Dinner with The Great Trash Heap

I was talking to my friend Jim the other day about our blogs. I said I hadn’t written anything on mine in a while because I used to write my blogs at work and now I can’t because they’ve blocked all things blog from the work computers. He said, “They blocked Word? E-mail?” and while writing my blogs in Word and then e-mailing them to myself is a very practical solution, one which I have partaken a few times, I just don’t like it. I like to physically go into my blog, read a few blogs and get inspired to write. I will say though, I still have found something or some situation every day where I think, “God, I have to blog about that.” But in the end I end up scrunching it up into a 100 character Facebook post which typically doesn’t do the blogable situation justice.

For example: This past weekend we went out to dinner with the kids. Emily dressed herself in true Emily fashion and wore a rocker girl type t-shirt, black Capri pants, lavender and pink rain boots, a white Willie Nelson bandanna she had won the night before at a school carnival and hot pink sunglasses. At first we wanted to say something to her about it but then we thought, “Meh. Who’s she hurting really?" Plus, she’s showing her own personal style. She was satisfied with her clothing choice.

Not long after we sat down a couple came and sat across from us. He was a ginormous guy with a shaved head and goatee. She had naturally brown hair but the back of it at the bottom had been dyed blonde quite a while ago and she had seventy-ninety-teen bobby pins and hair clippies holding it up off her neck. Also her bangs were probably at once purple but neglect had turned them more lavender-ish. She had on a lot of eyeliner that looked like it was applied in the wee hours of the morning and not really looked after since. She was also a big girl and they both had a cute little girl with them who looked to be about three.

I don’t have an issue with big people, as I am a big girl myself, however I have a very firm policy when it comes to people and what they wear, no matter WHAT their size and here it is: Just because it comes in your size, doesn’t mean you should wear it. This woman did NOT live by that policy. She didn’t even live by anything close to it. She was wearing jeans that I’m sure left black and blue marks around her waist. I’m certain that when she unfastens them at night her front-butt goes, “THANK JESUS!” and squeaks out a faint, “mommy…” when she puts them back on. Her shirt didn’t even come close to touching the top of her pants and the jacket she had on was laughable, at best. The entire time they ate she bitched at her kid. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but from what I saw the kid didn’t seem to be doing too much wrong but mommy had a bad attitude. Daddy? He just sat there looking at them. Based on his actions he was pretty used to it.

She was also the kind of person that had to look everyone up and down that came in after her. Not just casually as they walked by her either. Oh no. Like, “I’m going to turn completely around in my seat, crane my neck around this pole and check you out” kind of look. When she was done checking each person out she would turn back around and roll her eyes. As though we were all there for her to judge. Suddenly all of us were the crazy-costumed off-key singers on the auditions portion of American Idol and she was our Simon Cowell.

Here’s the best part of all of her judging. The minute she had sat down in her booth her body broke free of whatever clothing it could. I could see a good 2.5 inches of her ass crack. Her side fat was literally bursting out of the top of her jeans. Her tiny t-shirt had rolled up in an attempt to escape so now I could see a pretty big portion of the middle of her body. At this point she may as well have walked in wearing a bikini. At no point did she try to correct any of her wardrobe malfunctions.

When it came time for us to leave Adam and Blake headed towards the doors and Em and I stayed behind a minute to put on our coats. Little Miss Ray of Sunshine poked her head out from her booth, leaned over her side fat and looked Emily over twice. Then she looked at her miserable man and rolled her eyes. I thought, "oh no you didn't, honey!" Seriously? You're gonna come up in DENNY'S looking like THAT and then roll your eyes at my eight year old? If Emily would have noticed her being judged by this horrible Jabba the Hutt then I probably would have said something. I probably would have gotten beaten, but I probably would have said something. Instead I just shook my head and we left. It must be a terrible burden to be so fucking perfect.