14 More Minutes

I met my friend Charise for lunch.

We had children in school together for 11 years, and now we don’t. We meet for a two-hour meal about once every 9 weeks to catch up. 

She talks more than I do. She certainly has more energy and creativity. She could make a chandelier from crepe paper and cook a gourmet dinner to serve underneath it, if she wanted to, but she has a pool table in her dining room, because she likes to play pool. She grew up in in the mountains of north Georgia. She loves Southern expressions and literature. She visits old women in the nursing home, simply because she enjoys their company, and it's the right thing to do. She heard recently that someone didn’t like her, and she was astonished.

I be-bopped into Longhorn’s 5 minutes late. She is punctual, so she was already seated at our table and sipping a strawberry lemonade. We were quickly swapping stories about her recent NYC 25-year anniversary trip and my adventures as a college mom, when our waitress came by to see what I wanted to drink.

“Sweet tea, please.”

“With lemon?”

“Gosh, yes, I need the hard stuff today!”

The pretty waitress laughed at my obvious wit. Then, she hesitated and asked,

“Are you Celeste Conner?”

“Yes . . . .” (How do I know her? She looks more than 3 years older than my daughters, so I don’t know her from when they were in high school.)

“I do know you! You are Celeste Conner, right?!”

“Yes . . . .” (Did she grow up at our church? Did she come to VBS with a friend?)

“Celeste Conner—the blogger?!”

I gasped. I was oddly speechless. (What?! Why would she read my blog? Did I go to high school with her mama?)

“Your blog is called something like . . . Blabberings . . . .”

My eyes flew open. I was stunned. Bumfuzzled. (I DO NOT KNOW THIS YOUNG WOMAN AND SHE KNOWS WHO I AM!!!)

The adorable waitress with the sparkling smile praised on, “I read your blog. I recognized you from your picture. You are so funny.”

I sat up a little straighter in the booth. I felt my head swell a little bit. I was suddenly self-righteous. I smiled condescendingly and mumbled, “I can’t believe this . . . .”

I looked at my friend. I knew she would be impressed. And rightly so. She looked proud of my moment. I was happy for her that she could experience this with me. She seemed as pleased and surprised as I was.

Wait a minute. I smelled a stinker.

“YOU DID THIS! YOU SET ME UP!”

And they couldn’t hold their secret any longer.

Charise knew I would be 5 minutes late. (If I am not punctual, at least I am predictable, which is kinda punctual in its own way.) She revealed her diabolical plan to the wicked waitress and asked her if she would participate in the mischief. (She told her cohort, "She writes about her sisters, her daddy, the Bible, and a dawg.") She even paid her a dollar. The wicked waitress tried to reject it. My fiendish friend declared, “This is a business transaction.”

And so, they snowed me. Hooked, lined, and sinkered me. Bowled me over.

I’m not too proud to enjoy a brilliant set up—even if I’m the sucker, who is a tad more humble right now. (Don’t fret. It won’t last.) And I always enjoy a restaurant-rocking laugh to release the woes of the day—even if I’m the butt of the good-natured joke. My only disagreement with the con is that it wasn’t long enough. I thought fame was supposed to last 15 minutes, and I only got one.

But for that dazzling minute, I thought I was Erma Bombeck.