Corner office, flying shrimp

This is a true story of 7 strangers, picked to eat together at a hibachi grill and catch shrimp in their mouths, to find out what happens when people stop being polite and start being real…and by real, I mean totally try and talk you and your husband into swinging with them.

So, my brilliant, handsome, too manly for words husband got himself a much earned raise and promotion last week. He now has the fancy shmancy word “Senior” ahead of his crazy ass long and confusing computer engineering something something something title. Is it amazing and exciting? Yes. Does it dispel the worry I still have about the upcoming layoffs in November and December? Um, no.

But, either way, the news garnered the importance of a celebratory dinner with his boss and his wife, so to the local cook in front of you Japanese place we went. I love the food, but really could do without the show (seriously, just put the food in front of me so I can eat it, don’t balance it on your hat, I want it in my belly. now.), and could very much do without sitting with a group of strangers and singing happy birthday to some screaming kid who I don’t even know, who totally doesn’t even want to be there, all he wanted was chicken fingers and fries, but his jerk off parents insisted he be cultured at the expense of the sanity of all the other overpaying customers.

But, it’s cool. The night was not about me, it was about him, and if we had to sit with some creepy strangers because they have to fill every table to it’s maximum to meet some kind of slaughter house like quota, fine, bring on the shrimp throwing and onion volcano lighting. Oh, and the Shirley Temples. I have no idea what that was about, but I drank like 8 of them…but only because they kept putting them in little kid cups, even though I told them I could drink out of an adult size cup just fine as long as they continued to put the sword with the cherry and orange on them. Losers.

So yeah, fun was had by all. And, I looked super cute with my little pot belly and my kiddie cocktail, minding my own business while my hubby and his boss chatted it up about work, and I desperately tried to avoid making eye contact with the couple next to me, especially since the lady had already elbowed my right supfuckingtender boob about ten times, and I can only give her the “whoops, don’t worry about it, I am sure it was an accident and not you playing with my boobs” face so many times before I offer her a cigarette. But, no. Fate barges in, knocks the fork from my hand, and leaves me to dive face first into this grabby lady’s lap for some fork fishing.

Me: Got it, sorry about that.
Lady: No problem, close quarters around here.
Me: Oh for sure (awkward giggle).

Ok, shift focus back to the shrimp, no need to milk the interaction for more than it’s worth.

Lady: So, do you and your husband live around here?
Me: Um, about 40 minutes away.
Lady: My husband and I just live 5 minutes from here.
Me: Wow, must be great to have such yummy food close by.
Lady: Yes. And it’s nice to know we are so close, so we can always just steal away to our place if the situation arises.
Me: Um. yeah.
Lady: *leaning in so I can smell her couger perfume* Like if the situation arises tonight.
Me: Excuse me, the baby inside of me is making me pee.

Really lady, if the best prospects of group sex tonight is the mentally stunted pregnant girl next to you drinking child size sprite and grenadines with a collection of fruit swords on her napkin, you need to reevaluate your standards. Not to mention, I am too tired to fake it and your husband looks really hairy.