I have to tell about Tinny’s British (I would say English but that would be confusing in this context so I will just go with British because to most Americans it basically means the same thing) teacher; I did promise. Like ten days ago, yes, but I did promise.
Since the beginning of the semester, Tinny’s been telling me about this awesome British teacher she has who’s really young, like early thirties, is hot, and loves Seinfeld (and references it often in class).
Unfortunately, the guy is married already.
Anyhow, Tinny’d keep saying, “Ginny, you have to come to class with me! You have to see him!” and I knew I did, but I kept wishing he’d come into the café, you know? It’d just be so much simpler that way.
So the other night, when I was taking a break, drinking a glass of…ice…Tinny came running out of our line and said, “GINNY! GINNY! MY TEACHER!”
Without thinking about anything except that I had to get out there, and that I had to do something with my glass in case my boss was watching, I ran back out there, threw my glass under the counter, and stood at attention, grinning like a complete idiot.
The hot British teacher also had a hot British friend with him. They had comments about our stuffed tomatoes. (I frequently find myself explaining to people that they are not technically “stuffed tomatoes”, that they are merely “covered tomatoes”, as all they do to them is melt cheese over them.)
The hot teacher said, “It says they’re stuffed tomatoes, but what are they stuffed with—tomato?” and laughed. I found myself unable to speak coherently. All I could do was smile stupidly. Tinny found this all hilarious.
Cort came in, and I was still glowing from this encounter, so I said to her, grinning all the while, “I saw Tinny’s hot British teacher who likes Seinfeld.”
Cort’s reaction to this was perfect: a groan, and, “Tell me you didn’t hit on a professor!”
“No!”, I said, “I only saw him! If I happened to also speak to him and smile stupidly, that was just a coincidence!” Cort just rolled her eyes and walked away.
One more story for the night, and then I’m out to continue investigating doors and windows (as the dog has been barking and growling and staring at them—the ones in the front of the house—for about half an hour now).
At work tonight, Steve and I were fencing with serving spoons, and he had been holding his in his left hand, and suddenly decided to switch, so he called out, “Hold on while I switch hands!”
Without missing a beat, I said, “I am not left-handed!”
He laughed non-stop for the rest of the night. I was pleased.