I'm ready for a weekend at Bernies

I was pretty cool in high school. If you don't believe that, just ask me. I'll tell you.

I wasn't very cool in college, I took it way too seriously which is a mistake I hope my children don't make.

I was cool again in my 20's.

I was both uncool and then too-cool in my 30's.

I forgot about it in my 40's, that is, until recently.

Recently I've begun to look and feel middle-aged. I cannot express how much this sucks. For some reason I thought I was immune to it, mostly because I want to be immune to it, and because I hang out with some beautiful people, barely hanging on to their youth by their fingernails.

Anyway, last weekend, I learned that no matter what, cool cannot be re-accessed from middle age, at least not the middle age I'm sitting in, the one that is completely dictated by being a Mom. Everything I do is doormat-related and done for other people because this is my phase in life. I think that people in their 50's or 60's get cool back, once the kids are gone and they can take up more selfish interests.
I'm not there and if you're reading this, you're probably not, either, with the exception of my parents because I make them read everything I write.

They're cool.

Anyway, last weekend, I slammed into the Wall of Middle Age at sound-barrier-breaking speed.
Saturday afternoon, I took Hannah (age 10) and three friends to Skate Inn. I was prepared to sit there for a couple of hours, catch up on Words with Friends (a middle-age person's game) and watch the girls skate.

After watching them for a while, I noticed several parents out there and me, always the no-nonsense, structured parent... who never has any fun, content with making fun happen for everyone else and taking joy from that... Me... (ahem) I, thought I'd do something CRAZY... and skate. Have some fun. Live a little. Surprise my child with my carefree attitude (she's never seen this, mostly because it doesn't exist) and my finesse at roller skating.

Finesse, I say... major skill.

Boy oh boy oh boy did I skate many a mile at the Starlite Skating Center in Clanton. I was good. Really, really good. So good, in fact, that I had the fancy tennis-shoe style skates courtesy of Santa Claus and the 1982 Sears Wishbook.

Yessir... this skating experience will open me up to all kinds of fun stuff in the future. I've had an attitude adjustment. A little shift in thinking will enable a major shift in quality of life... but like every other great idea I usually have...

this was not to be.

Not the case.

It backfired.

On a large scale. (Of course... I'm no small-timer at failure.)

Or at falling.

Which is what I discovered was happening as soon as I stepped into that rink... and when I say "into" I mean "into." There's about a four inch step into the rink, which I handled quite gracelessly in front of a man sitting with a baby. When I stepped down to enter that rink like a former roller girl that I thought I was, my right foot when sailing while my back one made my body do some kind of side flip. I grabbed the step in front of the man with the baby with both hands and laid there, mangled looking for a second, doing a mental body check of potential broken bones and since I didn't have any, well, why not try it again?

It was that step that screwed me up. I haven't skated since 1986 and the problem was the step. I will eliminate that step this time by sitting on it with both feet on the floor, push myself up and then skate like a boss.

That is not what happened, like, at all.

What happened was I pushed myself up and like you see in movies, my torso went first while my arms did the windmill. Then the arms went out front (mummy-style) in an attempt to correct the torso and this action made me fall flat on my ass, with my hands breaking my fall and my fall (nearly)breaking my hands.

If physical pain trumps the humiliation of such an action, then you might be severely injured. The first order of business was getting myself off that floor, which from my perspective seemed to be a large task given the fact that standing was not an option, so, I basically crawled over to the side, pulled myself up to the bench and removed the skates.

My carefree skating experience ended up being not just painful, but record-setting as the shortest skating session in history. And to add insult to injury, it cost money to do this.

So, I had two more hours to sit there, in agony, and reflect upon my experience. My phone didn't work in there, so I couldn't even play my old-peoples' game.

Anyway, ice and ibuprofen work miracles, nothing was broken, most of the pain was in my hands, wrists, elbows, shoulders, and neck since I'd used my arms to cushion the fall, thus protecting my spine, which I guess is some kind of innate automatic process that you're body does without thought. (Which is pretty cool if you think about it.)

Anyway, the following day was dreary, I was pretty sore, and in an attempt to feel better, I went to Old Navy. I got some shorts, a shirt, and a pair of sunglasses that, I was happy to see, looked just like the Vuarnet's I had in college. So awesome. The style was nearly identical.

So cool.

Anyway, I forgot I bought them until later that night, so in my excitement I went to the bag, pulled them out and put them on.

Hannah died laughing.

"What? What's wrong with them? They look so good!" I said.

"MOM! They're AWFUL! Scott, come here.... LOOK AT MOM'S GLASSES!"

Scott walked over to observe my Vuarnet-style specs and said "Hannah, they're not awful. They're perfect for Mom's weekend at Bernie's."

"WEEEKEND AT BERNIE'S, THAT'S HILARIOUS!"

"Yeah, and she's going with the Fresh Prince of Bel Air as his date."

"I don't get what's wrong with them." I said to the room-at-large.

"Mommy, did you look at them in the mirror? Did you?" They're HIDEOUS!"

She's now pulling me by the hand to the closest mirror because I'm still wearing them. My hand is very sore from the fall and hurts as I'm being pulled. This entire experience is an exercise in complete humiliation and I knew I was firmly planted in middle age when I looked in that mirror
and thought I looked so hot.

My children went on and on discussing my plans at Bernie's with The Fresh Prince and all the "cool" things we were gonna do.

Know what? They don't know everything. I'm cooler than they think I am and that's fine because kids don't want "cool" parents. They want the structured, firm, stick-in-the-mud that I am.

Now I have to go because my yellow princess phone is ringing and I think it might be the Fresh Prince.

We're going away for the weekend...

Should've ordered the chicken fingers... a lesson in being too demanding.

Last week, I told you that it was the 20th anniversary of our first date. I told you about our first date. Last weekend we decided to go out of town to get away and celebrate it.

In last week's post, I told you how critical he was 20 years ago when I ordered chicken fingers for dinner and he ordered something more grown up... blackened tuna... (I was a kid, okay? geez...)
He was all smug about it.

Anyway, for the anniversary dinner we went to our fancy hotel restaurant and as per usual, Frank did his thing with the menu. He ordered a grilled grouper entree that sits atop some kind of potato cake. He asked many questions, attempted substitutions, etc., but this dish was one dish. Not the kind of place where you have choices... he did, however, mess a bit with the salad, getting one kind of dressing then blue cheese, both on the side. He asked what dressings were homemade... I was surprised that none of them were (but does it really matter?) I almost laughed out loud when the waiter said their blue cheese was made, possibly, in Hidden Valley.

All I ordered was French onion soup because we'd had a late lunch. (Both lunch and soup were outstanding...)

So we ate and we drank and we had a fine time and around 3am he wasn't feeling so great. By 5am he'd be in the fetal position for the next eight hours.

Essentially it was a horrible vacation because something in his fancy entree made him very, very sick. The thought has occurred to me now, and in the past, that there could be a teeny-tiny addition of a wait-person's spit mixed in, because if you ask somebody to name every beer, both import and domestic, and you order a Bud Light, might you just be messing about with people? Might you just need to get over yourself?

Is it at this point that it becomes glaringly obvious that you've never waited tables or worked in any capacity in the food service industry? (I have and I believe it makes you a better, kinder and more patient person.)

So anyway, we suffered through it all day long Saturday, Sunday came around we packed up and left. Up to this point, Frank hadn't eaten anything since Friday night, but with a late checkout, we really needed to get back home to our kids. I was watching the time, Frank was not.

There was a Chili's very conveniently located right next to the I-4 exit we needed to get on.
"Let's eat there." I said.

"HELL, no. You can eat there and I'll take the other half of your lunch from yesterday and eat that at the table with you." I'd had half a Panini. The other half was in our room fridge. He brought it with us.

I don't know what his problem with Chili's is other than the fact that we live near one and eat there about once every two months. This is puzzling to me given the fact that during the five work days of the week, he and his buddies eat at five different restaurants, the same five, each and every week, for the last ten years.

And he always gets the same thing at each one.

But oh, heavens no.... No Chili's, I mean, we ate there with the kids back in December.

The road we're on goes under I-4. I know there's another big resort that direction so I suggest we drive just a bit and see if there's something else (there wasn't).

So we drove and drove, got on another highway where we saw a road sign for restaurants off the next exit and one of them was Outback.

Frank, hater of chain restaurants, sure does love Outback, a source of much disharmony because I'm not wild about it. I've never understood why it's ALWAYS so damn crowded. I'm usually not prepared to wait 70 minutes for a table but our argument usually goes something like this:

"Hell, no, I'm not eating at 9:00. It's too late. We have, like, 25 other choices within a two mile radius. Not doing it."

"It won't take us that long, we'll find something at the bar."

Frank likes to loiter at the bar, watching peoples' plates, hovering over their tables, sliding in when they slide out even though the food's still there.

It's a sport and the acquisition of a table makes him feel victorious. Gives him a one-up on all the poor sods sitting outside on the benches.

I won't do it.

So we fight.

I like a sure thing, I like it timely, and I like it to be clean.

But anyway, he likes Outback, it is now TWO O'CLOCK in the afternoon, we're STILL in Orlando, but he's been SICK. So I'll agree to this Outback, how crowded can it be at two in the afternoon?

So we get off the exit, looking for the Outback.

We don't see it.

But we DO see Texas Roadhouse, Olive Garden, Bonefish, Joe's Crab Shack, two or three giant local restaurants, Red Lobster, Applebees, Carrabbas, plus a dozen more I can't remember and a Burger King.

No, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!

We rode and we rode and we rode and Siri FINALLY located OUTBACK off the road in the back of a damn strip mall.

God threw me a bone, it wasn't crowded, therefore no hovering, which he'd make me do by playing the sick card.

We're seated and five minutes later a young man approaches our table and tells us his name is Mark and he's our waiter-in-training but today's his last day of training and tomorrow he'll kinda "graduate" into a regular waiter.

If today's Mark's last day of training, Frank will be his final exam. When he said he was in training and soon graduating, I audibly sucked in my breath at the torture he was about to endure. I knew for a fact that this kid had not yet met the likes of Frank.

It starts with the drink.

"I'll have half and half tea." I say.

"I'll have half and half tea, too, but with extra, extra lemons." (By extra, extra, he means, like, a bowl of lemon wedges.)

We are seated next to a large table of four couples who appear to be in their late 70's to early 80's and I wonder just what is the SECRET to that kind of longevity both in life and in marriage. I almost ask them, but think better of it. Maybe they're all swingers. Maybe half of them are deaf. I don't know the secret, they probably would think I was daft by asking, but not if they heard Frank order.

If they heard Frank order, eight octogenarians would be asking me what the secret is.

A few minutes later, Mark, the near graduate of Outback's Waiter Training course, comes back with the drinks and half a lemon tree he's cut up in the kitchen.

He proceeds to take our order.

"I want the blah, blah, blah, lunch special, medium well, fries and a salad with ranch." I told the waiter.

“Do you want that wood fire grilled or classic seasoning?”

“Whichever one doesn’t have all the salt.”

Okay then, and he reads it back, got it right, plus wood fire grilled. Got it. Now it’s Frank’s turn.

“Do you have the sirloin special with the two sides, I only see it with one side on here.”

“Yes, sir, that’s on our dinner menu. The lunch menu offers smaller portions, but you can order from the dinner menu if you’d like. It’s right here. He hands Frank the dinner menu.

Frank is now in a quandary. How to get the dinner entrée at the lunch price? How? How?

“Okay, well, I’d like the sirloin…”

“And how would you like that cooked?”

“Hmmm…. Let’s see… Medium, but pink.”

Oh my stars. This man is 55 years old. Hannah could order steak better than this.

“Medium rare? Medium well?” Inquires Mark.

“Medium, you know, pink.”

“Frank, you want medium well. You ALWAYS get medium well.” I add, trying to be helpful.

“I WANT medium, just medium.” He says, to the waiter and to me, just a little too loudly.

“Okay…. We’ll make that medium….” Decides Mark. “And what would you like your side to be?”

“Well, I want both a potato and a salad, but I want the salad to be my side and the potato to be additional.” Frank is very, very specific about this and this is because potato on the side costs less than salad on the side.

I cringe at all the choices about to be laid out for him. People, it’s gonna be a while.

“Do you want your steak wood fire grilled or traditional seasonings?”

“I want it wood fire grilled and ask the chef to add the traditional seasonings.”

“Sir, I don’t think they can do that.”

“Yes, they can, they do it for me at home.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll make a note of that.

I’d have love to have seen what he jotted down. Probably something like “Am I being Punked?” “Is this Candid Camera?”

He jots his note and goes on. I hold my breath.

“And what would you like on your potato?”

Here we go….

“What are the choices?” Frank’s favorite question in a restaurant even though he knows exactly what he wants, he sure does love to hear the choices. For everything.

“Butter, sour cream, chives, bacon bits, cheese….”

(I’ll have the butter and sour cream, but on the side.)

“I’ll have the butter and the sour cream, but on the side.”

And your salad dressing?

“What do you have?”

We have ranch, honey mustard, blue cheese, yada, yada, yada…….

(I’ll have one blue cheese, and extra on the side.)

“I’ll have one blue cheese and extra on the side.”

The waiter brings the salads.

The waiter brings more tea.

The waiter brings the food.

Everything’s perfect. Frank is pleased. He asks for the check. The waiter, Mark, brings it.

“We were strategically placed here by Outback, Incorporated. We were sent here to be the most demanding diners you will ever meet. We were your final exam. You got an A. Congratulations, you have passed. You are now a wait-person graduate.” I say to Mark, the waiter-in-training.

Mark does not know what to say. I don’t offer anything else, just made sure he was properly tipped and that his supervisor was aware of what he’d just been through and how well he’d handled it. I let her know he was DEFINITELY ready for tomorrow…

Frank slept all the way back, has now mysteriously developed a cold… I, however, feel fine.

Maybe we should eat in for a while…