Last Friday was a pre-school field trip to a pumpkin patch. Brock took the morning off of work to join his family whilst traipsing around an adorable farm filled with cute animals for petting, pumpkins, corn, and other vegetables and clearly owned by people with a sense of humor.
|This is really all it takes to make me happy.|
|...and this too. They were truly bonding. Not cute at all.|
Unfortunately, the pumpkin patch was short lived because Thing 1 started acting all weird and despondent, so we left in search the exorcism to most odd behavior of kids (and me): FOOD. The closest restaurant happened to be a Denny's so out of desperation (okay- laziness) we pulled in and parked.
I told Brock, "Geez, I haven't been to a Denny's in, like.... 15 years."
Then we walked inside and looked around at the tables full of old farmers, white trash patrons and waitresses that look like they spent all night bellied up to a bar with a pack of cigarettes and bottle of Jack and I said, "Yep, 15 years and it hasn't changed a bit, the exact same people are still here."
I felt oddly at home, yet also like I was in the Twilight Zone as we ordered our food and proceeded to eat and people watch. We heard Old MacDonald talk about the weather and crops and we listened as Flo, with the best smoker's voice EVER, told Gerry that he looked a lot better today because he had more color in his face. But, the best was when two women in their twenties paraded in with a herd of children and were seated behind us, because apparently we were the "romper room" corner of the restaurant. One of the mothers was wearing her pajama pants, which always to me, "Hey, I'm one classy bitch." Then they clenched the title of "Most True to Theme" as they proceeded to talk about all the bars that they frequent in the area... for the entire meal.... in front of their gang of children. The awesome thing was that Brock and I didn't need to make conversation because we had all the entertainment that we required. Then the awesome wore off because PJ Pants McNasty decided that she wanted to engage in a little "parent speak" with us. I blame Brock for looking approachable, because if my bitchy mug would have been facing her, I know she would not have uttered a word.
She took a look at our tiny, string bean-y Thing 2 and led with some of my favorite competi-mom speak of "I'll bet my baby weighs as much as him. How old is he?"
Brock answered "15 months"
I rolled my eyes and said sweetly, "He's 17 months. How old is your baby?"
Bar Hopper McGulicutty said, "8 months. She weighs 18 pounds."
I wanted to say "Congratulations, the Cheetos and Mountain Dew are really paying off. My baby just puked and shit out about 4 pounds of the stomach flu. So, I have been wondering, who watches your baby while you are at the bar? Or do you just take her along?" but instead I smiled, again sweetly, and said, "She's adorable."
Then she went on to tell us all about something, but I don't know what it was because my eyes glazed over and I tuned her out, and we left Denny's, but not before Brock (the FUN parent) overruled my objections let Thing 1 try and fail to snag a stuffed animal out of the quarter eating machine. Then he acted all surprised and disappointed and said "What a rip-off, those things never work." and I rolled my eyes again for that is exactly why I didn't want Thing 1 to "play" in the first place. We would have been better off giving the PJ mom a dollar for her "pour me another" fund.
Well, Denny's, thanks for the burger. It was a blast from the past. Maybe we'll return again in 15 years, so we can see how great those kids of the bar fiends turned out. I've got a pretty good idea that they will be on a Denny's outing with their very own herd of offspring in tow. But I'm an optimist like that.