My wife and I eat out a good bit. My wife is, to be honest, no Julia Child. Well, Julia Child isn’t anymore either. We aren’t gourmet diners. We are fussy about some things though. If we see any of the kitchen help leaving the restroom dragging toilet paper on his or her shoe and they pick it off without returning to the restroom, we pay our bill and leave. If I doze off waiting for my entree, we don’t go back. If the smell of urine whacks my wife when she goes to the restroom. we don’t go back.

Our main concern is our waitress. Some of them get on our nerves. Ones like Miss Direct and to the Point. You’re in a restaurant so you must want to eat. Whatta ya want? No wasting time with small talk like, “Good evening”.

Don’t ask her if you can substitute for an item. You’ll get a dirty look and the original item. “The chef says no”.

Chef? this isn’t a four-star restaurant. This Mama’s Eatery.

Another one we try to avoid is Miss Doing You A Favor. She stands there popping her gum and scratching her crotch while you stare at her. You always drop your eyes first. At least, my wife does. If you don’t say anything, she leaves. She doesn’t care. Thinking about it you don’t want her handling your food anyway.

Miss How Are You!!! really wears us down in a hurry. Everything is great. The monsoon outside is great for the lawns. The blazing sun and oppressive humidity makes you appreciate air-conditioning. On and on and on, she drones. She’s fast. She refill your drinks as soon as you get close to the bottom. You find yourself gulping the drink down so as not to disappoint her. That’s hell if you’re having coffee.

The one that gets my wife’s craw the most is Miss Big Boobs and Low-cut. I admit that it doesn’t bother me all that much. Doesn’t bother me at all. It does bother my wife. Cleavage than runs up her neck. Boobs that get stuck in my face. My wife, oddly enough, frowns on that.