Red Lobster

Whenever we have to venture into the Big City from our little suburb, we try to go out to a ‘nice’ restaurant, since our town only has 4 decent restaurants to choose from and we get tired of them very quickly. So on our way to the mall to pick up my birthday present (a gorgeous Fire Topaz ring—good job, Brandt!) we ate at Red Lobster for their Lobsterfest. It was really crowded, so I was worried about how well Brandt would be able to hear me. We had the FM system, of course, but I was still concerned.

We were seated at a 2-person booth, with another 2-person booth right next to it. There was a narrow partition between them, but it was only a little bit higher than the top of the table. So essentially, we were sitting together with the two ladies next to us. Huh. This is going to be interesting. I already get glares from fellow restaurant patrons sitting across the room—I talk THAT LOUD—so this was going to be a challenge. Trying to talk loud enough for Brandt to hear me clearly, but not so loud that the lady sitting 6 inches away could participate in our conversation…

Our waitress was awesome: loud, animated, and very inquisitive. She introduced herself and immediately asked me, “So what’s that thing around your neck?” I laughed. Brandt told her, “I’m glad you asked; most people don’t.” “Really?!” she was surprised. “That’s the first thing I noticed, I wanna know what it is! My mother always said, ‘can’t learn until you ask.’” “Most people just stare at it, but don’t ask,” I said, explaining that it’s an FM system with a microphone that transmits my voice directly to Brandt’s hearing aids. He pointed to his ears. “So she comes in loud and clear, and I don’t hear all the background noise that’s going on in here.” “COOL!” she yelled. “It is cool!” we agreed.

I have only been asked about the FM system a handful of times. Two people thought it was a new kind of recording device that takes either photos or videos (these gadgets can be used for blogging or to help Alzheimer’s patients remember what they’ve done that day). I hardly ever get questions, but I get a lot of stares. It was the worst in Las Vegas last Fall; maybe it was just because I’m not used to so many people in such a concentrated area, but it seemed like half the people that walked by were staring, puzzled, at the FM transmitter clipped to my cleavage.

Dinner went fine; it helped a lot that there was no loud music playing overhead. Brandt didn’t have any problems hearing me, and since the FM system’s microphone was aimed away from the ladies next to us, he missed out on their conversation about bar mitzvahs and Aushwitz (I missed part of it, so I have no clue why they were discussing a concentration camp, but they said “Auschwitz” half a dozen times each).

I did have to help him out was when our waitress asked him at the end of the meal if he liked the gumbo, which he’d eaten at the beginning of the meal. He nodded, saying, “Good, it was very good.” He had told me it wasn’t all that great, so I knew he didn’t hear her say “gumbo” (the FM system was aimed at me, not her). She answered, “Oh good, so it wasn’t too spicy?” He nodded again. “Good. It was all very good.” I jumped in to help. “Gumbo. She’s asking if you liked the gumbo, was it too spicy?” “Oh, the gumbo!” he exclaimed. “It was so-so. Not too spicy though, no.”

As he was figuring out the tip, Brandt jumped in his seat and looked frantically around the restaurant. “Blender,” I answered, before he even asked. “Someone’s getting a frozen drink over at the bar.” He sighed. “Ah. I couldn’t figure out what that sound was!” “I know…” I said.