Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Family Outing that Ends Well (really!) Part 2

Beating a hasty retreat from the manic and useless phone store, we swerved right to check out the cute-looking Indian cafe/bakery. You see, while we dislike change and mandatory acceptance of technology, we love Indian food.

We were greeted by a bakery case full of gorgeous pastries and pictures of attractive little "mini-meals," all non-threatening and bright and delicious-but no one was behind the counter. We looked around and looked at each other and waited, as Wendy's chatter became more and more demanding: she really would rather go to the other place and eat a sandwich or a hot dog. The other place. THE OTHER PLACE THAT IS NOT THIS PLACE WHERE THERE IS A SANDWICH. OR A HOT DOG OR A SANDWICH AT THE OTHER PLACE THE OTHER PLACE THE OTHER PLACE.

Still, no one came out to take our order. So we left and went to the other place, on the other side of the phone store.

The other place was a deli/diner full of dark booths crammed with little groups of proper old ladies and besuited pudgy men. They were all slurping on overpriced corned beef specials and french onion soup, daring me with dour glances to do something totally unacceptable like breastfeed my baby in their diner so they could throw spoons and boo at me. Not really. But that's how I feel whenever I find myself in a less-than-comfortable setting for breastfeeding.

Like everyone is looking and about to start shit. They aren't, I know. Mostly.

Wendy ordered a hot dog, Carl ordered a sandwich, I ordered a cup of hot chocolate and declared that I did NOT WANT TO BE THERE, and spent a very long half-hour clutching the baby and willing him to stay asleep in his little bear suit while Wendy whined that she was "not used to her hot dog cut in half. Nope. Not used to it at all. I don't know if I can eat it like this. All cut up. Who cuts a hot dog up?"

On the way home, Carl asked if there was anything that would make me feel better. Wine? Something from the drive-through?

"Pie. I think I need a lot of pie. Probably lemon meringue. Or apple. I don't care. Just pie."

And that is how our family outing ends well. We didn't get phones. We didn't get a vacuum roller like we planned. We ate somewhere crappy when we could have eaten somewhere nice. We had to drive home in rush hour traffic.

But we ended up at home with two pies, and I couldn't have been happier.


  1. Any story that ends with two pies is the equivalent of "happily every after." :)

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