Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger and it's Mr T's 40th Birthday!

Did you hear about the depressed man that ate his own finger? (Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger) 

I’d read the story a couple of days ago and had forgotten about it until Mr T’s 40th birthday arrived. I thought it was an interesting way to deal with depression and certainly guaranteed him the attention he needed, but what I really want to know is if anyone asked him what it tasted like and how he ate it. Did he slow-cook it, so the meat fell from the bone, or does he prefer his meat medium-rare?

Thankfully, Mr T isn’t about to start eating himself, but after an operation to remove a salivary gland followed by a bout of gastro, almost two weeks of inactivity, school holidays and now a 40 year milestone, he’s not feeling like the perkiest boob in the strip club.

I tried pointing out some positives: he’s married to a younger woman – he’s in his forties and I’m in my thirties; he may feel old, but a particular part of his anatomy has at least another 40 years left in it. In fact, when he woke and said he was surprised he hadn't passed away in his sleep, I pointed out to him that a part of him was awake and rearing to go a good 5–10 minutes before he was, and if he had passed away it would be waving about screaming, ‘Resuscitate him! I’m not done with this world yet!’

At least he isn’t insisting on buying a sports car, getting hair implants or swapping his wife for a younger model. The latter is certainly not an option; he can’t keep up with the one he has now (that may change when she reaches her forties in six months time).

So, how does Mr T cope with today’s depressing milestone?  He offers to shout everyone (who’s at home) McDonald’s for breakfast.

Some may see this as a typical act of depression – eating unhealthy food. At least it’s not his finger! But I see it as Mr T challenging himself. He’s challenging his cholesterol levels, challenging the kilos he lost over the last couple of weeks and he’s challenging his mouth to withstand the pain of chewing a bacon and egg mcmuffin. (I ordered hotcakes as well, just in case the last challenge was too difficult, but I forgot he had to eat excruciatingly slow and ate them for him.)

We all handle life’s events, good and bad, differently. Lucky for Mr T, he has me to hold him hostage, torture him with woeful jokes and force him to smile through gritted teeth.

Please note: Due to the momentous event of Mr T’s 40th birthday, a recount of the vomit battle has been postponed until next week.

Mouldy Highchairs and Outrageous Bills...

It was a lovely autumn day in Melbourne today; the sky was clear and we had a top of 22C, so we decided to go for a drive up Mt Dandenong. Boywonder and Tomboy had a lovely time kicking their feet through the golden leaves on the ground and I got some great photos of the autumnal trees and some interesting toadstool and plant shots to use as inspiration for the fairy world in one of my chapter books.

Lunch was a little disappointing. The food was great, but we weren’t entirely happy with the service. I understand that some people cringe when they see a couple with young children arrive at their upper class restaurant; let’s face it there are a lot of people that let their kids run riot through restaurants. But our kids don’t create loud noise and they remain in their chair the entire time we’re in the restaurant, unless it’s to visit the toilet. We’ve often received compliments on how well behaved our children are.

The restaurant we attended didn’t have a children’s menu, but they did have a high chair, so that says to me children are welcome. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that the straps and the edges of the high chair seat were covered in spots of mould. At least half the restaurants we visit provide high chairs with mould on them and they are usually the more expensive restaurants.

Is it their way of ensuring you don’t return with your children? At first I thought it was because they didn’t have children, but when the hostess removed our plates at the end of the meal she asked Boy Wonder and Tomboy how old they were and then proceeded to tell us how old her children were. Maybe I should’ve asked her if she’d place her child in a high chair with mouldy straps.

Two other tables received complimentary bread rolls; we were overlooked, but so was the table next to us. They didn’t have children, but the woman was Asian; maybe the restaurant was anti-children and racist.

When Mr T returned from paying the bill I asked how much it was. When he told me $136 I sent him back to ask for an explanation. His and my meal with our wine totalled $80, which meant we were being charged almost $30 each for Boywonder and Tomboy’s lunch. I wasn’t surprised to see them apologising for charging us another table’s bill and refunding $46. Needless to say, no tip was left.

But how was the food you ask? It was nice, nothing to rave about and certainly not memorable enough to overshadow the memory of the high chair and bill!