A slice of hope

I went for pizza yesterday.  Cheese pizza, obviously, as the enforced vegetarianism is going strong.

My waiter, a lovely guy, stopped to ask how things were going.

"Great, thanks!"

Waiter, "Would you like some esperanza sauce for your pizza?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Esperanza.  It's our special sauce.  Do you want esperanza on your pizza?"

I grinned.  "No thank you.  I like my pizza hopeless."

He blinked at me.  Blink.  Blink.  "Huh?"

I didn't feel like explaining it, so I brushed it off.  I promptly texted my best friend to share my joke.


Always practical, she wrote back.  "How does hope taste?"

"Like Caesar salad dressing."

"Hmmm.  I'm not a fan of hope then."


I love her.


(Esperanza means hope in Spanish, for those who might not know.)

Bubbly

We were having a discussion about a patient who was so pathologically happy and cheerful that it was easy to imagine she would be quite at home in a cheerleading uniform or as a TV anchor.  We had no idea why she was so cheery, but it bothered us.  It annoyed us.  It irked us.  This speaks much more of the psyche of a resident than it does of the patient.  She was lovely.

My attending paused, thoughtful.  "Maybe it's because she's Southern.  Southern girls are bubbly."

My chief, a beautiful but serious girl stared him down.  "I'm Southern.  I'm not bubbly."

He had no rebuttal.