Thursday, July 12, 2012

I know you do your own taxes -- which you really shouldn't do, by the way --

Internets, do you know who goes to Red Lobster?

I mean, besides little old me, forced there by the twin lures of those goddamn tasty-ass cheddar biscuit crack nuggets and the fact that the place shares a parking lot with the bookstore where I went with my four-and-a-half-year-old and eight-month-old, both of whom require carseats and the complex settling and buckling-in thereto and eternally drawn-out extraction processing therefrom, so that I now arrange all forays from my house in terms of least number of stops required, all other factors be straight-up damned, because Holy Ass-Pained Shatner De Todos Los Santos Madre de Dios y Nuestros Dolores is that a pain in my ass. Which raises a question: Are the chain restaurants of American Suburbia in league with the Carseat Mafia, in which one reinforces the other and e'rbody get paid? [SOUND OF ONE THOUSAND MINDS BEING BLOWN]

Anyway: So you know who really goes to Red Lobster? Women over the age of 55. That is ALLLL who else was there yesterday. They go in pairs, threes, sevenses. Some are all diety about it (forgoing the cheddar biscuits [the horror! ... the horror!]), ordering the broiled catch of the day with the plain steamed vegetable side. Some are like "All of the fats, be they cheeses or sauces or fried preparations, I will have them brought to me now for eating." Some are enjoying a glass of wine because this is a Sophisticated Joint where you can day-drink without judgment. Some you can tell just came there because at least that picky-ass Laureen can find something on the menu to eat, even if she will complain about it. But there was no table except mine that didn't have at least one over-55 female at it.

And the two gals in the booth right back of ours yesterday ... y'all! These two were borderline sexual-harassing the cute young waiter serving our section. I'm not kidding. They were going to town on this guy. Every time he came near us, they're like, "Hey Victor,* would you mind taking your cute bod to the kitchen to get us some more biscuits?" "I bet you have a lot of girlfriends, huh?" "How come we've never seen you here before? I'd remember a face like that." "Way to handle that heavy tray -- you must work out!" I was dying, listening to this -- it was hilarious, and Victor was handling it really well, but if customers had harassed me like that back in the day, I'd've been a furious embarrassed mess within minutes. I just ... hope they left a good tip. I did, because I'm like that anyway, but also because when I'm around a table of people who I suspect intend their good company and jolly banter to be the tip, I tend to put a little extra cash down to make up for my fellow humans' boobulousness.

So when the kids and I finally gathered ourselves to go, I checked the ladies out -- they were seventy-five if they were a day, and, AND, they had a dude with them! Whaaat! Obviously the husband of one of them, completely normal-looking guy, not deaf or senile, just I guess ignoring them while he read a newspaper. This changed the dynamic completely -- but to what, from what, I can't really say. Total WTF moment in an already WTF episode, I guess.

In conclusion: Red Lobster be cray.

*Not his real name

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Blogger alison said...

It's midnight and I'm in a hotel in upstate New York and it's midnight and I can't sleep even though my girls are snoring away and I read your post and I'm killing myself laughing because, my mother? Who's 72? LOVES Red Lobster. LOVES. (Gratuitous capitalization and akwardly placed question marks brought to you by 11 hours of driving and 2 Sam Adams Summer Ales.) Oh, and I remember the car seat days. Oh yes I do.

9:11 PM  
Blogger Gleemonex said...

Ahhhhh, I love you Alison! :-)

10:33 AM  

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