My stained reputation

In keeping with the trend of lawsuits against fast-food franchises for making us fat, I’ve been thinking of initiating a suit against the restaurants in town.

I wouldn’t initiate this action from a health or weight standpoint. The essence of my charge is that these restaurants are damaging my reputation by serving noodles.

The damaging incidents to which I allude take place not in the restaurants per se but more often at my home.

Now and then, when we’re feeling sporty, Patti Jo and I order out from a company that delivers meals from local restaurants. When we do this, we’re free to order as much or as little as we want and to eat it wherever in the house we want. Patti Jo tends to gravitate toward the kitchen counter, Katie to her computer table, and I take my preferred dish to my own happy place.

At my desk, with my feet up, an old movie on, a book on my lap and a plate of angel hair pasta or linguini in hand, I have everything going for me. But this is where my grievance kicks in.

I’d like to stress that it’s not a question of food dropped off the fork. I take full responsibility for that. I’m talking about the splatter factor inherent in noodles.

Topped with olive oil or light sauces, noodles act as whips when picked up.

Though I fork them fastidiously, they lash those tiny drops of oil or sauce toward me at about the speed of a cyclotron. Once or twice I’ve tucked a napkin into my collar, but even that won’t offer full protection.

The result is that I have an irregular pattern of noodle stains on all my shirts -- stains that fade but don’t entirely disappear no matter how much I encourage Patti Jo to get them out.

When I wear these shirts, people’s estimation of me deteriorates, leading to unsuccessful meetings and subsequent loss of revenue. I might add that none of our local restaurants offer noodle warnings.

Hence my proposed lawsuit, and I think I have a heck of a case ... or at least I did until a few minutes ago, when I showed these preliminary notes to my advisors.

My advisors, who also live here with me, feel that my position is undermined by (a) my negligent eating stance and (b) my tendency to add melted butter and occasionally mayonnaise to the toppings already on the noodles, thus dramatically increasing their whiplash potential.

They further state that on this particular weekend I should offer thanks that we are fortunate enough to be able to order out now and then.

So OK. Fine. Happy Thanksgiving. Here I am stuck with all these spotty shirts and no suit.20051125hrimoxkf(LA)