Mexicans and Mechanics

Those of you who know me well will recall my frustration in the fact that, until very recently (see post entitled Oh. Boy.), my luck with men has extended only to gold-toothed mechanics at ghetto lube shops (who write their numbers on the detailed receipts they give me) and to Mexican men. The lube boys appreciate the curves that I've been so generously provided with, I think, and the Mexicans... well, I honestly believe it's the novelty of my blond hair. And, of course, the curves don't hurt there, either.

Tonight proved no exception.

Elizabeth and I decided to ease both of our cravings for burritos and chips and salsa at a local Mexican place we had never tried before. We got there and were seated in a booth, at which time Elizabeth commented on my new shorts. You must understand that I had worn these shorts to dinner for the sole purpose of getting her opinion of them (and of me in them) as a potential item of clothing to wear around the subject of Oh. Boy. when I'm in Fort Walton next weekend. My intention in getting her advice was remembered at her comment, so I promptly stood back up, in front of the table, to model them for her.

I was just beginning to point out my perceived flaws in the legs that have prevented me from wearing shorts more often, when I catch a mischievous gleam in Elizabeth's eye. You see, as I was directing her attention to my legs in my shorts, I had unintentionally and unknowingly blocked a waiter from getting past. He was waiting patiently, listening to my chatter about the shorts and the legs and the, um, other parts of my person that the shorts need to make look good, and I turned around to find him watching and amused. Mortified at the attention I had drawn to my lower body, I promptly sat back down and fiercely studied the menu.

A few minutes later, guess who slides in next to me in the booth? Yes. The very same waiter. He flashed me a smile, told me in broken English that he LOVED the shorts, then proceeded to take our order in a disconcertingly flirtatious manner.

Had I any dignity left, I would've told him sternly that the shorts needed to look good for another, much more special, boy, not him. I couldn't, though. I just ordered my combination platter as quickly and as unattractively as possible.

Some good came out of the episode, however. He was more than willing to substitute a burrito for an enchilada in the combo that I wanted, and Elizabeth was able to get hers without meat.

Maybe, if I wear The Shorts to get my next oil change, the brothers will throw in a free tire rotation? Hmmm... something to think about...