Saturday, Catherine, Marcia and I were having dinner at a restaurant down the street. Oh, and falling madly in love with Brandon, our waiter.
Marcia: Do you have a to-go cup for my Margarita?
Brandon: I should tell you. My name is Steve, not Brandon, and this is actually an intervention.
So, when a gray-haired man came up behind me and touched my shoulder, I was a little dismayed it was not Brandon, but instead some hail-fellow-pseudo-manager man. And to be accurate, he didn’t touch my shoulder, he laid hands on it. He applied firm pressure. He tested the limits of my patience. I was in the middle of the “Oh, is that your hand?” one-eyebrow-arched hand stare-down, and tensing up for the pointed brush-off, if not the always direct “Don’t TOUCH me.”
“So, who’s the mom?” he bellowed.
We were stymied.
Catherine asked, “I don’t know, who is the mom?”
“My Mom’s dead.” Marcia said bluntly.
“Uhhh…I’m the Mom?” thinking perhaps he was asking about who was the oldest of the group, and wondering why Marcia wasn’t stepping up.
“So, you should be here tomorrow!” He roared, him, always with the roaring. The roaring and my god, the bellowing. Oh, sorry, a little Mom talk and I got all Dooce on you.
I asked, “I’m sorry, but … what are you talking about?”
“Mother’s Day is tomorrow! How many kids do you have?”
“OH! You were asking if any of us were mothers! No, no moms here.”
He tried to keep it going, even as we started to chide him for assuming not all women of a certain age are mothers. Eventually, he pressed my shoulder AGAIN and meandered off to make gross generalizations at another table.
He stopped by one more time.
“Hey,” I chirped, “Ask me again who’s the Mom!”
“WHO’S THE MOM!”
I mock-sobbed into my hands, “Oh god, I never had children. How can you bring up such a painful memory?”
Ass.
Assbadger.
14 responses to “Mistaken Identity”
*raising hand* Why do I ALWAYS have to be the mom…?
BAAA HAAA HAAA.
So what restaurant does this mean we’re boycotting?
Is it possible Brandon/Steve was actually Aston Kutcher and you were getting Punk’d? (I’ve never seen Punk’d, but that’s what I assume it involves.) I was hoping this story would end with you being on a local-access candid camera show. That’s bizarre.
Queen, did you catch the comment from Brandon that the psuedo-manager didn’t really work for the restaurant? According to the story he is a good friend of the owners and was doing them a favor by playing manager for the evening.Are we allowed to call the restaurant by name to answer Caroline’s question?
I don’t know if this is a product of growing up and having money to eat at places other than McDonald’s or if it is a growing trend…but since when did the staff of restaurants, particularly the sleazoid floor managers, start being so chatty???I particularly hate the ones who invite you to rat out the waitstaff…”So, has Marty been taking good care of you? Need another diet coke?”
Hell, I’m going back! That was a real nice piece of meat. and the steak was great, too!
Sue – Because. Because I said so, that’s why.Autumn – Aha! If I want someone to think I’m funny, make sure it’s after they’ve been reading church minutes for hours.Caroline – the place where you think the bad Mexican place was.Catherine – I know! It really was the only turn-off of the night. But, given how packed it was, they might want to turn away some business.Sarah – My friend responds to waiters who say, “Hi, I’m Dave and I’ll be taking care of you tonight” by pulling out his car keys and demanding they take it to be washed.Friend #3 – Try the veal!
*sigh*
I also hate when the waiter or waitress tries to sit with you. What boneheaded Outback executive came up with that? “Please bring me a blooming onion and then scoot on over here and share it with me, because the people I came with just aren’t good enough company on their own.”I don’t even like the squatting waiters. What are they doing that requires that position?
Sue – don’t give me lip, young lady.Caroline – Oh, have you been to Tony’s? The waiters are required to always keep their heads below yours. I hated it.
If it wouldn’t be such an expensive experiment, I’d say let’s go play waiter limbo and see just how low we can get him to go. Repeated, simultaneous dropping and picking up of forks anyone?
Like “The King and I,” Caroline! Do it!
Caroline, Taster, you kids have fun on your date.