh, yeah, I have my glasses on today since I like to see.  Anyways…

You might think that the conversation would end here, but no, it doesn't.  Because I look like her except younger.  What are you, like 19?  I'm 34.  24?  No, 34.  WHAT?!?!  Well, it is certainly not because you eat here all the time.  Do you cook at home?

I'm sorry, I fail to see how this is any of your G-D business!

At this point I have my cell phone out and am texting furiously to deter him from speaking to me further.  Not working. I'm not even kidding when I say that this next part is a direct quote.

"If I'm not bothering you, what is it that you do?"

IF YOU'RE NOT BOTHERING ME?!?! <sigh>

I'm an analyst.  Ohhh, you must be the boss.  No, I'm not the boss.  I do not wish to be the boss.  Ohhh, but why not?!?!  <insert desire to punch an old man here>

Well, you must give me your card. (thank goodness that I've only recently been promoted and my cards are not in yet) I just ignored that request. 

He says that he is writing a book.  He's "green".  For the last 5 years he's been riding his bike everywhere.  He doesn't pay for gas (although I don't know if that means he steals it).  His book is about being green.  Hey, way to be original.  So, tell me, analyst, how can I market my book. <insert larger desire to punch old man here>

I'm not in marketing.  But you're an analyst!  OMG, please get your food and go away now!

And finally, he did.  Another day on South Beach.

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Damn you, French Bakery

Oh how I know better.  You have such a lovely Cobb salad with super crumbly BACON and avocados to die for.  I have eaten it many times.  And yes, my tummy doesn't like it but you are a party in my mouth.

Being a French bakery, you have so many other yummy delights.  Pastries and breads and cakes galore.  I am good.  I stay away from them, but today, I decided to indulge myself.

Do you know what my favorite dessert is in the whole wide world?  Coming in just a notch above Baked Alaska (which I will have as wedding cake, btw) is Creme Brulee.  The crunch of the crusty top, the smooth creamy pudding-type gunk underneath, maybe some fruit on top.  Ahhhh, pardon me whilst I have a smoke.

Well, French Bakery, you are French, you make dessert, I expect to be awed.  You have let me down.

My creme brulee looked lovely.  And as I dug into it, imagining the ecstacy that would soon follow, something punched me in the side of the head.  Ack!  What is in my mouth?!?!  The texture is wrong, it's too runny, the top is not crusty, and worst of all the taste.  Has the French Bakery just tried to poison me?

Do you know what it tastes like?  Of course you don't.  Let me tell you.  It tastes like what a relaxer smells like (that's a hair perm for the gents or non-relaxer havin folks).  So imagine you're expecting sweet goodness and you get a curly tongue. 

MOTHER F-ING DISGUSTING!

Anywho, disappointment reigns at this lunch hour.  And a lot of water is needed.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

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Saturday night on South Beach

Over the weekend, we celebrated two years of dating bliss by going to one of our most favorite restaurants ever, El Rancho Grande.  You must realize the excellence of this place if it will bring us to South Beach on a Saturday night.  We had a pina colada and a mango margarita, followed by the delicious yumminess of queso fundido.  As neither of our hearts had stopped yet, we followed that up with El Plato Mixto for him and Tacos al Pastor for me.  To complete our piggishness, we downed Bananas Foster for dessert.  Damn, that was good.

And now, for the evening's entertainment, brought to you by the local homeless and the Miami Beach PD.

On our walk back to the car from the restaurant, we took in the sights and sounds of South Beach:

  •  A car (very new, very shiny Bentley) containing 4 young-ish African-American males from which the music could be heard from 2 blocks away.  Please boys, be realistic and don't complain that the cops are racist when you get pulled over. 
  • The ever-present stench of stale urine.  Mmmmm, mmmmm! 
  • The rantings of a homeless man attempting to get money from people stopped at the red light at Washington and Lincoln.

Within that last item, that's where the entertainment lies.  Apparently, said homeless man wasn't looking past the car from which he was trying to panhandle.  If he had been, maybe he would have acted differently.  As it were, he was leaning into the window of a truck when from out of nowhere we all hear:

"Get away from that truck, Robert Parker.  I told you I don't want to see you again tonight!"

For only three cars back, in her car, is a Miami Beach police officer.  I suppose she had had a run in with Bobby a little earlier in the evening and had warned him once.  By the way, she didn't yell that, she threw on her loudspeaker just in case Bobby had lost his hearing since the first time she saw him.

Bobby, grudginly, went on his way, as did we.  Entertainment for the evening, over.  If you are in Miami, make sure you check this place out.  The food is spectacular, the service is way above par for Miami, and our check stayed under $60 for all that food.

PS.  If you do come to Miami and you happen to park in the 16th and Washington garage, please don't urinate in there.  There are bathrooms available all over.  Thanks.

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