The restaurant

Upon rereading my last blog entry, I noticed that I had left out a lot about the meeting, the restaurant, and the night that I drove up to Greensboro. If this is to ever go to publishing I better not leave anything out.
I can just imagine the editor's red strike throughs and abundancy of notes and suggestions, "expand- this needs more detail," common notes I received in college in writing classes I selfishly embarked on even though I knew the credits had nothing to do with obtaining my degree. It ultimately didn't matter anyway, since I dropped out my senior year.
I will go back to finish sometime. Probably next year since my company will absorb 90% of the costs, and the fact that I am both a single mom and a homeowner, somehow increases my odds of becoming a scholarship recipient.
I guess the fact that Sarah has only one cool killer mom instead of possibly one lazy mother and another drunk dad, she is somehow against the odds of being "normal" and a consummate contributor to society. I'm not sure how society can claim that she is "at risk," considering that there are many children out there who suffer more from having two parents still married to eachother, still living under the same roof, and hating eachother, spilling disgust all throughout their house, while in front of their poor children, who will really suffer in the long run. But somehow, Sarah is, "at risk". If it means I get more scholarship help, I guess I'll put up with a stereotypical demograph for the time being. That was a rant, and off the subject. Sorry for that. I guess I get carried away sometimes.
So back to the restaurant. When I walked in from the rain, which incessantly kissed my windshield the entire way there, and back. I was a little relieved, and nervous, to have finally made it. Driving through Greensboro was intense.
Much like Charlotte, Greensboro has many main roads that are like highways, with many exits and on ramps and neighborhoods which hug the side of most of them, which always makes traffic particularly hairy. I was shuffling through my overcrowded, brown leather purse looking for the crumpled up sheet of paper that I had last minute printed off my office printer.
Mapquest is not always the best choice. In fact, I go with Google Maps myself, but for some reason it was not loading at 3:55 when I decided I best find out how to get to the restaurant. I guess my mind was still not wrapped around the fact that I have a fancy phone that has 4G Navigation on it. And good thing, because for some reason, probably due to user error, it wasn't working anyway.
Forget about getting the directions to the CHS. I had already made up my mind I would follow some unlikely suspect over.
Thank God, it was so close. The way the weather was, I could have easily gotten lost, even though I did live in that city for a long time by my standards. Greensboro kinda sucks.
I expected my memory to be better. Note to self, your memory sucks, too.
There was a funny incident at the restaurant that I left out. I think I mentioned that it was a Mexican restaurant, which I think to most American's means, there were hardly any fluent English speaking waiters. I appologize if that sounds racist, but in all fairness, I think that statement is pretty accurate. If you are a margarita connoisseur like I am, you make it a point not to discriminate against any margarita selling establishment within a 25 mile range of your house, or job.
When I noticed that the time was getting short, and we were down to three of us left at the restaurant, and I had over half of my small margarita left to quickly, but assuredly be consummed (to ease my nerves, of course), I had think quickly.
The ladies were rushing me to eat because they didn't want to be late, which is understandable.
They both had driven a long distance as well. Actually, I think just the mother did. She drove from Jacksonville. NC. Which is a pretty long drive. I think the birthdaughter lives in Greensboro, as I now stand corrected.
When I noticed that my waiter, who was in no rush to get back to my table, but who didn't mind giving me the goo-goo eyes, and one up when I first walked in, I had to, what some might call spastically, wave my arm to get the attention of one of the other waiters who was apparently holding up the wall on the other side of the small, dimly lit room. A family sitting beside us had just been sung what I'm imaging was a birthday song, by the group of short waiters. He was wearing an unusually large sombrero, and his face was filled with laughter and I could tell he may have been a margarita connoisseur himself.
There were at least three waiters herded together, no doubt, laughing at some unsuspecting patron of the restaurant. I used to be a waitress. That is very common, I'm embarrassed to admit. They pretended not to see me, and when finally, one locked eyes with me, he acted like he didn't speak non-verbal English either. He shook his head. He was not going to help me.
I had to stand up right before I stomped on his foot. Just joking, but that would have been too funny.
Instead, I did what all annoyed restaurant patrons do when their waiter sucks. I got up and got it myself. But unlike most annoyed patrons, I left a good tip despite his lack of attentiveness.
In my opinion all people should be forced to wait tables at least once in their lives, even if, for only one night.
What demanding and unendingly rude restaurant patrons don't understand, is that a server's job is not to make you happy. It's to serve you food. I can't tell you enough, how many people go to restaurants to take out all their aggressions on the server. It's a sad display of character, and unfortunately it happens more than you think.