So the fam and I decided to go out to Chinese food last night. There was a bit of a language barrier. When we got there, he asked if we wanted a table or booth. We said, “Booth,” and he said, “Wait.” I swear he said wait. Then he looked at us like we were high when he got to the table and we weren’t behind him.
So he called across the restaurant, “This isn’t okay?”
At least, that’s what I think he said. At the table he asked what kind of drinks. My son asked for Dr. Pepper. That stumped the waiter. “Pepper?” he asks.
“Dr. Pepper,” I said.
“Pepper?” he repeats, still clearly stumped.
“Coke? He’ll have Coke,” I said.
Then it started. After we’re seated, my son told me, “Mom, read the placemat.”
“I’ve read it a billion times before,” I replied. I know I’m a rooster and I know I’m difficult and, as an erotic romance author, I’m also secretly amused that most of the traditional placemats list my sign as cock. Go me.
His brother, getting something I obviously hadn’t, examined the paper. “They spelled cycle c-y-e-a-l-e,” he informed me.
And the hunt began. Thirteen spelling errors on the placemat. This is what my family does. Eating sesame chicken. Proofreading placemats. Oy!
So I’m over at Writer’s Evolution today talking about my weaknesses. Typos might be one of them…