I have always tried to be in control of whatever I eat. I don't mean that I count every calorie or gram of carbohydrate and fat. Nor that I am so brilliant that I ingest 100% of the daily recommended quota of vitamins and minerals. I'm just saying that I try to get the food I eat from the plate into my mouth without major mishaps. Hey, messes happen. Gram and I used to giggle hysterically every time we ate tostadas. She loved to eat them, but she couldn't manage to get them to her mouth without a lot of problems. While I happily munched on the tostada, which I held flat in front of me, Gram always seemed to turn hers sideways. Lettuce, cheese, sauce, and tomatoes went everywhere but her mouth. She sure enjoyed them though, and couldn't resist eating (wearing?) them. She was a good sport and always laughed wholeheartedly at her inability to eat them tidily.
When Trent and I were newly married and honeymooning, I think we set the stage for how we needed to approach meals. Trent was enjoying some shrimp cocktail at one of the fabulous Las Vegas casino buffets. As I looked at my plate, I saw something come flying across the table at me. Before I realized what was happening, I had been hit in the shoulder by a cocktail-sauce-laden shrimp. Trent looked horrified, but I began to laugh. It had simply slipped out of his fingers. Now, if it had been launched on purpose, that would have been another story entirely! What made it even funnier was that it happened again, this time right on my eyeglasses. I can't remember how many hits I took in that battle, but we both came out of it fairly unscathed.
Gram used to joke that if I didn't have a "balcony," I wouldn't have to worry about anything landing on it. As she sometimes did, I occasionally will have a crumb or drop of something land on the old balcony. Sometimes it's almost impossible to avoid. If you disagree, I'd like to see you eat a nice tall ice cream cone on an extremely hot day. Or even a juicy slice of watermelon. Then we'll see whose clothes are always perfect.
When we lived in a different neighborhood than we do now, we used to enjoy eating chicken wings from a local restaurant. Whether we had them there or to go, they were always delicious. In fact, the first time that Trent met the Mean-Face Girl was at this very wing restaurant. There are some things that are bound to happen when you eat saucy chicken wings. You are likely to go through numerous napkins and still end up with sticky fingers. Your tummy will be happy, and you'll just need to wash your hands before doing anything afterward.
On one lovely, sunny day, Trent and I decided that we would have some lunch at our favorite wing restaurant before doing our shopping. I distinctly remember that I was wearing some blue pants and a white short-sleeved top on this warm afternoon. We sat down with a good appetite for our tasty wing lunch. And then the chicken fought back. I was ready to take a bite off a yummy wing when it turned in my hand. The next thing I knew, I had sauce on my face and going up one nostril. I tidied up and started over.
The attack wing was conquered and proved to be exceptionally tasty. But it had comrades. The next wing also turned in my hand, but it was a master of combat. I watched in horror as it jumped out of my hand and bounced off of the table. It ricocheted off my white shirt and landed firmly in my lap. I was mortified with the mess I had made of myself. Trent was very kind about it, and I kept on eating. By the time our lunch was done, I must have been the victim of at least three aerial assaults by the wing brigade. I left the restaurant dazed by the battle and daubed with the bright orangey wing sauce.
Trent was kind enough to suggest that it wasn't that bad and that probably no one would notice. It was a kind effort on his part, but I know when I've been licked. I had to go home and wash up and put on fresh clothes. I'm glad to say that both the top and the trousers survived the onslaught and gave many more years of service to the cause. They don't go to wing restaurants any more though. After what they've been through, they deserve to be in a safe place when food attacks.