For God’s sakes! I just posted today’s blog post about big girl panties (which ended up being way more serious than I intended it to be), and then we went to lunch. You’d think that lunch would be pretty uneventful and not inspire me to come home and immediately write and publish another blog. But it did.
And I have finally accepted that some kids are real a-holes. Here is the timeline of events that brought me to this frenzied conclusion:
I post What, Exactly, Are Big Girl Panties?. I read it over and shuffle to the door. I promised Panera for lunch this morning in an effort to get the whining to stop, so I must deliver.
We are at Panera, which happens to be right across the freeway from our apartment. I’m super excited because we made it before the lunch rush. Despite that – to my horror – I see that Panera has a line out the door and people are sitting at the outdoor tables complaining about how long their food is taking. We get in line.
My mind is now firing rapidly in trying to decide: stay in the line at Panera that has not moved for three minutes, or go next door to Johnny Rockets? I hem and haw about this. On one hand, what we order at Johnny Rockets will be almost identical to what we order at Panera. Johnny Rockets is a little cheaper, too. On the other hand, the clientele at that particular Johnny Rockets is a special breed of jerk-offs. Two times ago, we were there and some guy let out an uproarious belch, then announced to the entire patronage that it tasted like rotten milk. The last time we were there, some lady threw a fit because she couldn’t bring in her stroller.
The people in line behind us start loudly complaining about how the line isn’t moving and I make a decision: we’re going to Johnny Rockets.
We’re seated and already have our drinks in a booth at Johnny Rockets. I look outside and see the line at Panera still hasn’t moved. In a minute we order. Then I notice there are two kids sitting in the booth behind us. It’s a family place and I’m here with my own family, so I don’t mind the presence of other children.
I hear the children behind us ordering their food.
“I’ll have a salad with vinaigrette on the side. I’m on a diet.” She can’t be older than 6.
A few minutes pass and they bring out those complimentary french fries for both their and our tables. The 6 year old’s younger sibling, probably 4, yells “Carbs!! EWWW!!!”
I’ve managed to ignore those kids for a while. There is a baseball game on. We’re playing tic-tac-toe. Our food comes and it’s being hogged down like we haven’t eaten in a year. Then I have a break in concentration and I overhear those two little girls again. They’re talking about how glad they are that they homeschool because so many kids their age are “evil trolls.” The mother isn’t telling them to be nice, or to simmer down. No, she’s asking them for more details about just why other kids are evil and troll-like.
I see now that she is the real culprit in this dickhead behavior.
We have finished. They have finished. The waiter is bringing out balloons for all the kids in the restaurant. The one thing I like about Johnny Rockets in addition to the cheaper prices, and in spite of the particular clientele at this location, is the kid-friendly atmosphere. He asks what color all the kids in the place want. He goes back and gets them.
If I was that waiter, I would have said “You want pink, motherfucker?! How about your pretentious c-u-next-time of a mom takes you down the street and buys you one since you can’t make up your fucking mind!” Being much politer than I, and obviously valuing his job, he took back the blue balloon and brought out a replacement in the little a-hole princess’s desired color.
The booth of the c-u-next-time mom and the a-hole kids is getting up to leave as we are getting ready to go. I’m sneaking a few more french fries and – of course, because I’m a totally absent-minded slob – drop a tiny bit of ketchup on my shirt.
“Jeez, can’t take me anywhere,” I say to the Pookies and I wipe it off with a napkin. I plan to change my shirt when we get home in a few minutes and grab my purse.
The jerkoff family is passing by our booth with their pink-only balloons and their dieting, waffish a-hole kids.The older one that sent back her balloon stops and sees I’ve spilled a teeny-tiny amount of ketchup on my shirt and turns to the Pookies and says “your mom clearly has a hole in her lip.” Then the 4 year old says “carbs are so gross!”
C-u-next-time mom shuffles them out the door and says “they can handle their own affairs.” We get up and leave. I decide I’m going to stay in my mildly stained shirt for the rest of the day. In fact, when I get home I’m going to make it even more slovenly, and then roam around town for the rest of the day showing how much I don’t give a shit about a stupid stain on my shirt.
We make it home. Pookie says to me “those kids had a real attitude problem.” I respond “yes, well … we know not to act like that.” Homeschooling begins. I stay in my pigslob shirt.
Some kids are real a-holes. That Johnny Rockets deserves a reality show of its own. Panera better have a shorter and quicker-moving line next time.