The Brit and I just celebrated eight years of connubial teamwork, along with Britween, our 12-year-old grandson who came as part of the package. And, oh, what a package! As our young man has grown, he and his grandfather have become more like those two old-men Muppets who sit in a theater balcony griping about everything.
“We’re having spaghetti for dinner again?” Britween opines. “Why can’t we have pizza tonight?”
I try to reason with the young man: “What do you think pizza is made of? The same ingredients as spaghetti.”
“Really, Grandma? You can’t eat spaghetti with your hands!”
“That never stopped you when you were little!” I reminisce. That’s when the eye rolling begins. So I turn to my wellspring of empathy for backup and my reward is yet another tax on my patience.
“Spaghetti? We had that two weeks ago,” whines The Brit. “I’ll just have baked beans on toast.” Will someone please explain to me how heated baked beans poured over toasted bread on a plate can compete with a steaming bowl of pasta gently tossed with marinara sauce by a loving Italian woman?
I am at a loss to explain it, but baked beans on toast is a staple of British gastronomy. The only thing worse are the mushy peas they love to slather on a plate next to mashed potatoes and sausages they call bangers—so named, I am certain, because of the noises that result after my boys have each consumed a plateful. It’s enough to make the dog hide.
The lads and I celebrated these past eight years of wedded bliss with a wonderful dinner at one of our favorite spots, The Quarterdeck Restaurant. Britween always loves sifting through the treasure chest of trinkets and toys they keep for little shipmates, and The Brit enjoys the array of brews they feature.
I love the place for two reasons: the food, of course, but also the booth we always request where my husband proposed to me. It’s a special spot, right near the aquarium filled with live coral, and the staff are always happy to hold it for us.
Naturally, the English contingent ordered fish and chips—seven pieces each, please! “Five pieces for you, dear, and three for Mr. Big Eyes,” I corrected.
“Hey, Sweetheart,” The Brit suggested, “Why don’t you get a couple of crabs?” I reminded him that I already had two sitting across from me at the table. “Don’t worry, Sweetie, we don’t bite!” Britween squeaked at me while making pincer-gestures. It’s like dining out with Laurel and Hardy!
We followed dinner with the movie Non-Stop, an action film (for the boys) starring Liam Neeson (for me!). The film is packed with suspense, action, fights, and explosions as an Air Marshal struggles to save screaming, panicky passengers on a plane in mid-air. Wow! I have so been on that flight!
The Brit has a hearing deficiency requiring that he wear hearing aids. This he sensibly does not do most of the time, requiring exasperated repetition of anything said to him. So I sensibly suggested that he request the hearing enhancement device provided by the cinema. This he just as sensibly refused to do. When this happens, he tends to fall asleep during the film, which is exactly what he did.
The movie reached its climactic ending, explosions going off and plane engines roaring while my Brit was snoring. There he sat, his head on his chest, a box of Milk Duds clutched upright in his hand. Britween immediately dubbed him Sir Milk Duddington, and he and I decided to teach The Brit a lesson.
We smiled politely as people exited the theater around us, one lady exclaiming, “How could he possibly sleep through that movie?” Our grandson answered her, “He’s British, ma’am!” Everyone was very amused. Britween and I then waited and watched from the back of the theater as the credits rolled, the theater emptied, and the lights came up.
An employee of the cinema arrived wielding a broom and pushing a trash barrel. “Is everything all right?” he asked with true concern. “Yes,” we said and then enlisted him in our cruel little prank, in which he was delighted to participate.
“Make some noise,” I told him. This guy banged his broom against the seats and loudly wheeled his trash barrel up the aisles. Nothing.
“Should I check him for a pulse?” Britween inquired. “No, wait, he’s stilled snoring,” I replied. “Nudge his chair a little,” I suggested to our accomplice. That worked.
The Brit jolted upright. “What happened?” he cried. “What time did the film end?” he asked the employee. “Oh, about four hours ago, sir,” he smiled. “You need to be more careful, sir! This is how most of us end up working here!”
Meanwhile two people at the back of the theater laughed their butts off. “Bloody hell!” My husband exclaimed, clutching his box of Milk Duds tightly.
After eight years of marriage, I can truthfully repeat what I once said on this page a few years ago. True love is not when you’re out on a date and he says he’s run out of gas and you forgive him. It’s years later, when you are seated in a cinema and he runs out of gas and you still forgive him!
Lady Ariel Milk Duddington is truly in love with her husband. Send movie tickets and Milk Duds via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Apr 3-10, 2014.