You Can’t Drink All Day if You Don’t Start in the Morning by Celia Rivenbark Page B

dinner.”
    Which brings us back to Outback, where Duh had invited his redneck cousin, Dink, to join us. And, yes, it says “Dink” on his birth certificate. This is the South; pay attention.
    The waitress greeted us and shot me a look that seemed to convey pity. How could she know my secret shame? Did Ihave “loser” written all over me? I considered resubmitting my own application to the Hall of Fame and mentioning that I had once had an entire conversation with the girl who plays Peyton on
One Tree Hill
when they filmed across the street from my house. Fonzie that.
    We settled ourselves into the booth beneath the slightly creepy gaze of a stuffed koala bear clinging to a plastic replica of a eucalyptus tree. Travel broadens the mind so.
    Dink was in town for a convention of fellow fastener salespeople. He started to tell me more about that but I fell face forward into my kookaburra cocktail from the sheer drudgery of it.
    Kidding! Dink can make any story livelier. He’s a classic Bubba, the kind who not only helps you tote off the oyster shells after the roast but drops them into a neighbor’s driveway to fill in a pothole he noticed.
    Dink was telling an extremely funny joke about how a group of kindergarteners were being told not to use baby talk anymore.
    “The teacher says to ’em, ‘From now on, you just use big-people words.’ Then she says to ’em, ‘Now tell me what y’all did this weekend’,” drawls Dink.
    “So when one little boy says he went to visit his nana the teacher says, ‘You mean your grandmother.’ Then another boy says he rode a choo-choo and the teacher says, ‘You mean you rode the train.’ Then a third little boy says he read a book and the teacher smiles and asks, ‘What book didyou read?’ and the little boy thinks for a minute, then puffs his chest out really big, all proud of his answer, and says, ‘Winnie the
Shit
!’ ”
    Well, what can I tell you? I forgot all about my Hall of Fame diss and couldn’t stop laughing.
    Sometimes a night out with your super red cousin-in-law is just what the doctor ordered.
    It was time to order so I told the waitress I’d like my favorite: the eight-ounce Victoria’s filet, cooked medium.
    The waitress looked at me and said, “Medium. Now that’s done on the outside with a warm, pink center, OK?”
    I thought this was a little weird but, hell, maybe she just had a slight hearing problem and wanted to make sure she had it right.
    “Yes,” I said. “Fortunately, our understanding of ‘medium’ is exactly the same.” I hated the snarkiness in my voice, but the kookaburra cocktail and Dink’s joke had me feeling a little bitchy/silly.
    She then turned to Duh, who ordered his Outback special, a twelve-ounce sirloin, medium rare.
    “Hmmmm,” said the waitress. “That’s going to be pink inside fading to a grayish brown color throughout the rest of the meat and with a grayish-brown outside.”
    “Yes!” said hubby as if he’d just proved to be more intelligent than a fifth grader. I was afraid he was going to pump his fist in the air.
    Meantime, all that talk about gray meat was making me alittle sick. Or maybe it was the bloomin’ onion, which Dink ordered for the table but which I had demolished in my Hall of Fameless–induced depression.
    The waitress turned to Dink, who also ordered the Outback special, but cooked rare.
    Once again, the waitress took on a look of concentration like she was going to kinetically cook it by using her own thought rays.
    “Rare . . . That’s—”
    But Dink held up his hand to stop her. Uh-oh. I knew what was coming.
    “I dunno about all that, lil darlin’,” he drawled. “Just knock his ears off, wipe his ass, and lead ’im to the table.”
    The waitress looked down at the descriptions that Outback had provided and pondered, I thought, the proper response. It was obvious to me that Outback was sick and damn tired of dealing with idiots who send their steaks back whining about