A desperate Swedish Girl and I went to a Friendly’s restaurant recently. We had been shopping and running errands for a few hours and our blood sugar was dropping and we just needed some, ahem, nutrients pronto. What an awful experience. First, we were guided to the very first wind-blown table you see when you enter the establishment. The one where the crowd of losers ordering ice cream practically sits in your cole slaw. Borrowing a page from my dad, I asked the waitress for another table. She was kind enough to lead us to a booth with sticky seats. We were off to a great start.
Next, on her way to the ladies room, Swedish Girl heard the cook yelling at our waitress about my order: “YOU WANT A F–KIN’ TUNA MELT!?! I’M GETTIN’ TO YOUR F–KIN’ TUNA MELT RIGHT NOW, OKAY!!!” I really didn’t want to eat an angry tuna melt after that. Food is supposed to be prepared with love. Later, I went to the men’s room to wash my hands and discovered there were no paper towels. I was so furious that I shook my arms and hands VIOLENTLY to get soapy water all over the mirror (revenge, ya know?) and my wedding band (which is too big) flew off my finger, bounced off the mirror, and I caught it like a wide receiver before it could riccochet into the toilet. All this occured before even getting our food, mind you.
When the food came, we had to eat while having the assorted slackjawed yokels stare, glare, and drool at us from 13 feet away as they waited for their ice cream. Since then, I’m tempted to carry crackers and Gatorade with me at all times.