In the evenings, on my bus ride home, I am often reminded of funny things. I am that weird loner with her hood pulled up, smirking (or outright laughing) at some memory that only I am privy to. Today I was alone on the bus laughing out loud at this particular memory:
A few weeks into our relationship, Randy and I went to dinner at The Emerald, one of several pretty bad Chinese restaurants in town. He has since convinced me to eat at Ming’s, which I now prefer. I think he’s sick of it. Anyway, we don’t really go to The Emerald anymore, but not because of this story–it’s just that Ming’s has pho…really good pho.
So, we were at The Emerald and the waitress could barely speak a few English words. Mostly she just smiled and nodded vigorously, trying to be agreeable, but not really seeming to understand the exchange. Toward the end of the meal, she refilled our water glasses and said something like, “You like?” Instead of saying “yes,” I responded with a rather long answer, even though I was sure she wasn’t getting most of it. I said something like, “Yes, it was really good. Lately I’ve been craving pork fried rice and this really hit the spot.” She smiled, nodded vigorously and said, “Eat my ass.” My smile slowly faded to a furrowed brow of confusion. “Whaa?” I said. Randy and I exchanged glances. “Eat my ass,” she repeated, still smiling as she left.
I still have no idea what she was trying to say. I mean, what else sounds like “eat my ass?”