In the midst of this exhausting week, my daughter and I have appointments to get our hair cut, and, although we are both beyond tired, we agree to go anyway. Nothing like a little pampering, right? And it almost works. We almost get through the evening unscathed.
After we get out hair cut, we head over to a local steakhouse for some red meat and one beer each. Easy pickings, right? Except that we are so tired, we probably shouldn't be near alcohol at all.
Our waitress at dinner asks us if we want some bread brought to the table. This, for me, is a no-brainer. I love bread, so any time anyone offers me warm, fresh bread, I'm taking it. The waitress brings a mini-loaf of steaming bread to the table, and my daughter and I attack it like unfed vultures.
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| (Last bite before the bread heel) |
WAITRESS: Are you all done with the bread?
ME: (after a slight pause) Yes, I'm all done.
This is when my daughter decides to add the words "I'm all done," indicating that she's on board with the server removing the last of the bread from the table. Instead, though, these words come out of her mouth --
DAUGHTER: I'm all bread!
The three of us stare at each other for a moment. Did she just say what we think she said? Did we hear her wrong? Are we on Planet Insomnia?
Finally, the waitress acknowledges what we all heard, and my daughter quickly tries to refrain from further commentary. Who knows what else might shoot out of her mouth. Maybe she'll be all steak or all broccoli with cheese or, god forbid, maybe we'll hear, "I'm all jelly beans!" Who knows?
All I know is that I am NOT all bread, but I am taking the rest of my steak and fries home. Too late for the bread heel, though. It has already been cleared away by the smiling waitress.
