Indigestion

We were planning a "gathering of the Ya" this weekend, but it kind of fell apart when one of the "core" YaYas could not make it because of work-related training . . . and another then decided to visit her brother tomorrow (on his only day off) before she literally gets back on a very big boat.

So tomorrow, it will be just Baby Ya and I going to ReniFest.

Tonight, three of us decided not to drive to Greensboro to join another friend for dinner at Bonefish. This was mostly my fault . . . as I have been driving hither and yon all day . . . I was very tired, and my right foot was sore & aching (it's back in a walking boot secondary to a torn posterior tibial ligament).

Instead, we went to a local restaurant of the Mexican persuasion (never my first choice as I generally get indigestion).

We had barely sat down and ordered our (non-alcoholic) drinks when no other than Bob Morrison (CEO of Randolph Hospital and my arch-nemesis) walked in with his wife (Peggy) and what appeared to be his daughter and grandchildren . . . and they were ushered to a table right beside us.

Immediately recognizing Bob, I quietly let my friends know that we had an unconvicted felon sitting at the next table ("hide your purses, girls"). One of them peeked over her menu and asked, "Is that the guy with the ugly car (the infamous Aqua Beemer representing Bob's never-ending midlife crisis)?". But not inclined to get up, move or leave, we went right on with dinner. I cannot deny that seeing Bob anywhere makes my blood boil (especially in the wake of the annexation war & alcohol referendum), and he may be friends with all the "right people", but I long ago stopped leaving rooms because of this guy.

After all, if justice meant anything in North Carolina, he's the one who should be toothbrush-scrubbing bathrooms at the jail.

Bob recognized me too - but did not acknowledge my presence. His body language said it all - as he hunched and glowered and looked generally constipated. Peggy didn't look very happy either.

The conversation at our table was animated, and at one point one of my friends (the artsy/theatrical/ship-sailing Ya) made a funny/play on words about having the urge to hurl [*insert correction: I am duly admonished that the term was "spew"] . . . just as I was swirling together my rice, beans and sour cream. My other friend did not miss a beat as she winked at me and casually advised, "Okay, but if your head must spin, spin it to your right" (Bob's direction). On that cue, I offered up the squirt bottle of green chili sauce for a splash of Exorcist-inspired color.

Cue laughter. And more glowering from the table to our right.

Bob and his party ate quickly and left before we did. Afterwards, my friends commended me for not saying or doing anything to embarrass him. On the one hand they were proud of me - on the other they were mightily disappointed. I shrugged it off and made the lame excuse that small children were present/in the line of fire.

Better that they not know what their grandfather is until they can read.

As for me, a little Tums when I got home has helped my tummy settle down.

But next time, we're going to Sir Pizza.