My Parents and Fine Dining
Don't get me wrong. Overall, I really like my parents. But they're just such a rich source of material that I can't help myself. Plus, they don't read this shit, so here goes:
I have never really like going out to eat with my parents. It's a painful experience for me on many levels. The first problem is that they don't know how to order. They can't communicate clearly with people.
Mom: I want the Caesar salad. I want a baked potato with no butter. I want ranch dressing.
Waitress: Ok. So you want ranch on the salad rather than the Caesar dressing?
Mom: NO! The ranch is for MY POTATO!!!
Dad: She wants the ranch dressing for her potato. On the side, you understand?
Waitress: Oh, ok. And what would you like to drink?
Mom: Soda.
Waitress: Alright. What kind of soda did you want?
Mom: DIET! (said in a "pull your head out of your ass" tone. My mom then looks around, bewildered at this moron of a waitress that stands before her.)
I guess the problem goes way beyond just ordering the food. It's a problem with all human interaction. Another example. I accompany my mom on an outing to grab some Church's fried chicken. She's ordered, and is paying for the food when the following mind-boggling exchange takes place:
Mom: I didn't get my jalapeño poppers last time.
Cashier: …
Me: What?
Mom: (Gives me the "I wasn't talking to you" sideways glance and returns her attention to the cashier.) The last time I was in here, I ordered the jalapeño poppers. When I got home, they weren't there.
Cashier: …
Me: Um, ok. Well, I don't think she cares and I doubt you're getting a free order this time. You probably should have addressed it last time, either with a phone call or a trip back to the store.
Mom: Well, I don't give a shit. I just thought she should know.
Cashier: …
Then there's the racism. I guess they're from a different era and all, but I'm not a big fan of the hardcore racist attitudes of the previous generation. My dad loves to say "flied lice" and "egg lop" soup anytime we're in a Chinese restaurant. Now this has a tendency to make me a bit uncomfortable because, as you may or may not know, all Chinese people know Kung Fu–just kidding. Seriously though, you can't keep that shit in check until your next Klan meeting? Plus, asian chicks are hot–how can you be racist against that? You can't, any more than you can hate lesbians. Or asian lesbians having a tickle fight in little pink panties…I digress.
Once the food is on the table, my parents start their traditional "who can get more food on their face" contest. There's only so many times I can tell someone they've "got a little something, right there." After that, all I can do is look over at my wife and share a laugh with the only other normal person at the table. Throw in a couple of ill-timed burps from my dad, watch my parents grab way too many complimentary mints, stuff them in their pockets (along with some M&Ms from the dessert bar), and call it a night.
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