(M) livin' the dream ?

tripping over sidewalk slopes in clumsy clown kitchen shoes, half-running with sweat dripping down my spine, plastic bag handles digging into my palms, red-faced as i hip-bump the familiar door back into the restaurant.

"ooh, look, honey! they have waffles here! and with...seasonal berries and whipped cream?? won't grammy and the kids love that? hmmm...let's see how many people...1-2-3-4...waitress? waitress??? waitress?!?! we would like 12 waffles. extra whip cream."

visions of a merry berry farmer tipping his straw hat and slowly kneeling down to pluck one beautiful, bursting, blushing blue from his acres upon acres of perfect fruit. oh, and what's that just two feet behind him? it's bessie, loyal guernsey, waiting ever so patiently to offer her sweet cream. farmer man gives bessie a loving pat and smiles at the camera for the lovely daydreamers.

order in: "two scrambled sandwiches, one ham, one baconbrie! that's three ham all day, one baconbrie on the board! fire eight toast and two quiche right now please!"

ticketticketticketticket

i swear that goddamn printer taunts us.

order in: "tw-TWELVE* waffles! fucking TWELVE WAFFLES! i need six waffles from each machine--" fuck that's a twenty minute ticket time right there "--marco, how are we on berries? just blueberries left?? fuck. that makes for a great 'mixed berry waffle.' we're fucked."

server clare, cute as a two-faced button, "marco?? marco!! you forgot the whipped cream on this waffle. i need some for these geezers upstairs, pronto!" she holds out a ramekin.

"no more."

famous last words.

count to twenty and watch me sprint up the stairs, tearing off the apron, shouting for requests from the grocery store (there can never be too many runs to the grocery store, but this is only the second of the day). cream, berries, parsley, grapefruit juice. fuck, that juice is going to be heavy.

count to thirty and i'm pushing past leisurely sunday walkers, rookie eaters, church brunch brats. they probably think waffles grow on fucking trees.

up more stairs, tearing to the grocery store, knowing the first waffles will be out of our only two machines any second now, just to grow oldcold waiting for the rest, surely to be sent back by our gracious customers. but that's 25 minutes from now.

SUVs newly blessed from today's church service crawl toward the parking ramp of the grocery store. "but honey, we had the help make eggs benedict laaaast week! let's have her make french crepes today." funny for me, you pronounced it "creeps." idiot. you read the paper, do the crossword, cut your coupons, push away your crepes. you're on a diet, after all. ooh, 35 cents off ketchup! maybe i should buy some for that poor restaurant near here who thinks they can serve sandwiches without ketchup, ha-ha.

slide in my no-skid discount shoes past the ketchup comedian, mentally kick her in the gut NO WE DON'T HAVE FUCKING KETCHUP FOR YOUR TUNA SALAD and scramble to the dairy aisle. part of me wonders who i've become as i panicky grab the cold glass door out of a middle-aged man's hand as he peruses his milk of the week (hint: you never change what kind of milk you drink. don't start today), and gasping panting mumble "'scuse me," and blind-reach for anything resembling cream that, if we beat it hard enough, will fluff up for the lovely waffle daydreamers.

a table lingers over their decaf iced coffees ARE YOU SURE THIS IS DECAF?? I WON'T BE ABLE TO TAKE MY AFTERNOON AND EARLY EVENING NAPS IF IT ISN'T and imagine the possibilities. their farmer must be from france, because he not only hand-selects the eggs to scramble for our sandwiches, but also has a cellar for ripening brie! i bet he's even invented a way to let the cute piggies live on as he harvests their bacon.

don't you have any bacon with less FAT in it? this is just gross. you DON'T have turkey bacon? gawd, what kind of restaurant is this??? daddy, let's not leave a tip. this place's bacon is tooooo fatty.

huff and puff, back to the restaurant. not even a glance from waffle table of twelve. huh. looks like they're getting up to leave. grammy looks crabby as she shoves along grandson number five's stroller. "clare, what's up with them? weren't those the waffle people?"

daggers. "yeah. they didn't want. to. wait."

timecheck. nervous 1 second long panic as i wrangle the heavy plastic grocery bags out of my tangled fingers, dislodge my cellphone(aka wristwatch) from my sweat-soaked back pocket.

ticket time?

ten. minutes.