A shout-out to the restaurant industry.  I don't go out to eat that much, mostly because I'm poor, but also because I can cook fresher, better tasting stuff at the house most of the time.  When I do go out, however, I expect to get my money's worth.  Nothing peeves me more than being seated at a dirty booth.  I don't want to see residual food crumbs in the cracks between the tiles on the table or littering the naugahyde seats.  That's disgusting.  If it takes a couple of extra minutes to clean, that's fine.  I'll wait.  Just don't seat me at a disgusting table. 

And what's the deal with not picking up the tip before you seat me at the table?  It makes me nervous to have a pile of singles and change sitting in front of me.  It's not that I'm tempted to steal it, but I'm always afraid that some psycho waitress who's having a bad day is going to accuse me of sampling from her tips.  Take the money off the fucking table before you seat me.

As for the drinks, I don't want to see the bottom of my glass.  Ever.  If you're charging me two bucks for Lipton iced tea, the least you can do is keep the refills coming.  If you're too busy, give me a goddamn pitcher and I'll do it myself.  But never, at any point in my out-to-eat meal, should my mouth experience thirst.  Never should my lips be parched, and never, EVER should I take a spicy bite and have to take a swig of my friend's drink because some waitress forgot to give me a refill.  If you want to cut your tip in half, that's a sure way to do it.

If I don't order an appetizer or alcoholic beverage, I'd still like to be treated with the same respect.  Just because I don't want a daquiri doesn't mean I won't order dessert and/or coffee at the end of the meal.  Fifteen percent of a five dollar drink is the same as fifteen percent for a five dollar dessert, sweetheart.  If you treat me like scum because I didn't order alcohol, your compensation package will take a serious hit below the belt.

Also, I don't want to hear about how you're out of Southwestern Eggrolls for the next three weeks because the shipments are delayed or because manufacturing is behind.  I realize that restaurants don't cook everything fresh in the kitchen, but could you at least give me the illusion that you do?  I'd rather envision a sixteen-year-old kid in the back, wrapping up my eggrolls and deep frying them than knowing that you grab half a dozen out of a giant, plastic sack and throw them in the toaster oven for four and a half minutes before slapping them on a plate and bringing them out.  It depresses me to know I'm paying seven fifty for a heated frozen food dinner, you know?  So just lie to me, people.  Tell me that your fresh supply of black beans has just run out and that you're sorry.  Tell me to pick another delectable entree from your fresh, healthy menu.

Concerning dips and sauces... don't be stingy.  I paid enough for the meal.  The least you can do is give me a giant tub of dipping sauce for whatever I've ordered.  It's not like it comes out of your paycheck.  I don't want to be skimpy with the sauce; half the time the sauce is what makes the meal.  So when I say I want extra sauce, don't give me an extra tablespoon of it.  Bring out a giant soup bowl, brimming full of saucy goodness, and ask me if I need any more.

And finally, don't turn on the charm when you ask if I want dessert.  I expect consistent treatment throughout the meal.  Not all people are bubbly and exuberant (thank god), but if you are quiet and distant during my meal and then turn on the charm two minutes before you bring my check, I'll assume you're playing up to my pocketbook.  I hate gold diggers, so don't be one.  Just be yourself, however pleasant or unpleasant that may be, and I'll see to it that you don't go hungry.  But if I see your toothy smile for the first time when you tell me, "I'll be your cashier whenever you're ready," I won't be happy and neither will you.

It's "that time" again.

I try not to feel bad about my overly bloated belly, my voracious appetite or my sudden need for everything chocolate during "that time."  In fact, I try to ignore Aunt Flo and compensate for my headaches and crampiness by spending extra time on my hair, makeup and outfits.  I heard once that if you look great, you'll feel great.

In lieu of the happenings this morning, I say screw the "look great, feel great" mantra.  Right now I'd just like to join a nudist group so I never have to slide on a pair of pants again.

I wiggled into my favorite pair of faded, comfy jeans this morning in hopes of comfort and casual style.  I love the way I feel in jeans; not too dressy, not too frilly.  Just me and my denim, gallavanting around town (or work, or the backyard).  I'd been wearing the jeans for about 30 seconds when I bent over to retrieve a pair of black flats from the corner of the closet.

Pop! declared the button as it freed itself from my pants, pinged off my closet wall and nestled itself inside my pink fuzzy slippers.

"Crap dangit," I muttered.  Sewing is among my least favorite pasttimes, so I tossed the jeans aside and eyed my stack of neatly folded pants, looking for a replacement.

Brown corduroys.  Comfy and casual.  Roomy and fun.  I grabbed them from the pile and put them on.  They were a bit snug in the waist, but all things considered, not a bad look.

Fifteen minutes later, I did a full body stretch.

Pop! teased the button as it zinged across the room.

What the hell?  Who pops not one, but two buttons off pants in one morning?

I tried to tell myself that buttons aren't sewed on like they were in the good ole' days, but somehow that didn't help. 

Look great, Feel great, My ass.  I pulled out a pair of black snap capris with a stretchy waistband and made a mental note to look into local nudist colonies.  I bet nudists need schoolteachers too, and if I'm doing the No Pants Dance, I don't have to worry about popping a poorly sewn button.

In the meantime, I plan to write letters to each of the two companies of the poorly sewn buttons, constructively criticizing their sparse use of thread and general lack of quality.  After all, every woman has "that time" sometimes, and we should be able to bloat without fearing the playful Pop! of cheap plastic buttons.

I'm completely and totally opposed to the tax incentive in theory.

Do you know what our national debt currently is?  I'm assuming, of course, that the "national debt clock" is correct, but if it is, here's the current number:

$9,380,009,596,126.95

I guess it could be worse, but 9.4 trillion dollars is nothing to shake a stick at.

So in theory, I'm completely opposed to the government shelling out money like they have money to burn in order to stimulate the economy.  In practice, though, I'm not going to send back the $1,500.00 that hit our bank account overnight.

I was brushing my teeth when the hubby burst in with the laptop.

"It's here!" he said.

"The whole $1,500?" I asked.

"The whole thing."

We looked together at the transaction history on the computer.  There it was, in size 8 font:  fifteen hundred dollars calling our name.

"Hello beautiful," I whispered.

Did I mention that we're going fridge shopping this afternoon?