Today, while visiting Grandma in Wyoming, we ate lunch at a fine establishment called The Bear River Restaurant. It is a rustic-themed place, with rough-hewn logs and saddles hanging on various rafters. Word on the street is that it used to be a biker bar back in the day, and that Grandma used to start the occasional bar fight by throwing beer bottles at drunk bikers and then turning to whoever was sitting next to her and yelling, "What did you do that for?!"
OK. I made all that up. But we did really go there for lunch.
As we waited for the hostess to walk us to our table, she walked up, turned to fiddle with something at the counter and said curtly, "Sit wherever you want." Smiling to ourselves, we found a table with six unmatching chairs. After we sat down, the same hostess walked over with a stack of menus piled high with silverware, put it down at the end of the table and walked away. As we distributed the menus and silverware among ourselves we discussed how she didn't seem like a happy woman.
Our actual waitress was much nicer and was actually seen smiling. Now, some background is needed here. I do not like fried potatoes. Of any kind. I don't like potato chips, french fries, hash browns...whatever. I don't like them. So when I saw that the grilled ham and cheese sandwhich I ordered came with potato wedges, I asked if I could have a side of pancakes instead. The dialogue went something like this:
Me: Can I get pancakes instead of potato wedges?
Waitress: Uh...sure.
Amy: He's special.
Waitress: (Under her breath) Every family's got one.
So there you have it. I'm the "special one" in the family. As in, I think our waitress probably believes that I'm only allowed to play with soft toys and have quiet time in the afternoon.
