Friday, foibles and the down right strange.

I posted some time ago about eating stuff mixed up. I'm against it!
I don't mind different things on a plate, I'm not mad, but I like to eat stuff one thing at a time. Like if I had a breakfast of sausages, beans, rashers, mushrooms, fried eggs and toast, I would start with the eggs-making sure to not touch the yolk which I hate- then mushrooms, then...well you get the picture.
I have eaten like this for many years, so I don't find it remotely odd and am inclined to forget it looks strange to others.
I also have a serious phobia about ink and newspapers. On Sundays when I get the papers, I bring a big bag so I can put the newspaper in it (cuts down on the handling) And I never read them until seated at a big table where in I can peruse at leisure, opening and turning each page using the tiniest tip.
I have another few, but I don't want to appear loopy so I"m not telling you.
However last night I was called out on the food thing. I was mocked and ridiculed by a so called 'friend' -you know who you are, you French Twat- and my paramour, my so called would be husband did nothing, except to say, 'relax honey' and 'Why are you getting so mad?'
Caesar salad. I like it, but not with crutons. There, what's the big fucking deal? I don't like crunchy stuff mized up with slimey stuff. I don't mind crunchy stuff on its own, but not mixed. How can people eat like that? One second your tongue is going ummmm, slimy, and next thing you know its slithering to a complicated stop over a gravely rough surface.
Impossible.
So I said to the waitress, 'I don't want any crutons on mine.'
And she goes, 'Oh but it is a ceaser salad.'
And I go, 'great, but no crutons, and no anchovies please.'
Then Frenchy-the great buffoon- sort of snorts through his big Gallic nose.
And I go 'What?'
'Notheenng, you are beeeing silly.'
'I don't like crunchy stuff in salad.'
'Zen is not Caesar.'
'It is, but without crutons.'
'Pffffp'
I smile stiffly at the girl and she gets the message and high tails it.
Then the stupid Paramour laughs because FG is rolling his eyes like he had parvo-virus.
'She eez ze only person I know zat put gravy next to ze food, snoff snoff snoff'(that's his french laugh).
Normally I would let this slide, but because of the week I've had and the humour I was in I didn't.
'Is it okay with you if I order my food the way I like it?'
This last line must have accidently come out louder and with more vehemence than I had anticipated, (didn't Freud say there are no accidents?)
They gawp, and Tara, who makes up the foursome glances at me in surprise. She hasn't really been following the conversation because she is trying to catch the eye of some squat bloke with arms like Popeye standing at the bar.
'Are you all right?'
'Yes-' I actually hissed that word. 'I don't see what's so fucking weird about not wanting crutons in my god damned salad.'
'Honey relax.' The paramour says.
Allright, actually, this is another one of them. I really hate to be told to relax, like I've had an attack of the vapours or something, it's so patronizingly dismissive. It's like poking me with a pointy stick.
'You relax.' I snarl. (you see how impossible I am in a snit)
'Why are you getting so mad?'
'I'm not mad, I just don't like crutons in my salad!' I yell, madly.
There is a distinct silence, the same sort or silence you'd expect if you walked in and found your parents having sex on the family sofa. A stunned sickening shocked silence.
Now I have a choice, I can carry on in a normal voice, or rack the hysteria up to another new level. Years ago I would have flounced off home, years ago I would have pulled FG across the table by his long sideburns and stuffed a breadroll into his big yap.
The ball is in my court.
I clear my throat, take a sip of wine and say.'Sorry, I don't know what the hell that was about.'
I force a laugh, Tara smiles at me, the paramour visibly relaxes...and the French Gay?
'Mon ami' He pats the paramour on the forearm, 'ooofff, such high maintenance zis one.'
I resist the urge to kick him in the shin. I'm a grown up, see? A grown up.