Go On Now Go

26 Nov

blog image baobab 2

I don’t mind waiting at the pizza place.

I call it in, they say “1/2 an hour” which really means that they will commence making the pizza in 1/2 an hour because when I get there 45 minutes later, I wait.  Just not as long.

At least not as long as Cheyenne has been waiting.

I don’t personally know Cheyenne; I know her name (or her favorite state capital) because it was stamped onto the large leather key ring she was holding which was hanging next to her stuffed teddy bear key chain.  You may know Cheyenne as well: she is about 45 years old with the lungs of a 25-year-old (and roots as deep and long as a baobab tree, but I digress.).

I know that her lungs are strong because I could hear her swearing at the pizza maker from across the room.  The pizza maker whose job, BTW, is to make pizza- not manage the counter, nor talk to customers nor answer the phone.  (Why anyone would yell at the pizza maker in a small town is beyond me- it’s the Russian roulette of take out.)

Still, Cheyenne shouted at the pizza maker because her food wasn’t ready.  “If I had known it was going to take this long,” she yelled, “I would have made dinner at home.”  And, you know, it took all the strength I had not to fall apart or offer to drive her home (to a disco beat, if necessary).

Instead, I spent my time perusing the specials board, looking at the Little League team photo and reading the following written on a little plaque outside the dining room:

“It would be our pleasure to seat you.”

Surely you understand my discomfort.

While it would be my pleasure to wait for pizza if I wasn’t waiting along with Cheyenne and it would also be my pleasure to bring that pizza home if I knew that Spouse and Boy were not going to complain about it taking so long, I received no pleasure from knowing that the restaurant has terms for seating that are, essentially, a mystery.

It’s like a crucial part of the sign is missing and I am Nancy Drew.

It would be wrong of me not to use my Sharpie.

So I fixed it.  Without even telling the restaurant staff it was broken.  (That’s just how much of a giver I am.)

The little sign near the dining room now reads: “It would be our pleasure to seat you but, sadly, we have no chairs.”

“PS: Cheyenne wuz here.”

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