On our way to California we had a number of curious encounters. One of these became our theme for the weekend: Whadda do?
We left for the airport before 5 am for our 7 am flight. We flew Frontier (a whole different animal, for you carrier buffs) and for anyone who is interested, Fritz the mountain goat accompanied us to Denver, at which point Hector the otter took over for the trip to Sacramento.
We arrive in Denver and decide to have lunch during our three hour layover. We find a little place near our gate and sit down, slightly tired from our early rising and slightly on edge due to at least six screaming babies being on board our four hour flight, one of whom had decided it was a good idea to crawl beneath my seat and play with my ankles.
So there we are, sitting peacefully waiting for our food, when suddenly, out of the clear blue sky, a knife sails over and strikes Tricia on her hand, which was laying innocently in her lap. A loud surprised "OW" escapes from her lips, as she looks around for the thrower of the missile, which, though plastic, had some force behind it. A tall gangly waiter glances over unconcernedly, his long brown hair combed neatly over his eyes. An angel's halo glows above his brow, and the innocence of a newborn babe flows out of his voice as he says: "Whaddo do?" Yet this paradigm of guilelessness clutched a handful of telling evidence: several plastic knives in one hand, with the other hand remaining inside the silverware box at the servery. I feared for this young man's life in the first few tense moments, but Tricia only looked at him in silence and then stated calmly, "It didn't really hurt." I stole another glance at the offending party, but he only gave a brief "Oh" in response and returned to the perusal of his collection of cutlery.
So there you have it. The phrase "Whadda Do" carried us through the rest of the weekend.