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Chickie Friends




It’s in His Drink


cocktailsYou can figure out a guy’s personality his way by what his “go-to” drink is. So, watch and listen next time you sit at the bar, cross you legs, and dive into that peanut and cashew bowl.

If you hear,

“Excuse me,” He eases up to the bar and says”

“Martini, please.”

Next, he?ll say, “Hey, beautiful, where have you been all my life.” A martini guy is a player. He’s suave and debonair, he has charming lines makes you laugh, well, most of the time. He has friends who sail: he knows which champagne goes with oysters; and, his sister-in-law’s brother’s cousin lives the next street over from Jennifer Aniston. Another guy slides up behind your bar chair. His breath smells like onions.

Scotch and water.”

He taps his fingers on the bar, swirls the ice cubes, and winks. He then pulls out his cigar, and talks to your boobs. ?His moustache gets wet when he drinks. Meanwhile Mr.Jeans and polo shirt leans in and smiles.

“Cabernet.”

He wears brown leather shoes, and listens to the Dave Matthews band on his Ipod?not at the bar, of course. He’ll ask you questions about tasty restaurants in town. He likes to backpack in the White Mountains and can do the black diamond runs and tells you just that. Then there’s…

“Your choice..”

This guy pulls wrinkled money from the front pocket of his jeans. He is the Sports Channel. My team lost today. Manager should have pulled the pitcher after the fifth. He pops nuts in his mouth, but misses a couple. They fall in your purse tucked next to your leg.

Oooh watch out another one is right behind you— Pay attention to what he drinks and make your decision about whether you are going to order something with those peanuts and cashews or head for the door.

Shoes Make the Man

So much can be told from a guy’s shoes. They are what he stands in and stands for.

Sneakers suggest a guy is too casual, and that he works so much that he?never contemplates the thought of going out on the town. He thinks he will meet his dream girl in the supermarket over the frozen food section or while picking up a pizza. A bar and the frozen food section are one and the same it’s where one goes to pick up stuff at night.

Now, shoes that are too black and too shiny indicate he’s narcissistic. But, a nice pair of slightly worn leather kicks portend that he loves slowly and completely. He’ll make coffee in the morning.

Chick and a Filet

chick-filet1Fast food ahhhh! I don’t drive through the golden arches, my daughter doesn’t have Dunkin Donut holes on the weekend, and what does a bell have to do with a taco?

But, twice a year I’m naughty.

I visit my brother in Atlanta. When the airplane wheels touch the ground and the wings level off, I begin thinking of wings attached to chicken and I plan my first taste of a succulent chicken sandwich, waffle fries, and lemonade at Chick-fil-A.

I?m the first to buy at my local farmer’s market even getting the heirloom chicken there, the carrots, the cucumbers, the creamy freshly made yogurt but when I get on that Atlanta destination flight all reason flies out of the plane when the stewardess? closes the door. I become a different person a  butter-roasted juicy chicken sandwich seeking person.

Upon entering the Atlanta airport tram, I spy my first red and white Chick-fil-A wrapper, and my heart beats faster.

My brother picks me up at the airport?and I smile at the Chick-fil-A billboard on the highway. When did you last have a chicken sandwich, bro?
He furrows his brow hummm. Last week, I think.
He doesn’t know how could he not know!
I get to his house. Hug his wife. Unpack my clothes. So, I lean on his black kitchen counter, Any chance I could have the keys
Yeah, sure. You want me to get something for you He offers.
No, just thought I’d head out for a few minutes. I’ll be right back. Do you remember how to get where you are going My sister-in-law asks. I nod and extend my hand for the key drop.

As I drive up route 140, I swear warm chicken smelling fingers reach toward me to guide my way. At last the bright red Chick-fil-A sign welcomes me like an angel. I pull behind the trail of cars that awaits bliss in front of me. I gnaw a left hand nail in anticipation.
“May I help you,” I think the man inside the intercom says I love you. “Number one combo, please.”
My car eases toward the take-out window.
The window slides open.
The exchange occurs.
I feel and smell the golden package in my lap.
I can wait no longer. I plunge my hand into the paper bag, rip open the sandwich bag and chomp on the chicken. Each chew releases tingles on my tongue?and the fries are such happy companions to my chicken.

So much fast love wrapped in such a small red package.