peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

After a fun day of snow tubing, I took my kids to dinner at one of the restaurants in the tiny mountain town. Local flavor. Tucked into a corner, in the lodge restaurant, it was cozy. Our waiter sported a long, bushy, dangly moustache. The kind that made you do a double take.

Burgers, fries, salad. Normal fare. But we were starving, so it hit the spot.

Until. We. Discovered. A. Hair. In. My. Daughter’s. Burger.

Gasp!

Where was our hairy waiter? Nowhere. I searched out the cashier and told her, “Excuse me, there was a hair in my daughter’s hamburger.”

She looked at me and questioned, “Oh really? How long was it?” She directed the question to my daughter. As if. We were lying.

WTH? How long? Twelve inches. Nine inches. Four inches. One inch. Half an inch. Does it matter? When it comes to hair in food, size doesn’t matter. A hair is a hair is a hair.

My daughter held out her hands about four inches apart, “It was like this,” she described.

Net net. We weren’t charged for her burger. And oh by the way, how about a hair net for that ‘stache?

This made me think of a little hair on a little can of Coke in the not-so-little Anita Hill vs. Clarence Thomas sexual harassment case. Says Anita Hill: “Who has put pubic hair on my Coke?”

Do you want fries hairs with that burger?

My Dad, my two kids, and me. At an all-you-can-eat buffet-style restaurant for lunch. Salad? Soup? Muffins? Macaroni and cheese? Jello? Yeah, all that is included.

Manners? Not included.

My Dad didn’t know that he was in for a surprise. I mean, these things aren’t planned. They just happen.

Like how my daughter’s loaded baked potato rolled onto the floor. Splat. And how my son announced that he ate something that “sucked balls.” And how he proceeded to eat his bowl of soft-serve ice cream with his face. No spoon. And described how he saw a picture in the Guinness Book of World Records of a woman with boobies the size of watermelons. Yeah that.

Did Grandpa just cringe?

Who’s hooligans were these children? Who taught these hooligans manners?

I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, it was like a scene from Parenthood. I love when Grandma describes the roller coaster as a metaphor for life. Thus, I proudly claim these hooligans as my hooligans.

With their zest. Giggles. Naughtiness. Looseness. Their (sometimes) lack of manners.

For some reason, I didn’t need to seek my Dad’s approval of my parenting skills (or lack of parenting skills). Because sometimes while on this roller coaster, you forget to parent. Or you just don’t want to.

At the table, my Dad averted his eyes, choosing not to claim this group (mother included).

Check please.

I’m hanging out at YeahWrite. Come back on Thursday to pick your five favorite posts!

It was just another end-of-season soccer party…or was it? Accompanying a team of nine-year-old girls at the local pizza place. The girls were laughing. The mothers were talking at separate tables, letting the girls mingle and giggle.

The mothers had barely said 10 words to each other during the soccer season. Maybe a little chit-chat at the games. This was a chance to get to know each other. Strangers with fake smile, making small talk.

It was uncomfortable.

There was pizza and salad. Iceberg lettuce with cucumbers and Ranch dressing. Cheese pizza. I couldn’t resist a big, fat slice.

Talking to another mother, chewing the thick crust, a glob of dough suddenly stuck in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. The mother kept talking to at me. Telling me about Halloween costumes. After all, it was late October. I zoned out. But was trying to be polite.

I was quietly choking. And trying not to panic.

I played it off. The crust wouldn’t go up. It wouldn’t go down. My airway was completely clogged.

I started to panic. But instead of motioning for help, I stood up and walked toward the door. Trying to breathe, I couldn’t. Full body sweat.

Air wasn’t going through. The doughy crust wasn’t breaking apart and wasn’t getting soft. I was wheezing and gasping. A morbid thought passed through me.

I looked across the room at my daughter–freshly showered post-game with her ponytail still damp–smiling and chatting with her friends. I leaned over, willing that crust to go up or down. “Do it for your daughter,” I willed.

No one seemed to notice me. And I didn’t call attention to myself. I was quietly choking.

After a few minutes, the saliva finally worked its magic and the crust finally went down. Tears were streaming down my reddened face.

Wiping them off with my sleeve, I resumed my place at the Mom table.

And proceeded to announce that my daughter would be a werewolf for Halloween.

I worked at Sizzler as a teen. And though minimum wage was under $4 per hour at the time, I made up for it in fried shrimp and chocolate cake.

At Sizzler, for, like, $8.99, you could order a steak, soup and salad bar, and all-you-can-eat shrimp. People came to the restaurant in droves. And they usually had hefty appetites.

I had a hefty appetite.

My black apron sported handy front pockets, plenty deep for about 20 shrimp at a time. Beautiful, golden, salty, tasty little suckers.

Like Bubba, it was shrimp for lunch, shrimp for dinner, shrimp during my shift, shrimp while on my break.

Oh and the triple-decker chocolate cake at the dessert bar? Slices were a little harder to stash in your pockets, but let me tell you, it could be done. And that cake was divine.

Shrimp and chocolate cake will just never be the same.

Where did you work as a teen? Feel free to share your funny story!

Never look a gift horse card in the mouth.

Someone gave my husband a $100 gift card to fancy schmancy restaurant. Not a chain restaurant. And definitely a no-kids-menu restaurant.

It was a teensy tiny place with white table cloths and candles. With a menu written in calligraphy.

Date night! We had big plans of ordering tons of drinks. Tons of apps. Tons of food. Tons of dessert.

I even wore something with a little elastic around the waist to account for expansion.

But whaddya know. After scanning the menu–gulp–prices were so high, our visions of drinks and apps sorta dissipated. Even with the $100 gift card.

“We’re fine with water,” I told the waiter.

I ordered the mushroom ravioli with cream sauce. And my husband ordered the chicken with pesto and pine nuts.

No apps. No extra drinks. Face it. We’re kinda cheap when it comes to restaurants. I mean, we’ll spring on beers and a pile of nachos as big as your Grandfather’s Chevy any day.

What can I say? I like big food. (I also like Sir Mix-a-Lot’s I Like Big Butts song…)

The salads arrived. Nothing special. Just your typical grass-and-weed mix. Crunch. Crunch.

Then the main course. And it looked like this.

I’m not kidding you. I thought I ordered RAVIOLIS. As in a huge pile of them. I felt like the giant in Jack and The Beanstalk eating a pea. What is UP with the ginormous plate and the itty-bitty food that cost as much as my winter parka

Do you take your knife and fork and slice up the one freaking ravioli?

And you won’t catch me offering, “Here honey, try some of mine.”

My husband’s meal was just as comical. He’s a big guy. Like NFL-quarterback big. You can’t fool him with the sauce drizzled in a spirograph pattern, creating an optical illusion.

We finished our dinner snack in about 8 minutes. Taking little bites and drinking lots of water.

The check came. That was that. We shelled out $20 of our OWN money for a tip. And left with our tummies grumbling.

Then we hightailed it Burger King for dinner #2.

giant plants. small portions. kaching.

You know Templeton, the rat in Charlotte’s Web? Well, he goes to the fair and feasts until he is so fat that he drags his belly on the ground.

I am that rat. But instead of the fair, I am in New York. You’ll probably see the headline in the New York Daily News:

PIPPI EATS HER WAY THROUGH NEW YORK CITY!

World’s best bagel, famous Ray’s pizza, mobsters’ hangouts in Little Italy, New York delis, quaint places in East Village…you name it.

Whew, glad I packed my fat jeans.

“Can You Fit Into the Booth?”…and other funky questions they ask you at restaurants.

Today, I lunched with my friends after soccer (soccer as in football for my global friends). Yeah, we are a bunch of jocks. Hungry jocks.

In we walked into this Thai restaurant. The five of us were sweaty and a little crazy. Giddy from scoring so many goals, ya know? The restaurant was totally empty and we could basically sit anywhere. We eyed the booth. The hostess/waitress had other plans for us: the dreaded table out in the open by the kitchen.

“Nah,” I said, “We’d like the booth please.”

She goes, “Can you fit into the booth?” Say what??

We’re like, “Yeah we can fit.” And to ourselves, we’re like: we  just worked out; if we’re too big for a booth, maybe we should order a salad. With the dressing on the side. Gotta watch those carbs. Seriously? Way to sell us a three-course meal by insinuating that we are too large.

But it was probably just a case in lost in translation. Because she suggested drinks (yes!) and appetizers (no way!)

Oh, and by the way, booths are my all-time favorite places to sit. Love the vinyl bench seat. Love cozying up to my buddies—my  sweaty, stinky buddies.

Here are other questions that bug me at restaurants:

1. “So, will it just be the two of you?” Uh, yeah. Ya got a problem with that? The other day, my husband and I took our son out for lunch and the hostess asked exactly that. “So, just the three of you.” Why yes, isn’t three good enough for you?  And what if you went out solo? Hostesses, bet ya didn’t know you needed to be more aware of your line of questioning, did ya?
2. “Is everything tasting OK?” And you think, yeah, it tastes OK. Not great, not the best ever. But OK.
3. “Can I take your plate or are you still working on that?” when there’s like ratty old carrot left. And the fork is resting on the plate. Gee, no, I’m going to pick up the plate and lick it. You know how you should respond?

“Can you please box up the rest?”

If I keep eating like that, I just might be able to fit into the booth the next time…