Texas Moral Superiority Stings

I've been back in the States a mere two months now, and already I am moving apartments. As celebration, two new friends and I decided to grab some cocktails at the bar and grill a mere stone's throw away from my future front steps.

The day: Wednesday. The time: two-thirtyish.

We were seated at a booth surrounded by Texas housewives out for a late lunch. I marveled at their big diamond rings, bigger bottle blonde hair, and biggerer plastic knockers. I quickly perused the menu our waitress had handed me, and noting there was no alcohol listed, asked for a cocktail menu. She furrowed her brow as we all looked pleadingly at her. It had been a long week so far, and we still had two more days to go. She returned with the wine list and a ho-hum cocktail selection, and left us to decide.

"I'll take a Manhattan," I said, handing her back the menu.

"I'll take the same," Brie* the Transplanted Architect decided.

"I'll have a Bailey's and Mint Chocolate Martini," Yuki* the Transplanted Japanese Housewife chimed gleefully.

The waitress wrote down our orders and snapped up the menus. "Are you going to order any food, or are you planning on just drinking your lunch?" If she had said it with a hint of sassy humor, I would have adored her. But she said it deadpan, no smile, and all I really wanted was for her to trip over my now-extended leg and slightly maim herself.

They say everything's bigger in Texas. I guess that goes for dourness, too.

*Names changed because if I was their mother, that's what I would have named them.