Rob, Party of Me

It had been a long day. I was driving back to school with my good friend Joe (RIP) and his sister Mary (who is also a good friend, not someone I'm forced to hang out with). Most of the trip was spent cow watching.

Sidenote: On the way up a week before, while driving, my eyes wandered onto a herd of cows grazing. Very bucolic scene. And then my eyes saw something incredible. I immediately pointed and yelled what it is I was seeing: "COW FUCKING!" Yes, they do it. The 'bull' is somehow able to finagle his way up, and with legs sticking straight out, makes the most awkward love to the 'dam' who is still chewing cud. Joe was able to spot the occurrence, but Mary missed out. And so the rest of that trip and whole trip back down was spent eyeballing cows, hoping it would happen again. We never saw a repeat, but....we did see a lot of calves.

So we were back in town, and ready for some good eating. After variant discussion, we set our hearts onto Olive Garden, the best Italian food in southern Virginia. Must say, however, that this is not my favorite Olive Garden. I have spent a good portion of my life with the knowledge that Olive Garden serves 'never-ending pasta bowls'. Apparently, this restaurant didn't feel like participating in this offer. The waitress didn't even know what the hell I was talking about. She kept saying that I could just order another plate if I was still hungry ..... bah.

However, this trip to Olive Garden was a much more fulfilling experience. For starters, I had lasagna. But there was also the simple fact that, on that night, I was on my game. The stars were in perfect ordinance, the fates were with me, and I drank just enough Diet Coke on the way down. I was funny, charming, and my hair was fantastic. If I was at a bar, I would have brought home three girls and a confused film student to videotape. But I was at Olive Garden, so I settled for just being the best customer ever. Here's a simple rendition of all the people I influenced over the night (notice, they are all women):

The Hostess

The three of us are walking up to the door when we start the usual pre-dining conversation: what name should we give. "Rob, party of three," is just boring. I suggest "Commander Poopypants", Mary wants to do "Mary" (she's boring, and kind of vain), and Joe wants "Magellan." Now, what usually happens is that you walk up to the hostess, panic, blank-out, you get sweaty, and then you just go ahead and give your regular name. This is because the Hostess is usually a bitch. You can tell, I won't explain why.

On this occasion however, the Hostess seemed downright peppy. I still blank a little, but eventually I come up with "M-M-Magellan. Three. Non-poopypa-SMOKING, non-smoking!" Joe is laughing at me, and he's giddy cause I picked his name. The Hostess doesn't really get that we're laughing at the fake name, and apologizes, saying she's sorry she's spelling the name wrong. Quick as a whip, I say: "That's okay, nobody gets it right the first time." So smooth. The Hostess, is still a little clueless, starts talking about her own name: Cheree. Joe says, "Well, that's an interesting name." Cheree replies, "Well, that's what you get when your drunk 17 year old mother names you while watching Price is Right."

Sidenote: There is nothing more I can add to that.

The wait for a table is 35 minutes, so we stand in a corner. That's when we looked up, and realized that there were tons of waiters and waitresses just standing around. Why weren't they hurrying people up? Or at the very least, go in the back and start whittling some more tables and chairs.

Sidenote: My first experience with Italians was Gepetto. And I still think that all Italians and all people associated with Italians are also fantastic carpenters.

Time is passing, so we decide to grab some menus. Like most people who go to Olive Garden, we already knew exactly what we were getting. The menu is just a formality. But for the first time, I really looked at it. On the back cover there is a picture of some kind of manor in the countryside. I had always assumed it was just decoration. But no, this is The Olive Garden Institute of Tuscany. It looked fantastic. If I ever go to Italy, I'm going there. Aqueducts? Canals? Colosseum? Fuck that! I'm goin to the fuckin Olive Garden Institute of Tuscany, so I can really learn something about Italy.

We were getting bored, so Joe and I decided to play a game. I took two of the menus and started swapping it around, Three-Card Monte'in it, and he would try to pick the right one. I would attempt to trick him up, left over right, under left, back to the left, right, left, left, right. Since, there were only two, it wasn't that difficult for him. Little did we realize that we were making some noise, and also that we looked ridiculous. I get a tap on my shoulder during a really good swap. Cheree is standing behind me, and she says, "What are you doing?" To be honest, there was no answer, but this is what I came up with: "You.....are making us wait a really long time." This is called deferring blame.

Now, here comes the best part of the night. My completely rationalized over-confidence was beginning to swell, and I came under the notion that....Cheree was eyeballin me. Sure she was 28 with some obvious parental issues and a weird name, but I enjoyed the flattery. Now, I'm going back to return the menus, I turn around, and Cheree is blatantly staring at my waist (aka, satchel) region. My first thought was, 'Oh really?' My second was, 'Am I zipped?' (I was). And my third thought, spoken aloud, was, 'Hey, I'm up here.' She covers by saying she was looking at my insulin pump cord (diabetic medical device, ask your fat grandpa about it). But she knows I think she was checking me out, and she knows that she was.

Well, finally we're called up. I'm having an intense craving for breadsticks and Zuppa Toscana, so I'm ready to go. As Cheree hands off the menus to the waitress, she says, "Take this hot man to a table."

I am so in.

Humpty and Dumpty

So we're sitting, waiting for our waitress when me and Joe start looking at the waitresses, trying to guess which was ours. That's when we saw them. Two waitresses who would not be able to get on an elevator at the same time. These girls were of significant heft. If you were sitting in the back seat with one of them, the middle seat wouldn't be an option anymore, you'd have trouble just trying for the other window seat.

Here are the comments made through the course of the evening. As you might have guessed, this was not one of my charming moments during the course of the meal.

Joe: They were skinny before they started working here two months ago.

Me: They can't be our waitresses, no way they could fit between the tables. They'd have to reach over with tongs to get our drinks.

Joe: I'm just afraid that my Chicken Parmesan would have a big bite in it when it gets to me.

Me: Well, at least they'll know what food tastes good.

Me: I think I saw one of their "Employee Picks" out front: Page 2.

Mary: You guys are awful.

The Waitress

Well, we were not waited upon by either of the leviathans. We were instead served by a feisty Philadelphian with a limp by the name of Carrie. When we asked her what happened to her foot, she says she was tripped by a rude redneck with steel-toed boots, and if she ever saw him again she'd kick his ass. I immediately decided on a 25% tip for awesomeness.

Carrie was just a fantastic waitress anyway. Always popping up. And we just had a fun time talking with her. She liked talking to me the most.....she could tell that my game was just through the roof at this point.

The meal was closing, and I was talking with Mary about how Olive Garden breadsticks are never good as leftovers. Carrie pops up out of nowhere, and gives some input. She says, next time, I should order spaghetti and meatballs, but I should save some of the meatballs to bring home with some breadsticks. Then, I should slice open the breadsticks, put in the meatballs, and put it in the oven for a while. She says its delicious. I'm listening to all this, I nod, and then say: "Hmmm.....why don't I just eat it all here?" She pauses, and then says, "Heh, I like you." Fantastic.

She brings the check. And with the check she brings a thermo-sealed bag with breadsticks....and two chocolate mint thingies for me. Jackpot! Olive Garden rocks.

The Hostess, Part Deux

We are leaving, feeling very full and content. I had a feeling Cheree wanted to see me one more time, but she wasn't at the hostess booth. There was a waitress there, so I tell her this: "Hey, can you tell Cheree that Magellan says bye? Thanks."

The waitress says sure, pauses, frowns, then goes, "Wait, what?" She ultimately decides to just get Cheree instead. We say our tearful goodbyes, and I tell her she can watch me as I leave.

And yes, she watched, so I gave her a little hip shake to remember me by.

The next day as I pooed the lasagna, I thought of her.


BYAH!

-Rob

Is signing the blog really necessary anymore? Who else could it be?

Bon Voyage

Well, it's time everybody out there knew the real truth of what happened.

Joe got drafted.

Yep, and so he's decided to take a hiatus from this life. He might come back after 6, 12, or 18 months of duty, depending on who's elected president.

Well, until you come back Joe, I'll continue fighting the good fight against obscurity and defenestration. Joe, we will honestly miss you.

Readers, raise your right hand in salute! Hold the pinecone in your left! And pull it in the right direction!

And I say this with all the tenderness I can muster: Byah!

-Rob


Fuck, now we have to bring Matt back.