Today, I fucked up...Ā by throwing my steak out a window
Last night, my wifeās boss from her brand new job invited us over for dinner. On the drive over, my wife reiterated many times to me just how important it was to make a good impression.
I scoffed and arrogantly informed my silly wife that I always make good impressions.
My wifeās boss is a single lady in her fifties, so it was just the three of us. We chitchatted over drinks and salads and seemed to really be hitting it off. She laughed at my well-timed, perfectly-appropriate jokes and my wife seemed pleased.
Soon she brought out the main course, a nice big juicy steak for each of us. As I began to cut into my steak, I was discouraged to discover how under cooked this steak was.
Now, Iāve had my fair share of rare steak. I prefer medium, but I can handle rare. This was several-minutes-on-a-hot-grill short of rare. I probably couldāve resuscitated the cow had I tried. Instead, I sat there fidgeting with my knife and fork, worrying about how I was going to get away with not eating this steak.
Claim vegan-ism? No, Iād already feigned great enthusiasm upon seeing the steak.
Just then, our hostess excused herself to the kitchen to take care of some dessert preparations. As I looked across the fancy dining room table at the open window of this 3rd story apartmentā¦ a cartoon light bulb appeared over my head.
I knew I had to be decisive, realizing that she could return at any moment. I committed. I grabbed the steak with my hand, gently shook off the juice and executed a perfect throw right through the center of the open window.
Hereās the big time FU. The window wasnāt open. It was the cleanest fricking window youāve ever seen in your life. That is, until my mostly raw slab of steak slammed up against it and slowly slid down leaving a trail of bloody juice in its wake.
My wife - whoās steak was a nice medium rare and was unaware of my predicament - turned, jaw dropped, and stared at me like I was an alien from another planet. This look then slowly morphed into more of a there-is-no-place-on-this-planet-you-can-ever-hide-from-me expression of demonic anger.
My wifeās boss heard the thud of the steak-on-window impact and came quickly. She took in the scene, the steak sitting on the window sill, the blood trail, my empty plate, and then gave me an inquisitive, puzzled look.
I just didnāt know what to say. It felt like a minute of silence, but was probably 3 or 4 seconds. Finally, the best I could manage was āIā¦ Iām so sorry. I am such a clutzā¦ I donāt knowā¦ I was just cutting it.. andā¦ itā¦ ā¦ it slippedā¦ just ask my wife, I really am a clutzā¦ right honey?ā¦ (no help coming from that direction) ā¦ I will clean this upā¦ I canāt believe thisā¦ I am so sorryā etcā¦ etcā¦
Both women continued to stare at me like I had escaped from the loony bin, as I smeared the blood around the window with my cloth napkin, dusted off the steak, and continued to mutter my incoherent explanation. I knew no one was buying the story.
I knew what I had to do. I sheepishly returned to my seat and proceeded to eat every bite of that disgusting, cold, chewy, bloody, raw steak.
I remained pretty quiet the rest of the evening. My wifeās only two words to me since the incident are āIām fineā.
TL;DR: Tried to sneakily throw my under-cooked steak through an open windowā¦ only to find out it wasnāt open.
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