Friday, April 27, 2007
Metamorphosis
On Friday nights, we frequent a local hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant. Reincarnated from the site of an old Whataburger, our neighborhood dive has gained statewide acclaim. Is it a coincidence that the worries of my week seem to dissipate as quickly as the ice in my margarita? This evening we were finishing dinner when Max piped up.
"Hey! I can turn my finger into a Christmas tree!"
"Really?"
"Just watch!"
Slowly Max snaked his index finger through the remainder of his refried beans, then rolled his fingertip in his Mexican rice. Satisfied, he held his finger aloft, admiring the orange flecks adhering haphazardly to his sticky flesh.
"See!," he shouted proudly. "It looks like Christmas ornaments!"
Through the magic of tequila, what would have been an Emily Post infraction before a margarita can be transformed into pure hilarity after one.
I needed that.
"Hey! I can turn my finger into a Christmas tree!"
"Really?"
"Just watch!"
Slowly Max snaked his index finger through the remainder of his refried beans, then rolled his fingertip in his Mexican rice. Satisfied, he held his finger aloft, admiring the orange flecks adhering haphazardly to his sticky flesh.
"See!," he shouted proudly. "It looks like Christmas ornaments!"
Through the magic of tequila, what would have been an Emily Post infraction before a margarita can be transformed into pure hilarity after one.
I needed that.
1 Comments:
There you are! I've missed your writing... and your boys, and you.
What a difference a margarita makes!
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