It’s interesting (and dangerous, really) to not only be friends with (or married to) a writer, but to go out anywhere with them.
Writers are reclusive by nature, so when we leave our hidey-holes…yeah.
So I was out tonight (don’t faint) with a friend (I have them!) and we went to one of my favorite local restaurants. I do so love this place.
Tonight…well…a lot of things happened tonight that just….
As I was getting out of the car, I saw a group of young women (I’ll be generous here and say they were 18 or so) pass by. No biggie. Odd for women of that age to be out downtown this late when all the shops are closed, but okay. Then I see them go into the restaurant.
Also okay. If they’re going into that place, they must be mature* right?
Yeah, I’ll get to that part in a minute.
Oh, hell. I’ll get to it now.
First, we played musical tables with them. This place knows me and they have a pretty relaxed policy about dinner seating, so after my friend and I were told to “sit anywhere you like!” we found a table. Just as we were about to sit down, one of the girls rushes over and puts her purse down right at the chair I was heading to, then gives me this surprised look like she hadn’t seen me.
Okay, fine. I head for a second table. Another girl from the group comes and I hear, “How about that table? It’s big enough for us!”
Yeah, she was talking about the table I literally have my hand on as I’m asking MY friend if she’d like to sit there.
This goes on until finally the girls decide that they want to sit at Purse-girl’s claimed table. Fine. I’m glad they have made their decision.
My friend and I choose another table, and it happens to be the one right in front of the three girls. The table I was originally heading for. Keep this in mind.
So my friend and I peruse the menus and attempt to have a conversation.
We can’t do so. Why?
Because Insane Girl Posse is loud. There are three of them, and none of them seems capable of speaking in a conversational tone, or without another girl talking at the same time (there are THREE of them…how do they DO THAT? Who is talking to whom and how do they hear any answers?) OR without one of the girls shrieking “OMG NO *WAY*!”
I am not kidding here. I am not stereotyping. My dinner companion can vouch for me on this one.
So we finally order (after overhearing every detail of what the girls behind us are ordering) and my friend and I sit and again attempt to have a conversation, but again are unable to. Every time me or my friend says anything to the other we have to say “What?” and repeat ourselves because we can’t hear one another over the Shrieklings (<–this was a typo of “shrieking,” but I liked it so much I’m going to call them that now).
Remember the part where I was talking about being out with a writer?
We RECORD EVERYTHING IN OUR BRAINS. Then we write about it.
I heard amazing things. I learned how these people pick potential boyfriends, and what they consider to be a “good date.” I’m going to use everything I overheard tonight somehow in some way in something I write in the future. THIS I VOW.
I will, to quote Chaucer in A Knight’s Tale, eviscerate the Shrieklings in fiction.
They will be the basis for every teenage/tweenage superficial twit I ever write. THEY ARE REAL PEOPLE. Seriously. That was one of my thoughts. “THESE PEOPLE EXIST?!” And here I thought Hollywood was making them up.
Every stereotypical thing involving young girls went on tonight. Eventually my dinner companion and I gave up on trying to have our own conversation, concentrated on eating our food and just listened to the Shrieklings behind us…um…”talk.”
I wanted to turn around and stab every one of them with my fork because I only had a butter knife and a fork would at least puncture SOMETHING. Maybe if I buried the fork far enough into their skulls it would let some of the air out.
God knows it wouldn’t have improved their IQ’s any.
I spent most of the dinner contemplating various acts of violence against these young female humans and curbing the urge to engage in those acts.
At this point my dinner companion asked, “Annoyed yet?”
I nodded. “That happened awhile back,” I said.
Now that the stage is set, you will understand better why I did what I did.
I, Dina the tea-junkie, ordered coffee.
Yes. Yes, I did. Coffee and PIE. I haven’t had any tea for two days for numerous reasons, I was caffeine-starved and homicidal. When the waitress asked “how about some coffees?” I said, “YES PLEASE.”
Yes, yes for GOD’S SAKE YES!
I was one step away from choking a bitch and crushing No-Doz and snorting them – GIVE ME SOME FUCKING COFFEE.
Yes, they had tea. It’s good tea. I’ve bought it to bring home and I like it.
Tea was not enough. No waiting to brew the stuff (they bring it loose in a little pot with some hot water). GIVE ME HOT CAFFEINE NOW. NOWG’D'ITNOW. AND BRING ME SOME PIE WITH IT! YES I WANT ICE CREAM TOO!
I swilled the first cup. Dosed heavily with cream and sugar. I chugged that mo-fo. My dinner companion was so thoroughly impressed and appalled that she took a picture with her cell phone of me and the coffee cup. You can see the Shrieklings in the background.
That’s right. The Shrieklings drove me to drink FUCKING COFFEE.
This being said, I would have been absolutely fine if it weren’t for the Shrieklings. I would have ordered tea. I would have had a nice, leisurely, relaxing meal at one of my favorite restaurants without all that homicidal stuff.
Then I wouldn’t have fodder for this blog post.
When the waitress came back around with the coffee pot, I pushed my empty cup toward her.
Then I doctored the second cup and drank half of it.
Somewhere around the refill of my coffee, the Shrieklings managed to sort out their bill and left.
Blessed, blessed silence. Oh, the loveliness.
Of course by this time I’d finished my food, AND my pie, AND was on my second cup of fucking COFFEE.
Now, this isn’t entirely the Shrieklings fault. No. No, I can blame my mother and my raising for some of it, and here’s why:
When I was little, my parents worked different shifts, and often the only time they could get together during the work week was to go “meet for pie and coffee” at one of our local diners. It was centrally located, had hours that fit both their schedules and had not only decent prices but good pie. Also, it was a place they could hand me off to one another. So I grew up with the “belief” that when one had pie, coffee was the natural accompaniment.
Tonight I wanted pie, and that “pie and coffee” urge just hit home. The Shrieklings might have brought it on, but my raising helped kick it into high gear.
Have I mentioned that I hate coffee? I HATE IT. I despise it. Everything about it. The smell, the taste, everything.
Oh, and I’m allergic to it. It makes me physically ill and I’ve been told by more than one doctor not to drink it for several reasons.
I had a cup-and-a-half. Yeah, I’m paying for it now, but so what?
I also used to own my own business.
It was a coffee shop.
*Given the nature of their conversation, I can only surmise that they must be on Spring Break and staying here overnight before they head up the coast to visit Sparkly Daywalking Vampire-ville. I mean Forks, WA. It’s about 4 hours north of my town.