Sensual Hibernation?

Call the news team! I ate dinner out last night. That's right, Rob and a meal: intimate evening. I needed it.

Let me clarify, this out was not fast food out. This out was "cater to my whims and needs" out. I don't do whim cater dining often, because it's often awkward. It's awkward because I'm alone. Alone means I have to answer all the "do you need to wait," "is your other party coming" questions. Just once I'd love to answer "No, she's here, under the table." Just once I'd like that to be true. It's never true and I never answer that way. The people who ask this "alone" question touch my food. Food handlers don't appreciate sarcasm.

"Hope you enjoy your special meal Mr. Boyd."

No, I treat wait staff like royalty. That's why when my waitress du jour (who will be further referred to as Princess Bethany) asks the question, I reply, sitting up straight, with my hands folded in my lap, "No, I'll be dining alone tonight. Thank you, my lady."

Yes, I'm a writer. I see the irony. I come to be pampered, yet I'm the one wearing the kit gloves and sprinkling the talcum. And just what are "kit" gloves? Are they for cats or models? Does Kate Moss ask her men to wear them? Do models blow up like halogen bulbs if you don't wear them (Wear the gloves, not the models. Please keep up and don't stop to look in the gutter. The jokes are all up here.).

Oh, "Kid" gloves? Really? Well that makes even less sense, unless you're Michael Jackson…

These are the things that keep me awake at night.

"Rob-by, oh Rob-by…"

"Out of my closet Michael."

During my meal last night something else lurked in the dark door of my mind's closet. The something that happened after Princess Bethany brought me my chicken enchilada.

The enchilada looked really tasty, flanked with beans and rice, and smothered with green sauce. I took a bite, and the first flavor was the tart sauce, strong and flavorful, just what you'd expect. The next flavor was the chicken. It wasn't what you'd expect; it tasted sad.

Not sad as in, "unpleasant." Sad as in "ready to cry." Now I don't believe my local Mexican bistro froze the last mournful "I don't want to die" cry in my hen before lopping her head off. They can't do that? Can they? Then again maybe that's what kid gloves are for. I dunno. I'm just a guy trying to understand flavors again.

When I was married everything tasted married. A shared taste: blends and harmonies. It wasn't bad. It was different. Now things are lining up a new Jelly Belly Batch of flavors, and last nights flavor was fleshy sad.

Can flavors hold emotion? We see texture, touch memories, and smell what the Rock is cookin', why can't flavors hold emotion? Last night my chicken tasted like MyEx. I mean I'd only tasted her gall and ire, but seriously: chicken.

Is that weird? I mean of course it is. Weird is my blog's middle name. Still, I was counting on my chicken to hatch into an idea. It was supposed to tell me something insightful, sort of a Mexican fortune enchilada. Instead, it just tasted sad.

The real question is this: which came first, MyEx or the sad. I mean I say I associate the sad to MyEx, but isn't it possible that I'm doing the reverse? What if sadness isn't MyEx, but MyEx is sadness? Follow? It's all about which is the chicken and which is the feather.

If I taste the sad because it's part of MyEx, it'll always going to be that way. Sad = MyEx. If I'm tasting the sad, and thinking MyEx because she represents the sadness of the moment, then that will change as my sadness taste evolves.

"This one tastes like Ex Wife 08, with a hint of first-love bittersweet. This one over here is an odd blend of 'I drove all day to find Disneyland closed' with a nutty "raining mice and ducks' irony. I don't know which is more sad."

"Would you like to try the dry humor sir?"

I'm divorced. Things have changed. How I eat out, how I chose my food, and yes, how it tastes. All my things have changed. All my tastes have changed. Last night I had a wench serve me coffee, Tonight, Princess Bethany gathers my meal. She looks radiant. I'll leave her a good tip; maybe her highness will smile on me.