The Restaurant Radar

And now for your regularly scheduled blog post ... :)

My husband, Curtis, has a problem. It's an urge he can't seem to fight.

I can tell when it's overtaking him; his eyes glaze over, and even though he's looking at me, I can tell he's not really looking at me. 

Curtis is ... a restaurant eavesdropper.

It drives me crazy, y'all. 

We rarely go out to dinner because it's expensive to feed our hungry little brood who now insist on getting kids' meals instead of eating off our plates. And it's even more rare that we get to go out to eat by ourselves. But either way, kids or no kids, I like to enjoy the experience. And that means having a nice, relaxed chat with our meal.

I can always guarantee that when we go out, Curtis will be totally focused on the conversation. Problem is, it's never our conversation. The last time we were at a restaurant, he started answering me with distracted nods and polite "Mm-hm"s and I knew that he was eavesdropping on the table behind me.

"Curtis," I hissed. He knew he'd been busted.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispered. "It's just that - this guy with the mohawk at the table behind you, he's being racist."

I rolled my eyes because frankly, I don't care if the dude is singing opera at his table - it's his table and his conversation and his bidness. And I mean, hello, I was surely talking about something super-important like the fact that tomorrow was garbage day or how Cameron keeps tying his shoelaces into knots. Why would you need to look elsewhere when you've got such vibrant and engaging conversation at your own table? Sheesh.

Not only that, but Curtis knows as well as I do that it doesn't matter the topic of conversation. The next table can be talking about their trash day or their knotted-up kids' shoes and it's apparently still infinitely more interesting than what's going on at our table. It wasn't like Mohawk Man's conversation was so uniquely riveting - racism or not - that Curtis just had to stop and listen. He would've been listening anyway.

I'm dying to someday just secretly plant somebody he doesn't know at a table near ours, and then have them start talking about him. 

At least then we'd both be amused.