Why Always At My Favorite Restaurant???

Fate. Destiny. Some call it karma. The universal force that drops things in our laps repeatedly, leaving one wondering why it always happens to me. Since these forces seem to all know my name, I like to think it’s because I can handle each situation without ending up on Dr. Phil. So fate keeps handing them out.
Maybe its because I can walk into a crowd of people and laugh, rather than cry, because the team doesn’t know where to stay next. I had broken down a door and called the police at the last hotel. And the one before that called the firemen because I set the hotel kitchen on fire. I just wanted a warm donut. Who knew it would get stuck in the toaster?

For years everyone blamed my husband. But as the kids grew, we began traveling separately. Then, to his delight, it started to become apparent after which one of us that trail of chaos followed.

Last weekend my husband took my son to a hockey tournament down south. I stayed behind with my other two children. Sometimes, when parenting alone, it leads to great bonding and, of course, no arguing as to where to eat lunch.

So that afternoon I took my son and daughter to my absolutely favorite of all restaurants. I would eat there every day, except my husband refuses and my kids grew tired of it about 700 visits ago. Also, I avoided it for about a whole year because of an unfortunate incident in the parking lot where I was accosted by an unemployed, aggressive drunk and had to take care of the situation by beating him with my purse and squeezing his big, white, round belly. The police showed up and helped me out.

So we sat and enjoyed a wonderful lunch on this bright sunny afternoon in the heady aroma of grease frying and pleasant conversation with my mom and dad. Weekends apart are also great to spend time with the in-laws. Meaning my husband’s in-laws. That way they can still talk about him, but he’s not there to catch the zingers.

We then stacked our trash onto two plates and headed for the trashcan. Before getting there, my son’s plate broke in half and a boatload of fries, ketchup, mayonnaise, and everything else splatted across the floor covering probably 30 square feet. We were both embarrassed and I stooped to pick up most of the big stuff. But, after my best efforts, we really needed a mop.
So I went to the counter and humbly asked for help, expecting the smiling, don’t-worry-about-it typical response. Obviously these workers remembered me and, instead, grilled me on how exactly the spill had occurred. Finally after I answered satisfactorily, one of them headed my way with a trash can and a frown.

I hurried for the door and decided not to take my supersized tea with me to the car. Preferring to forget the whole incident, I tossed it into the nearest trashcan. It made a funny thunk in the can. I peered into the can and noticed that I had chosen to toss it into the very vacant hole that the can was removed from to clean up my mess on the far side of the room. Now my giant tea had thoroughly made a huge mess on the near side of the room.

My face flaming I bolted for the door, of which my son had chosen that moment to be holding shut to aggravate mom. With the superhuman strength borne of the tremendously traumatized, I plowed the door open, knocking the 200 pound jujitzu master out of my way like some skinny guy on the beach. Grabbing his ear, I hauled him and my daughter to the car and left the place for another six months.

While driving home with dark glasses, my husband called me. Laughing with hysterical pleasure, he bragged that while I had been trashing my restaurant, he had a wonderful lunch with our son. The management even told them to come back soon. They also had a peaceful night’s sleep in their hotel. Nobody broke down a door and the staff told them to come stay again.

He reveled in his innocent vindication while 300 miles away. But I stated that the rest of the world needed me to fight these battles. If it wasn’t for my resilient self that chose that defective plate, another poor soul would need Dr Phil.