How many in your party?

I love to dine out. I love the whole experience, most of the time. I enjoy having someone wait on us and clean up our dirty plates...and I love the variety and the flavors of other people's cooking. I am such a boring cook...in fact I don't even really cook. I assemble food. I put together that pre-fab meat stuff from Costco with the tortillas and throw the bag salads in a bowl and voila...dinner. So, obviously, the fact that I can try many things and my husband gets his food covered in cheese (yuck...I hate cheese...blog for a different day) and I don't have to touch it, is well...wonderful.

When I say most of the time, let me explain....I don't enjoy dining out under these scenarios:

1) You are with people you don't like.
2) You are at a restaurant you don't care for because it was someone else's turn to pick.
3) You have kids with you and right as your food comes you have to go to the PUBLIC RESTROOM. (See germiphobe blog.) EEEWW.
4) You are dieting and you feel as if you must order a salad even though you want a burger.
5) You are celebrating your birthday and you know those morons are going to sing to you.
6) And lastly, you have the distinct pleasure of getting "the hair" in your food.

I know, it is disgusting, but it is my trademark. It is a wonder that I can even stomach the whole dining out thing after all these years, and all these hairs. I ALWAYS get the hair. You can even ask my friends. Whether we are at Burger King or on a cruise ship, I am the hair magnet.

I realize that there are worse things than hair in your food...a human appendage, a band aid, a dead bug...I haven't had those...I have had nothing worse than a lettuce aphid or a fly. I know, it is still gross.

So moving on, I do love to dine out. :) I love the whole being seated at our table and wondering what we will eat, perusing the menu (unless it is a sticky menu or has crusted food on it...that makes me sick), and you know, even salad at a restaurant tastes better. I think it is because I didn't have to make it. Making a salad for yourself is somewhat anti-climatic. You see everything that goes into it, a lot of chopping, dicing and washing and drying. By the time you eat it, you are bored. It is magnificent when they bring you your gigantic salad plate overflowing with fresh greens, maybe an egg wedge, and bacon bits and croutons...yes, I like both! Oh, and that cute little cup of dressing on the side. Woo hoo! I might even LIKE eating a vegetable.

I also like the ordering process at a restaurant...it is fun to see if you have a server who will get it right or not. Sometimes you know before they even bring your food...that they will inherently screw it up. (Usually because they just noticed their band aid is missing.) They might put on the cheese when you said no cheese, or forget to put your sauce on the side. Sigh. But, most of the time you get a server who writes it down (good girl) and brings your goodies to the table in perfect form. That is a good time. That is what I like to reward with a really great tip.

Which brings me to the point of this entire blog...gratuity. What on earth has gratuity become? Why on earth is it now mandatory? And WHY in the heck is the tip on one party of 8 more important to secure than the tips on 8 parties of four? I don't get it.

My husband used to be a server, so I have great empathy for these men and women. I believe in tipping well and I almost always do. It has to be pretty bad for me to tip less than 20%. Also, in my husband's 3 years of waiting tables, he never had a large party stiff him when it came to tip time. They were normally quite generous and appreciative of the effort it took to keep them watered and fed. Those who dined and dashed were usually in parties of two...maybe we should make them pay up front...I mean if we are going to "stereotype" or participate in "diner profiling."

What I am ultimately getting at here is one of my big pet peeves.

Ready?

Gratuity included. G R A T U I T Y I N C L U D E D!

Excuse me?

Why on earth are you punished for having a party of 8? (In some cases parties of 6!) Do they not get that you already have to wait longer for a table for 8, you have to sit in odd places with many tables thrown together, and you usually get a server who thinks you are going to be trouble anyway....so they don't put in too much effort.

I may be old school, but I thought a gratuity was a "tip." Meaning...above and beyond the cost of the service and the food, as a reward for a job well done. It seems that our society has made tipping mandatory everywhere from yogurt shops to the hair dresser. Even the Dunkin' Donuts has a tip jar by the register. Hello? You get a real hourly wage...not a server's salary...I just want to buy my Munchkin's without any added pressure, okay? I'm using a coupon for crying out loud. That means that I want to get out of here cheap! Back to restaurants, I understand that I am going to be expected to tip on top of the cost of the meal...but I still want it to be my choice as to how much and I want the server to EARN it.

Every time my husband and I take our 7 kids to dinner, we are already a "party of 8 or more." Which absolutely throws a curve ball to most restaurants time and again. They have to find where to put us, and which server can "handle" us. I think it is histerically funny that they force a tip on our family of 9 the same way they would force it on 9 adults with bar drinks, different orders and maybe even wanting separate checks. Hey, at least we only have one check. Anyone who dines out with kids understands that with four of those people age 7 or under...they would rather color than eat and are usually only prone to ask for a drink refill if anything! Pretty easy money, most of the time. (Barring any unforseen spills or extra food on the floor.)

So I love it. We are having dinner out, we have our whole family with us, and we wait a half an hour for our table. We get seated in some awkward part of the restaurant with some of our family dangling off the edge of the table. And finally, we get a server who knows that they are getting 18% of a rather large food bill whether they give a hoot or not. The chip basket goes unfilled, we have to beg for more salsa, and as we are choking on a tortilla our water glass gets filled in the nick of time. Yep, that was worth 18%.

I don't dare say anything to the server about the service though, because our main course hasn't been served, and I don't want the hair.

I guess the only way around this is if I form a Posse and protest vigorously the injustice of the mandatory gratuity. I will write letters, I will call my senators, I will lobby the capitol, .... I will suck it up and pay it and try to forget about it...."Until we Eat again."

"How many in your party?"

Family of the Year

Okay, so a friend of mine in blogland has posted a couple of times about feeling like "mother of the year" for the parenting faux pas she has made lately. I actually have felt inspired by her vulnerability and thought it necessary to share just a few of the special blunders I have made as a mom of 7. So, April, not to be a copycat...but here goes:

FAMILY OF THE YEAR:

On our way home from church last night, our middle son (age 9) informed dad and mom how annoyed he was with all of his sisters and their chattering and singing in the car. We did nothing. We said nothing. A few moments later, he begins to cry and appeals quite dramatically that we really need to shut them up because THEY are annoying HIM. Laughable. This was the boy who literally made sound effect noises 24/7...and only stopped out of fear of the newest mom threat and I quote..."I'm going to shave your head and glue it to your butt."

So, the loving response of dad and I on our way home from CHURCH, was this..."Hey kids, let's all sing really loud the most annoying songs we can think of!" So, here it went:

"Jeremiah WAS A BULLFROG...bum, bum, bum, (Dad did the sound effects), WAS a GOOD Friend of MINE!....bum, bum, bum..." Oh yeah, we got into it. We sang it over and over and louder and louder...the kids in the seat next to him...sang it AT him. Then we sang "Shot through the heart"...and then I think we tried to sing some Pat Benatar, well and then we were home.

I can still see him cowering in the back seat with his hands in his ears and curling up as if to go to his "happy place." My friend April says her hubby and her have agreed to pay for therapy or college, but not both. I'm with ya, April, we will be paying for therapy! (April can be read at http://www.aprilsreign.blogspot.com/ I am too lame and too tired to try and figure out how to make links to her page.) And a note to my readers, please don't allow me to introduce you to April and then you and April start getting together without me...that always happens! I introduce people to each other, and before you know it...they are dining out and doing movies while I sit at home. (Yeah, I know, world's smallest violin is playing for me as we speak.) Remember...you gotta dance with the one who brought ya! (EEWW...flashback of line-dancin' country days.)

FATHER OF THE YEAR:

Dear, sweet daddy of this family is a funny guy. He is somewhat quiet, but has a great sense of humor and of course always laughs at my jokes. Plus, he mops. That, my friend, is all the romance that I need. There is nothing more appealing than a man with a mop...yeah, baby. Can you just see the Calendar? Mr. February lives with me. Hot. (Oh, and cleaning bathrooms...that is foreplay.)

Anyway, a few years back he and the kids were watching the movie "Flipper." You know, the one with the guy who has the Austrailian accent? Paul Hogan, I think. I am in my bedroom and I hear hysterical laughing. My bionic woman ears perk up and I listen more closely...those darn kids are rewinding the movie over and over and listening to Mr. Hogan so eloquently say..."You butt-faced wombat!" Of course, I am mortified, because my kids were little...and their virgin ears would be tarnished by this...as if hearing it in the movie once was bad enough, but they were focusing in on it! As you can imagine, my mom-horns come out and I am furious at them for being soooo inappropriate....and as I run into the living room I find that it is not my children, but my spouse. HE was the one trying to master the accent..."Yuh bott fayced wahmbat." I beamed with pride, as you can imagine. And thunked Dear Hubby on the head and forced him to tell the kids why they will not be saying that outside of our home. Yeah, right.

Part two...A few years back we went to a fourth of July picnic and fireworks display with our friends, who live in another city...and we were introduced to all of their friends (conservative Christian home-schooling people) and we tried to fit in. We wanted them to know how like them we were and how we could easily join in with our sweet, responsible, Christian family. Uh huh.

Things were going swimmingly (dumb phrase, but I like it) and then I hear some drama emerging from the playground. Apparently my son (the one who doesn't like singing in the car) had perfected the movie line and decided to share it. (We encourage our children to share.) Something got a little lost in the translation, and as the other little narcs were telling on my precious son, I heard this:

BFW*: "That boy called me a butthole."
My friend: "What boy?"
BFW: "That boy" (Pointing to my dear child.)
My friend to my son: "Did you call him a butthole?"
My son: "No."
BFW: "Yes he did, he said I was a Butthole Combat."
Me giggling: "OH, no he just said Butt-faced Wombat." (Totally PG. See, all is good in the world again.)

Thanks dad for teaching him this one. The sad but true is that I was relieved that it was only the Paul Hogan line. There were plenty of other movies that may have been quoted! Phfew.

*Oh, and BFW (Butt-faced wombat) is merely to protect the identity of the whiner. I couldn't remember his name anyway, needless to say we were not invited back.

MOM OF THE YEAR:

Now, I like a good laugh. I even don't mind laughing at my own expense, however if this story leaves this blog, I will be forced into the witness relocation program. So, I can tell you all, but then I have to kill you. Capiche?

So here goes,

It was Christmas eve day...we had just been to a breakfast for which I dressed up. My black wardrobe was highlighted with a sparkly red Christmas sweater and matching red sparkly heels. We had 6 children at the time and had agreed to let the children draw names and buy a Christmas gift for one of their siblings...something that they picked out themselves. (Dumb, I know...and on Christmas eve...can you imagine the lines at Kohl's?) So Dear Hubby and I separated with three kids each and set off to help these kids make their selections. I had the two boys...probably 12 and 6 at the time....and I had the baby girl in the stroller. You would think that I had it relatively easy, as I sent all of the squealing estrogen monkeys with their dad.

I am helping daughter with finger firmly shoved in her face sucking non-stop, to select an appropriate gift. She doesn't give a hoot...and I think she is pooping. So, trying to make short work of this whole process I yell at my boys (who have since disappeared) to get their "butts over here and shop!" Yep, real classy. Oh, but it gets better. One lesson my son has not learned (the younger boy) is that when you mess with the bull, you get the horns. I tell him repeatedly that he needs to quit taunting his brother and summon him to COME HERE!

I look over at him, and it is apparent that the butt-faced wombat has picked on his brother for the last time because this is where the older brother snaps and whacks him to the floor! (Any of you who know the middle boy, know about the drama...and as you can imagine...he was not hurt, but fell theatrically to the floor to get my attention.) As if the fall wasn't enough, it was accompanied by a high-pitched squine...that is a squeal and whine mixed together. Of course, at this point I am not amused, and I think we are attracting an audience...it is hard to tell over all of the Christmas music.

Well, as mother of the year I felt it was necessary that I scoop him up, kiss his cheek and...yeah right. No sir...I took those pretty ruby red Christmas heels and kicked him in the head...lovingly whisper-shouting at him to GET UP and KNOCK IT OFF!

Not only did it not don on me until later that Kohl's has video cameras all over the store, but I also sat that evening and watched the news waiting for this headline:

Christmas Fatigue Causes Mom to Lose it With Her Kids...Kohl's Department Store Aids in Her Arrest.

No such luck. Apparently on Christmas eve, all bets are off. I still had to go home and wrap those darn presents. Sigh.

So, April...You have my address...bubble wrap that tiara and Dr. Phil parenting book and send it to me STAT! You are dealing with a professional here. And should I end up in the county jail, could you at least send me a jumbo bag of M&M's? Plain, please. Maybe I could bribe my cell-mates to do my sit-ups for me.

Oh, and officer...you won't find any DNA on those heels. But should you need me to enter them as exhibit A, come and get em!