A couple of months ago, we went to this little Cuban restaurant around the corner from our house. This restaurant has great sentimental attachment in my life because that is where we went on our first date. The food is not great, but the sangria is good. Anyway, I digress. It was a slow night. The only other patrons were a couple and their three-year-old daughter. You have never seen such devoted parents. It was clear their world revolved around their little girl, and it should. She was adorable dancing in her little kimono. The mother even joined in.
Something else you should know about Shlomo and me is that we are not the nicest people in the world. If we do not know your name and you come up in conversation, we will give you a nickname. There is a lady we call "Jugsy." It should be self-explanatory as to how she got her name. Well, when we left, we were talking about what a nice family they seemed to be. We had not talked to them, but had simply observed them from afar. We coined them, "The Mole, Mole, Moles." By the way, that has the Spanish pronunciation. It's mo-lay, not like the little rodent burrowing through a field or back yard. Anyway, I will let you guess where the name came from. It could be the father's complexion. It might not be, but it is.
The next morning, we went to brunch at a little bakery/sandwich shop also by the house and guess who was there? That's right...the Mole, Mole, Moles! This time, we exchanged pleasantries. Okay, I accused them of stalking us. They were nice. We were nice. All was well. A couple of weeks later, once again at brunch, there they were again. The Mole, Mole, Moles were everywhere. We exchanged pleasantries and went on our way.
Yesterday, we went back to the same place for brunch. It was a running joke. "Oh, there are the Mole, Mole, Moles." If Shlomo said it once, he said it 15 times. We were only there for about 30 minutes, so I am sure you can imagine that it did not get annoying in the least. He claimed victory in that I looked once to see if it was really them. We finished brunch, and were off to run our errands.
About six blocks away, we are stuck at a stop light. I look out the window, and there is a cute family on bicycles...two adults with the father pulling a child in a cart. Shlomo, never one to let a joke die, proclaims, "Oh look, it's the Mole, Mole, Moles!" Imagine his surprise when it actually was them. I rolled down my window and said, "Hey, we missed you at brunch!" We all laughed. The light changed. Shlomo punched it.
As he punched it, the hysterical fit of laughter began. He could not stop. I know what this means... moment of unconsciousness soon to follow. There were a couple of problems with this scenario:
- Shlomo was driving.
- I was the passenger.
- It was a busy street, there was quite a bit of traffic.
- He was driving my car!
I tried to calm his laughter. This only made it worse. I then started screaming, "Slow down, slow down. Pull over." Finally, he regained his composure. However, it was a good 30 seconds later. All was well, no innocent lives (mainly mine) were lost.
However, no Shlomo and I truly face a dilemma. Next time we bump into the Mole, Mole, Moles, do we exchange names or do we forever leave them as the Mole, Mole, Moles? It has created such a memorable story for us, I hate to give it up.
1 comment:
That totally settles it! I HAVE to meet Shlomo! Oh my heavens! That is the best story! Anyone who can actually laugh themselves unconcious is a priceless gem. I mean it!
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